talk about?”
“He told a few jokes—not very good, as I recall—and I laughed at ’em and he kept buying drinks.”
“How many did he buy?”
“More than he should. He must have had three or four, and he didn’t hold them well. You know, once he stumbled off to the men’s room, took his time coming back. In fact, I wasn’t sure he was coming back.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah. Eventually. But after that he wasn’t too coherent.”
“But he came back to you?”
“He came back to the bar, yeah.”
“And you kept on drinking with him.”
“Yeah, sure. That was the deal.”
“And he kept talking to you?”
She shrugged her shoulders, wrinkled her nose. “Like I say, he’d had too much to drink, wasn’t relating really well. I sat there with him, trying to make small talk, kid him along. I don’t think he was really interested at that point.”
“How long did you stay with him?”
“Until seven. Like I was supposed to.”
“What happened then?”
“I left.”
“With him?”
“Don’t be silly. Why would I leave with him?”
“I don’t know why. I’m just asking if you did.”
“Of course not. Seven o’clock, I got up and went.”
“So anyone who says the two of you left together would be wrong?”
She pulled back, cocked her head. “Who said that?”
“I didn’t say anyone said that. I’m just saying if they did.”
“They’d be wrong.” She frowned, looked at her coffee cup. “I suppose someone might have got the wrong idea.”
“Oh? How is that?”
“Well, he got up when I left, and I think he followed me out. Not that I waited for him—I got the hell out of there fast as I could. But someone who saw him follow me might think we left together.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No, we didn’t. I left by myself and went on home.”
“And what happened to the guy?”
“I have no idea.”
“The guy who paid you to do this—you ever hear from him again?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“What about your agent?”
“What about her?”
“She hear from him? Was there any feedback on the job?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did you ask?”
“No. Why would I ask?”
“I don’t know. Just curiosity.”
“Yeah, well, the answer is no. In something like that, you wouldn’t expect to hear from the client unless there was a problem. Since I did the job, there wouldn’t be any problem. So I wouldn’t expect to hear.” She looked at me. “Is that it? Can I go now?”
I put up my hand. “Just a couple more things.”
“A couple?”
“Yeah. First off, what’s your name?”
“Oh,” she said. She blushed somewhat. I assumed it was the realization I knew her only as Marla Melons. “It’s Lucy. Lucy Blaine.”
“And your address?”
She held up one finger. “Huh-uh. That you don’t get. I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid. I don’t give out my address or my phone number. You want me, you call my agent.”
“Actually, that was the other question,” I said. “How do I reach your agent?”
“Her name’s Shelly Daniels. She has an office on Eighth Avenue. I’ll give you the phone number.”
She didn’t have to look it up. She had it memorized. Her dancing agent. I wondered if I’d asked for the number of her legitimate agent, if she’d have had to look it up.
It occurred to me, Christ, was I getting old and cynical.
I pushed back my coffee cup, picked up the bill. “Well,” I said, “shall we go?”
She shook her head. “Huh-uh. We don’t do anything. I sit here and you go.”
“Is that really necessary?”
She grinned. “You think you’re the first guy tried to follow me home? Forget about it. You go out there, you hail a cab, and you go. I’m no dummy. You leave first.”
She was no dummy.
I left first.
16.
C RANSTON P RITCHERT SOUNDED PEEVED. “I told you not to call me here.”
“I know, but I got something for you. Can you talk?”
“What do you mean, can I talk?”
“Is it safe to talk on the phone? If not, can
“He told a few jokes—not very good, as I recall—and I laughed at ’em and he kept buying drinks.”
“How many did he buy?”
“More than he should. He must have had three or four, and he didn’t hold them well. You know, once he stumbled off to the men’s room, took his time coming back. In fact, I wasn’t sure he was coming back.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah. Eventually. But after that he wasn’t too coherent.”
“But he came back to you?”
“He came back to the bar, yeah.”
“And you kept on drinking with him.”
“Yeah, sure. That was the deal.”
“And he kept talking to you?”
She shrugged her shoulders, wrinkled her nose. “Like I say, he’d had too much to drink, wasn’t relating really well. I sat there with him, trying to make small talk, kid him along. I don’t think he was really interested at that point.”
“How long did you stay with him?”
“Until seven. Like I was supposed to.”
“What happened then?”
“I left.”
“With him?”
“Don’t be silly. Why would I leave with him?”
“I don’t know why. I’m just asking if you did.”
“Of course not. Seven o’clock, I got up and went.”
“So anyone who says the two of you left together would be wrong?”
She pulled back, cocked her head. “Who said that?”
“I didn’t say anyone said that. I’m just saying if they did.”
“They’d be wrong.” She frowned, looked at her coffee cup. “I suppose someone might have got the wrong idea.”
“Oh? How is that?”
“Well, he got up when I left, and I think he followed me out. Not that I waited for him—I got the hell out of there fast as I could. But someone who saw him follow me might think we left together.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No, we didn’t. I left by myself and went on home.”
“And what happened to the guy?”
“I have no idea.”
“The guy who paid you to do this—you ever hear from him again?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“What about your agent?”
“What about her?”
“She hear from him? Was there any feedback on the job?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did you ask?”
“No. Why would I ask?”
“I don’t know. Just curiosity.”
“Yeah, well, the answer is no. In something like that, you wouldn’t expect to hear from the client unless there was a problem. Since I did the job, there wouldn’t be any problem. So I wouldn’t expect to hear.” She looked at me. “Is that it? Can I go now?”
I put up my hand. “Just a couple more things.”
“A couple?”
“Yeah. First off, what’s your name?”
“Oh,” she said. She blushed somewhat. I assumed it was the realization I knew her only as Marla Melons. “It’s Lucy. Lucy Blaine.”
“And your address?”
She held up one finger. “Huh-uh. That you don’t get. I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid. I don’t give out my address or my phone number. You want me, you call my agent.”
“Actually, that was the other question,” I said. “How do I reach your agent?”
“Her name’s Shelly Daniels. She has an office on Eighth Avenue. I’ll give you the phone number.”
She didn’t have to look it up. She had it memorized. Her dancing agent. I wondered if I’d asked for the number of her legitimate agent, if she’d have had to look it up.
It occurred to me, Christ, was I getting old and cynical.
I pushed back my coffee cup, picked up the bill. “Well,” I said, “shall we go?”
She shook her head. “Huh-uh. We don’t do anything. I sit here and you go.”
“Is that really necessary?”
She grinned. “You think you’re the first guy tried to follow me home? Forget about it. You go out there, you hail a cab, and you go. I’m no dummy. You leave first.”
She was no dummy.
I left first.
16.
C RANSTON P RITCHERT SOUNDED PEEVED. “I told you not to call me here.”
“I know, but I got something for you. Can you talk?”
“What do you mean, can I talk?”
“Is it safe to talk on the phone? If not, can
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