"Yeah, Sacramento. I had a very good friend there, Doris Pizer is her name, she's Jewish. A very nice girl, though. In fact, one of the reasons I came here was because of Doris. She went to Hawaii."

"Oh, yeah? Is that right?"

"Mmm," Molly said, nodding. She lifted her drink again, took a quick sip at it, put it down, and then said, "She left last month. She wanted me to go with her, but I'll tell you the truth, heat has never really appealed to me. I went down to Palm Springs once for a weekend, and I swear to God I almost dropped dead from the heat."

"Is it very hot in Hawaii?"

"Oh, sure it is." Molly nodded. "She got a job with one of the big pineapple companies. Dole, I think, who knows?" She shrugged. "I could have got a job there, too, but the heat, no thanks." She shook her head. "I figured I'd be better off here. It gets cold as hell here in the winter, I know, but anything's better than the heat. Besides, this is a pretty exciting city. Don't you think so?"

"Yes."

"It's a pretty exciting city," Molly said.

"Yes."

"You never know what's going to happen here, that's the feeling I get. I mean, who knew I was going to meet you tonight, for example? Did you know?"

"No, I didn't."

"Neither did I. That's what I mean. This is a very exciting city."

"Yes."

"So, you know," she said, picking up her drink and draining the glass this time, "when Doris left I really didn't have anything to keep me there any longer. In Sacramento, I mean. It's a nice place, and all that, but it takes me a while to make friends, and with Doris gone, I figured this was as good a time as any for me to pick up and explore the country a little myself, you know? What the hell, this is a big country. I was born in Tacoma, Washington, and then we moved to Sacramento when I was eighteen, my parents died when I was nineteen, and I was stuck in Sacramento from then on. So it was a good thing Doris went to Hawaii, if you know what I mean, because it goosed me into action." She giggled and said, "Well, I don't exactly mean goosed."

"I know what you mean," Roger said. "Would you like another drink?"

"I'll fall flat on my face."

"It's up to you," Roger said.

"No, I don't think so. Are you having another one?"

"I will, if you will."

"You're trying to get me drunk," Molly said, and winked.

"No, I don't believe in getting girls drunk," Roger said.

"I was only teasing."

"Well, I don't get girls drunk." , "No, I don't think you do," Molly said, seriously.

"I don't."

"I don't think you have to."

Roger ignored her meaning. "So if you want another drink," he said.

"Yes, thank you, I will have another drink," she said.

"Waiter," he called. The waiter came to the table. "Another beer, and another whiskey sour," Roger said.

"Light on the lemon," Molly said.

"Light on the lemon," Roger said to the waiter. He liked the way she told him what she wanted and not the waiter. Somehow, this was very flattering, and very pleasing, almost as if the waiter didn't exist at all. He watched as the waiter walked back to the bar and placed the order. He turned to Molly then and said, "How's she doing out there? Doris."

"Oh, fine. I heard from her only last week. I still haven't answered. She doesn't even know I'm here."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I decided very suddenly, and her letter arrived the day before I left, so I didn't get a chance to answer it. I've been so busy running around trying to find a job since I got here . . ."

"She's probably wondering why you haven't written."

"It's only been a week," Molly said. "Since I'm here, is all."

"Still. If she's a good friend . . ."

"Yes, she is."

"You ought to let her know where you are."

"I will. I'll write to her when I get back to the hotel tonight." Molly smiled. "You make me feel guilty."

"I didn't mean to make you feel guilty," Roger said. "I just thought since Doris seemed to mean so much to you—"

"Yes, I understand, it's all right," Molly said, and .smiled again.

The waiter brought their drinks, and left them alone once more. The crowd in the bar was thinning. No one paid them the slightest attention. They were strangers in a city as large as the universe.

"How much are you paying for your room?" Molly asked.

"What? Oh ... uh ... four dollars. A night."

"That's really inexpensive," Molly said.

"Yeah." He nodded. "Yeah, it is."

"Is it a nice room?"

"It's okay."

"Where's the loo? Down the hall?"

"The what?"

"The loo." She looked at his puzzled expression. "The toilet."

"Oh. Yes. Down the hall."

"That's not so bad. If it's a nice-sized room, I mean."

"It's pretty fair-sized. A nice lady runs it, I've got to tell you, though . . ."

"Yes?"

"I saw a rat there."

"Rats I can do without."

"You and me both."

"What'd you do?"

"I killed it," Roger said flatly.

"I'm even afraid of mice," Molly said. "I could never find the courage to kill a rat."

"Well, it was pretty horrible," Roger said. "This area's infested with them, though, you know. I wouldn't be surprised if there was more rats than people in this area."

"Please," she said, wincing. "I won't be able to sleep tonight."

"Oh, you very rarely see them," he said. "You might hear one of them, but you rarely see them. This one must have been an old guy, otherwise he wouldn't have been so slow. You should have been there. He got up on his hind legs when I backed him in the corner, and he—"

"Please," she said. "Don't." And shuddered.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize—"

"That's all right." She picked up her drink and took a swallow. "I'll never be able to sleep tonight," she said, and very quickly added, "Alone."

Roger did not say anything.

"I'll be scared to death," she said, and shuddered again, and again took a swallow of her drink. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, scaring a girl half to death?"

"I'm sorry," Roger said.

"That's all right," Molly answered, and finished her drink, and then giggled. "How large is your room?" she asked.

"Fair-sized."

"Well, how large is that?"

"I don't really know. I'm not too good on sizes."

"I'm very good on sizes." Molly paused and smiled tentatively, as though embarrassed by what she was about to say and do. She picked up her empty glass and tried to drain a few more drops from it, and then put it down on the table and said, very casually, "I'd like to see that room of yours. It sounds really inexpensive. If it's a good-sized room, I might move from where I am. That is, if it's really as inexpensive as you say it is."

"Yes, it's only four dollars."

"I'd like to see the room," she said, and raised her eyes from her glass for only a moment, and then lowered them again.

"I could take you there," Roger said.

"Would you?"

"Sure."

"Just for a minute. Just to see what it's like."

"Sure."

"I'd appreciate that," Molly said. Her eyes were still lowered. She was blushing furiously.

"I'll get your coat," Roger said, and stood up.

As he helped her into it, she glanced up over her shoulder and said, "How did you kill it? The rat, I mean."

"I squeezed it in my hands," Roger said.

The headwaiter was leading the detective and the woman to a table as Roger checked his coat. The woman was wearing a pale blue dress, a jumper he supposed you called it, over a long-sleeved white blouse. She smiled up at the headwaiter as he pulled out the chair for her, and then sat, and immediately put both hands across the table to cover the detective's hands as he sat opposite her. "Thank you," Roger said to the hatcheck girl, and put the ticket she handed him into his jacket pocket. The headwaiter was coming toward the front of the restaurant again. He looked French. Roger hoped this wasn't a French restaurant.

"Bon jour, monsieur," the headwaiter said, and Roger thought Oh boy. "How many will you be, sir?"

"I'm alone," Roger said.

"Out, monsieur, this way, please."

Roger followed the headwaiter into the restaurant. For a moment, he thought he was being led to the other end of the room, but the headwaiter was simply making a wide detour around a serving tray near one of the tables. He stopped at a table some five feet away from the detective and the woman.

"Voild, monsieur," the headwaiter said, and held out a chair.

"How about the table over there?" Roger said. "Near the wall."

"Monsieur?" the headwaiter said, turning, his eyebrows raised.

"That table," Roger said, and pointed to the table immediately adjacent to the detective's.

"Out, monsieur, certainement," the headwaiter said, and shoved the chair back under the table with an air of annoyed efficiency. He led Roger to the table against the wall, turned it out at an angle so that Roger could seat himself on the cushioned bench behind it, and then moved it back to its original position. "Would monsieur care for a cocktail?"

"No," Roger said. "Thank you."

"Would you like to see a menu now, sir?"

"Yes," Roger said. "Yes, I would."

The headwaiter snapped his fingers. "La carte pour monsieur," he said to one of the table waiters and then made a brief bow and disappeared. The table waiter brought a menu to Roger and he thanked him and opened it.

"Well, what do you think?" the detective said.

The woman did not answer. Roger, his head buried in the menu, wondered why the woman did not answer.

"I suppose so," the detective said.

Again, the woman did not answer. Roger kept looking at the menu, not wanting to seem as if he were eavesdropping.

"Well, sure, you always do," the detective said.

The funny thing, Roger thought, without looking up from the menu, was that the detective was doing all the talking. But more than that, he seemed to be holding a conversation, saying things that sounded as if they were answers to something the woman had said each time, only the woman hadn't said a single word.

"Here are the drinks," the detective said, and Roger put down his menu and looked up as a waiter in a red jacket brought what looked like two whiskey-sodas to the table. The detective picked up his glass and held it in the air and the woman clinked her glass against his, but neither of the two said a word. The woman took a short sip of her drink and then put it down. Glancing briefly at their table, Roger saw that she was wearing a wedding band and an engagement ring. The woman, then, was the detective's wife.

The detective took a long swallow of his drink, and then put the glass down. "Good," he said.

His wife nodded and said nothing. Roger turned away and picked up the menu again.

"Did Fanny finally get there?" the detective asked.

Again, there was a long pause. Roger frowned behind his menu, waiting.

"Did she give you any reason?" the detective said.

Another pause.

"What kind of excuse is that?" the detective said.

Roger put down his menu and turned.

The woman's elbows were on the table, her hands were poised in front of and a trifle below her face. Her fingers were long and slender. The nails were manicured and polished a bright red. As she moved her hands in a fluid, swift series of gestures, the nails danced like tiny flames.

For a moment, Roger didn't know what she was doing. Was she kidding, was that it?

And then he saw her face behind the hands.

Her face was more lovely than he realized, the black hair combed sleekly back from the woman's forehead, the black eyebrows arched high over deep brown eyes, no, one eyebrow was dropping now, dipping low over her left eye in a sinister frown, the woman's mouth was curling into a sneer, her nostrils were dilating, her hands moved differently now, they moved in the exaggerated slick oiliness of a silent movie villain, the woman's fingers touched her upper lip, twirled an imaginary mustache, the detective laughed, the mask of villainy dropped from her face, her eyes sparkled with humor, the white teeth flashed behind her lips, the smile broke on her face like the sound of bells, and all the while her long slender fingers moved, the detective watching her hands, and then shifting his attention to her face again, the entire face in constant motion, her mouth and her eyes augmenting the music of her hands, the sound of her hands, her face open and honest and naive, the face of a little girl, mugging, exaggerating, acting, explaining. Why, she's talking with her face and her hands! Roger thought, and suddenly realized the woman was a deaf-mute.

He turned away because he didn't want her to think he was staring at her handicap.

But the detective was laughing. His wife had apparently finished her story about Fanny, whoever that was, and now the detective was laughing fit to bust, sputtering and choking and damn near slapping the table top, so that Roger himself was forced to smile and even the waiter, who had padded up the table to take Roger's order, smiled with him.

"I'd just like some eggs," Roger said.

"Oui, monsieur, how would you like your eggs?"

"Gee, I don't know," Roger said.

"Would monsieur care for an omelette, perhaps?"

"Oh, yes," Roger said. "Yes, that's good. What kind of omelettes do you have?"

"Cheese, mushroom, onion, jell—"

"Mushroom," Roger said. "That sounds good. A mushroom omelette. And some coffee. With it, please."

"Oui, monsieur," the waiter said. "Any salad?"

"No. No, thanks."

"Oui, monsieur," the waiter said, and moved away from the table.

". . . began talking to Meyer at first and Meyer listened for a few minutes and then asked the priest if he would mind telling this to me instead. I was pretty surprised when he came over to my desk, because we don't usually get priests up there, honey — not that it isn't a very religious place, and holy and all that."

He grinned at his wife, and she returned the grin. God she's beautiful, Roger thought.

"Anyway, I introduced myself, and it turns out the pries is Italian, too, so we went through the Are you Italian, too? routine for a couple of minutes, and we traced my ancestry back to the old country, it turned out the priest wasn't born anywhere near my parents, but anyway he gits down at the desk and he's got a slight dilemma, so I say, What's the dilemma, Father, meanwhile thinking my own dilemma is I haven't been inside a church since I was a kid, suppose he asks me to say five Hail Marys?

"The priest tells me that he had a woman in the confessional this morning, and the woman confessed to the usual number of minor sins and then, unexpectedly, said she had bought a gun which was in her purse at the moment, right there in the confession box, and she was going to take it to the shop where her husband worked and wait for him to come out on his lunch hour when she would shoot him dead. She was telling this to the priest because she expected to shoot herself immediately afterwards, and she wanted the priest's absolution in advance.

"Well, honey, the priest didn't know what to tell her. He could see she was very upset, and that she wouldn't sit still for a lecture on what a big sin murder was. She hadn't come there to ask the priest's permission, you understand, all she wanted was his forgiveness. She wanted to be blessed in advance for knocking off her husband, and then for taking her own life. Well, the priest took a chance and told the woman it would be nice if they prayed together a little, and then while they were praying he sneaked in a little subliminal commercial about how sinful it was to kill, Thou Shalt Not Kill, the fifth commandment, and then he explained how she was about to commit a double mortal sin by first putting her husband on ice and then doing a job on herself, didn't she have any children? No, the woman said.

"Well, the priest wasn't too happy to learn she was childless because children are usually a good thing to play on. So he very quickly said Haven't you got parents or brothers or sisters who'll be worrying about you, and the woman said Yes she had parents but she didn't give a damn what they thought and then said Forgive me, Father, because she'd just cursed in the confessional box, no less church. The priest forgave her and they continued to pray together for a little while, with the priest furiously wondering what he could do to stop this woman from polishing off hubby as he came out of his shop with his lunch box under his arm.

"That was why he'd come up to the office, hon. He told me that a priest, of course, is sworn to keep the sanctity of the confessional, which is exactly what was causing his dilemma. Had the woman confessed to anything, or hadn't she? How can a person confess to a sin that hasn't been committed yet? Was the thought the same thing as the act? If so, the world was full of thoughtful sinners. If not, then the woman hadn't done anything and her confession wasn't a confession at all. And if it wasn't a confession, then what sanctity was the priest protecting? If it wasn't a bona fide confession, then why wasn't it perfectly all right for him to go to the police and tell them all about the woman's plans?

"It's perfectly all right, Father, I said to him, Now what's the woman's name, and where does her husband work? Well, I couldn't get to him quite that fast. He wanted to discuss all the philosophical and metaphysical aspects of the difference between contemplated sin and committed sin, while all the while the clock on the wall was ticking away, and lunchtime was getting closer and closer, and that poor woman's husband was also getting closer and closer to a couple of holes in the head. I finally convinced him by saying I thought he had come to the police for the same reason the woman had gone to him, and when he said What reason was that? I told him I thought he wanted to be absolved. What do you mean absolved? he said. I told him he wanted to be absolved of possibly causing the death of two people by remaining silent when he wasn't even positive of the doctrine involved, the same way the woman wanted to be absolved. I told him I thought both of them wanted those deaths to be stopped and that was why the woman had gone to him, and that was why he had come to me, so what was the woman's name, and where did her husband work? This was a quarter to twelve. He finally told me, and I had a patrol car sent out to pick her up. We can't book her for anything since she hasn't committed a crime or even attempted one, and there's no such thing as suspicion of anything in this city. But we can hold her for a while until she cools off, and maybe scare her a little . . . Oh, wait a minute."

Roger, who was listening intently, almost turned to the detective and nodded in anticipation.

"We have got her on something, haven't we? Or maybe, anyway."

The woman raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

"The gun," the detective said. "If she hasn't got a permit for it, we can charge her with that. Or at least we can scare her with threatening to charge her. We'll see how it goes. Boy." He shook his head. "The thing about it, though, is I'm still not sure whether the priest copped out or not. Did she confess, or didn't she? It bothers me, hon. What do you think?"

The woman's hands began to speak again. Roger did not know what she was saying. Occasionally, he glanced at her as the wonderfully fluid fingers moved in front of her face. He had never been loved by a beautiful woman in his life — except, of course, his mother.

The waiter brought his omelette.

Silently, he ate.

Beside him, the detective and his wife finished their drinks, and then ordered lunch.

8

He followed the detective and his wife to a subway kiosk, where they embraced and kissed briefly, and then the woman went down the steps and the detective stood on the sidewalk for a moment or two, watching her as she descended. The detective smiled then, secretly and privately, and began walking back toward the station house. The snow was very thick now, thick in the air, falling in great loose silent flakes, and thick underfoot where it clung to the pavement and made walking difficult.

Several times on the way back to the station house, he almost approached the detective and told him the whole story. He had overheard enough during lunch to know that this was the kind of man he could trust, and yet something still held him back. As he thought about it, as he walked behind the detective and wondered for perhaps the fifth time whether he should approach him now or wait until they were back at the station house, it seemed to him the reason he felt he could trust this man was simply because of the way he'd treated his wife. There had been something very good and gentle about the way those two looked at each other and talked to each other, something that led Roger to believe this man would understand what had happened. But at the same time — and curiously, considering it was the man's wife who had caused Roger to trust him — the wife was also responsible for his reluctance to approach the man. Sitting alongside them, Roger had shared their conversation, become almost a part of it. He had watched the woman's face and had seen the way she looked at her husband, had watched her hands covering his, had watched the score of gentle tender things she did, the secret winks, the glances of assurance, and had been suddenly and completely lonely.

Walking behind the detective now in a silent white world, he thought of Amelia and wanted to call her.

But wait, he thought, you have to tell the detective.

They were approaching the station house now. The detective stopped at a patrol car parked outside the building, and the patrolman sitting closest to the curb rolled down the window on his side. The detective bent down and looked into the car and exchanged a few words with the cops inside, and then he laughed, and the patrolman rolled up the window again, and the detective started walking up the seven flat steps to the front doors of the precinct.

Wait, Roger thought, I have to He hesitated on the sidewalk.

The detective had opened the door and gone inside. The door eased shut behind him. Roger stood on the pavement with the snowflakes falling fat and wet and floppy all around him, and then he nodded once, sharply, and turned and began looking for a telephone booth. The first one he found was in a combination pool room and bowling alley on the Stem. He changed a dollar bill at the desk — the proprietor made it clear he didn't like making change for the telephone — and then went to the booth and closed the door and carefully took from his wallet the folded slip of paper with Amelia's number on it.

He dialed the number and waited.

A woman answered on the fourth ring. It was not Amelia.

"Hello?" the woman said.

"Hello, could I talk to Amelia, please?" Roger said.

"Who's this?" the woman said.

"Roger."

"Roger who?"

"Roger Broome."

"I don't know any Roger Broome," the woman said.

"Amelia knows me."

"Amelia isn't here. What do you want?"

"Where is she?"

"She went downstairs to the store. What do you want?"

"She asked me to call. When will she be back?"

"Five, ten minutes," the woman said.

"Will you tell her I called?"

"I'll tell her you called," the woman said, and hung up.

Roger stood with the silent receiver to his ear for a moment, and then replaced it on the hook and went out of the booth. The man behind the desk gave him a sour look. A clock on the wall told him it was almost two o'clock. He wondered if Amelia would really be back in five or ten minutes. The woman who'd answered the phone had sounded very colored, with the kind of speech that could sometimes be mistaken for white Southerner, but more often was identified immediately as coming from a Negro. It was just his luck, he thought. The first pretty girl he'd ever met who seemed to take a real liking to him, and she had to be colored. He wondered why he was bothering to call her at all, and then decided the hell with her, and headed back for the police station.

I mean, what's the sense of this, he thought. What am I putting this off for? It's got to be done, I've got to go in there sooner or later and tell them about it, so it might as well be now. What do I get by calling Amelia, she's probably up on the roof with one of those Persian Lords she was telling me about, getting her ass screwed off, the hell with her.

The thought of Amelia in embrace with one of the Persian Lords was infuriating to him, he didn't know why. He barely knew the girl, and yet the idea of her being laid by one of those gang members, no less all the members of the gang, filled him with a dark rage that twitched into his huge hands hanging at his sides. He had half a mind to tell the police about .that, too, about young punks jumping on a nice girl like Amelia, she was probably a slut anyway, letting them do that to her.

He heard voices in the park.

Through the snow, he heard the voices of children, loud and strident, cutting through the falling snow, a sound of glee, a half-remembered sound, he and his father on the small hill behind the clapboard house they'd lived in near the tracks when Buddy was still a baby, "Off you go, Roger!" and a push down the hill, the rush of wind against his face, his lips pulled back over a wide joyous grin, "That's the boy!" his father shouted behind him and above him.

There were three boys with sleds.

He walked into the park and sat on a bench some fifteen feet from where they were sliding down a wide snow-covered slope, the snow packed hard by the runners of their sleds. The boys couldn't have been older than six or seven, probably kindergarten kids who'd been let out of school early, or maybe first-graders, no older than that. Two of them were wearing old ski parkas, and the third had on a green mackinaw. The one with the mackinaw had a woolen hat pulled down over his forehead and his ears and damn near over his eyes as well. Roger wondered how he could see where he was going. The other two were hatless, their hair covered with snow. They yelled and screamed and shouted, "Watch me! Hey, watch me!" and took running starts and then threw the sleds down and leaped onto them in belly-whops and went down the hill screaming happily all the way, one of them imitating a police siren with his mouth. Roger got up off the bench and walked to the crest of the hill and waited for them to climb up again. The boys ignored him. They were talking among themselves, reliving the excitement of the ride down the hill — "Did you see the way I almost hit that tree?" — pulling the sleds behind them on their ropes, glancing back over their shoulders down the hill every now and then, anticipating the next ride down. The one with the mackinaw walked past Roger, took a deep breath and then turned to face the downhill slope again, ready for another run.

"Hi," Roger said.

The kid looked up from under the woolen hat pulled almost clear down over his eyes. He wiped a gloved hand across his running nose, mumbled, "Hi," and turned away.

"The hill looks good," Roger said.

"Mmm," the kid mumbled.

"Can I take a ride?"

"What?"

"Can I take a ride?"

"No," the kid said. He looked up at Roger in brief contempt, took his running start, threw himself onto the sled, and went down the hill again. Roger watched the sled go. He was still angry at the thought of those Persian Lords jumping Amelia, and he was also beginning to get a little apprehensive about what might await him in the police station across the way, nice detective or not. Besides, this snotnosed little kid had no right to talk to him that way. His hands began to twitch again. He waited for the boy to climb back to the top of the hill.

"Didn't your mother teach you any manners?" he asked.

The boy looked up at him from under the hat. The other two boys had stopped some three feet away, and they were staring at Roger curiously, with that odd, belligerent, somewhat frightened look all kids wear when they're expecting crap from a grownup.

"Why don't you get lost, mister?" the kid said from under his hat.

"What's the matter, Tommy?" one of the other boys called.

"This guy's some kind of nut," Tommy said, and he turned away and looked down the hill again.

"All I did was ask you if I could have a ride," Roger said.

"And I told you no."

"What's that sled made of, gold or something?" Roger asked.

"Come on, mister, don't bug me," Tommy said.

"I want a ride!" Roger said suddenly and harshly, and he reached out for the sled, grasping it near the steering mechanism at the top, and pulling it away from Tommy, who clung to it for just a moment before releasing his grip. Tommy was the first to begin yelling, and the two other kids began yelling with him, but Roger was already running, propelled at first by anger and then by a rising exhilaration as he moved toward the brow of the hill and threw the sled down and then hurled two hundred and ten pounds of muscle and bone onto it. The sled made a sound beneath his weight as though it would splinter, but it began sliding immediately and the forward motion eased the strain of the load, gravity pulling the sled down the slope, gaining momentum, two hundred and ten pounds hurtling down the hill, faster, faster, he opened his mouth and yelled like a kid, "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" as the sled raced through the falling snow. Behind him, Tommy and the other kids were shouting and ranting and running down the hill after him, he didn't give a damn about them. His eyes were tearing from the wind roaring over the front end of the sled, the big falling flakes made visibility almost impossible, the sled suddenly turned over and he rolled into the snow, the sled flying up into the air, he landing on his side and continuing to roll down the hill, laughing as his coat and his trousers and his face and his hair got covered with snow, and then finally sitting up at the base of the hill, still laughing, and looking up to where Tommy and the others were yelling as they retrieved the sled from a snowbank.

"Call a cop, Tommy," one of the boys said.

"Go on, do it," the other boy said.

Roger got to his feet. Laughing, he glanced over his shoulder once, quickly, and began running.

He wondered how much time had passed. Was it five or ten minutes already, would Amelia be back?

He laughed again. That ride had really been something, he'd left those little yelling bastards clear up at the top of the hill, boy that had really been something. He shook his head in bemused wonder and then suddenly stopped and threw back his head and shouted "Yahoooo!" to the falling snowflakes, and then began running again, out of the park. He stopped running when he reached the sidewalk. He put his hands into his coat pockets and began walking at a very gentlemanly dignified pace. He could remember him and his father and the fun they used to have together before Buddy was born, and even when Buddy was just a little baby. And then of course when Buddy was two, his father had got killed, and it was Roger who'd had to take care of the family, that was what his mother had told him at the time, even though he was only seven years old, It's you who's the man in the family now, Roger. Riding down the hill on that kid's sled had been just like it was before his father died, just a lot of fun, that was all. And now, walking like a gentleman on the sidewalk, this was the way it got after his father was killed in the train wreck, you couldn't kid around too much anymore, you had to be a man. It's you who's the man in the family now, Roger.

Seven years old, he thought.

How the hell can you be a man at seven?

Well, I was always big for my age.

Still.

He shrugged.

He was beginning to feel depressed, he didn't know why. His face was wet with snow, and he wiped one hand over it, and then reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, and wiped his face again. He guessed he should try Amelia. He guessed he should go talk to that detective.

He began making bargains with himself. If the next car that comes down the street is a black Chevrolet, then I'll go to the police station and talk to the detective. But if the next car that comes down is a taxicab, I'll call Amelia. If it's a truck, though, I'll go back to my room and pack my bag and just go home, probably be best anyway, people worrying about me back home. No cars were coming down the street for a while because the snow was so thick, and when one finally did pass, it was a blue Ford convertible, for which he had made no provisions. He said the hell with it and found a phone booth and dialed Amelia's number.

The same woman answered the phone.

"What do you want?" she said.

"This is Roger Broome again," he said. "I want to talk to Amelia."

"Just a minute," the woman said, and then she partially covered the mouthpiece and Roger heard her shout, '"Melia! It's your Mr. Charlie!"

Roger waited.

When Amelia came to the phone, he said immediately, "Who's Mr. Charlie?"

"I'll tell you later. Where are you?"

"I don't know, somewhere near the park."

"Did you want to see me?" Amelia asked.

"Yes."

"I can't come down for a while. I'm helping my mother with the curtains."

"Was that your mother who answered the phone?"

"Yes."

"She sounds very sweet."

"Yes, she's a charmer," Amelia said.

"What did you say you were helping her with?"

"The curtains. She made some new curtains, and we were putting them up."

"Can't she do that alone?"

"No." Amelia paused. "I'll meet you later, if you like."

"All right. When later?"

"An hour?"

"All right. Where?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know. How about the drugstore?"

"Okay, the drugstore," Roger said. "What time is it now?"

"It's about two-twenty, I guess. Let's say three-thirty, to be sure."

"Okay, the drugstore at three-thirty," Roger said.

"Yes. You know where it is, don't you?"

"Sure I do. Where is it?"

Amelia laughed. "On the corner of Ainsley and North Eleventh."

"Ainsley and North Eleventh, right," Roger said.

"Three-thirty."

"Three-thirty, right." Roger paused. "Who's Mr. Charlie?"

"You're Mr. Charlie."

"I am?"

Amelia laughed again. "I'll tell you all about it when I see you. I'll give you a course in black-white relations."

"Oh, boy," Roger said.

"And other things," Amelia whispered.

"Okay," Roger said. His heart was pounding. "Three-thirty at the drugstore. I'll go home and put on a clean shirt."

"Okay."

"So long," he said.

"So long," she said.

A squad car was parked at the curb when he got back to the rooming house.

The car was empty. The window near the curb was lowered, and he could hear the police radio going inside. He looked up the steps leading to the front door. Through the glass panels on the door he could see Mrs. Dougherty in conversation with two uniformed policemen.

He was about to turn and walk off in the opposite direction when one of the cops looked through the f glass-paneled door directly at him. He couldn't turn and walk away now that he'd been seen, so he walked casually up the steps and kicked snow from his feet on the top step and then opened the door and walked into the vestibule. A radiator was hissing behind the fat cop, who stood with his hands behind his back, the fingers spread toward the heat. Mrs. Dougherty was explaining something to the cops as Roger stepped into the vestibule. ". . . only discovered it half an hour ago when I went down to the basement to put in some laundry, so that was when I called you, hello, Mr. Broome."

"Hello, Mrs. Dougherty," he said. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh, nothing important," she said, and turned back to the policemen as he went past. "It's not that it was new or anything," she said to the fat cop. Roger opened the inner vestibule door. "But I suppose it was worth maybe fifty or sixty dollars, I don't know. What annoys me is that somebody could get into the basement and . . ."

Roger closed the door and went up the steps to his room.

He had just taken off his coat when the knock sounded on his door.

"Who is it?" he said.

"Me. Fook."

"Who?"

"Fook. Fook Shanahan. Open up."

Roger went to the door and unlocked it. Fook was a small, bald, bright-eyed man of about forty-five, wearing a white shirt over which was an open brown cardigan sweater. He was grinning as Roger opened the door, and he stepped into the room with an air of conspiracy, and immediately closed and locked the door behind him.

"Did you see the cops downstairs?" he asked at once.

"Yes," Roger said.

"Something, huh?" Fook said, his eyes gleaming.

"What do they want?"

"Don't you know what happened?"

"No. What?"

"Somebody robbed the bloodsucker."

"Who do you mean?"

"Dougherty, Dougherry, our landlady, who do you think I mean?"

"She's a nice lady," Roger said.

"Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy," Fook said. "A nice lady, oh boy oh boy."

"She seems like a nice lady to me," Roger said.

"That's because you've only been here a few days," Fook said. "I've been living in this dump for six years now, six years, and I'm telling you she's a bloodsucker and a tightwad and the meanest old bitch who ever walked the earth, that's what I'm telling you."

"Well," Roger said, and shrugged.

"I'm glad they robbed the old bitch."

"What'd they take?"

"Not enough," Fook said. "You got a drink in here?"

"What? No, I'm sorry."

"I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"My room. I've got a bottle in there. Have you got some glasses?"

"Just the one on the sink there."

"I'll bring my own," Fook said, and went out.

Well, Roger thought, I suppose she had to find out it was missing sooner or later. It was just that I didn't expect her to find out so soon. Or maybe I didn't expect her to call the police even if she did find out. But she did and she has, and they're downstairs now, so maybe this is as good a time as any to get drunk with Fook. No, I'm supposed to meet Amelia at three-thirty.

I should have been more careful.

Still, at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do.

Maybe it was.

A knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," he said.

It was Fook. He came in carrying a partially filled bottle of bourbon with a water glass turned upside down over the neck of the bottle. He put the bottle down on the dresser and then walked quickly to the sink, where he picked up Roger's glass. He went back to the dresser, put Roger's glass down, lifted the upturned glass from the neck of the bottle, put that one down beside the other and then lifted the bottle.

"Say when," he said.

"I'm not a drinker," Roger said.

"Neither am I," Fook said, and winked and poured half a tumblerful of whiskey.

"That's too much for me," Roger said.

"All right, I'll have this one," Fook said, and began pouring into the other glass.

"That's enough," Roger said.

"Have a little more. We're celebrating."

"What are we celebrating?"

Fook poured another finger of whiskey into Roger's glass and then carried it to him. He extended his own glass and said, "Here's to Mrs. Dougherty's loss, may the old bitch be uncovered."

"Uncovered?"

"By insurance." Fook winked, raised his glass to his lips, and took a healthy swallow of the bourbon. "Also, may this be only the first of a long line of losses to come. May some no-good thief sneak into the lady's basement tomorrow night and steal perhaps her washtub, and the next night her oil burner, and the next night her underwear hanging on a line down there. May all the crooks in this crumby city come to Mrs. Dougherty's basement night after night and pick it clean like a bunch of vultures going over her bones. May loss pile upon loss until the old bitch has nothing left but the clothes on her back, and then may some bold rapist climb through her window one night and do a job on the scrawny wretch, leaving her nary a nightgown to keep her warm. Amen," Fook said, and drained his glass. He poured it full again, almost to the brim. "You're not drinking, my friend," he said.

"I'm drinking," Roger answered, and sipped at the bourbon.

"An icebox," Fook said.

Roger said nothing.

"It strikes me as amusing that anybody would come into Mrs. Dougherty's basement and steal an icebox, I beg your pardon, a refrigerator, that has been sitting there for God knows how long gathering dust. It raises a great many questions which to me are both amusing and amazing," Fook said.

"Like what?"

"Like number one, how would anyone know the old bitch had an icebox, I beg your pardon a refrigerator, in the basement? How many times have you been in the basement of this building?"

"I've never been in the basement," Roger said.

"Exactly. I've lived in this crumby dump for six full years, and I've been down there only twice, once to put an old trunk of mine on a shelf and another time when Mother Dougherty fainted at the sight of a rat down there and screamed loud enough to wake the whole building, me included, who went down there to find the scrawny witch spreadeagled on the floor unconscious with her dress up round her skinny ass, a sight to make a man puke, have another drink."

"I haven't finished this one yet."

"So how would anyone know there was a refrigerator down there, that's number one. And if he did know about the refrigerator, then he also knew it was a vintage appliance, circa 1939 or '40, and worth perhaps ten dollars, if not less. Why would a man go to the trouble of stealing a decrepit wreck like that? Why, lifting the thing alone would be enough to give a man a hernia." Fook poured another drink and then said, "I'm talking about a normal man like myself. A man your size could lift it without batting an eyelash."

"Well, I don't know," Roger said, and shrugged.

"In any case," Fook said, "how would anyone know it was down there, number one — and number two, why would anyone want to steal a piece of garbage worth at most five or six dollars?"

"Maybe he had some need for it," Roger suggested.

"Like what?"

"I don't know," Roger said.

"What, whyever he did it, I'm glad he did it. I only wish he'd taken more while he was at it. Isn't it just like that old bitch, though, to go screaming to the cops immediately over a piece of junk like that old refrigerator? She's tying up the whole damn police force over a machine that was worth three or four bucks."

"Well, there were only two cops down there," Roger said.

"Those are the beat cops," Fook said. "In a burglary, they always precede the bulls. You wait and see. The bulls'll be here today asking questions and snooping around, wasting the taxpayers' time and money, and all for a lousy refrigerator that wouldn't bring two and a half bucks on the open market, have another drink."

"Thanks," Roger said, and extended his glass.

9

The knock on the door awakened him.

Fook had left at about a quarter to three, taking the remainder of the bourbon with him. Roger had drunk only the two drinks, but he wasn't used to hard whiskey, and he must have begun dozing shortly afterward. He wondered what time it was now. He couldn't have been asleep too long. He sat up in bed and looked around the room, dazed, and then blinked as the knock sounded again.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Police," the voice answered.

Police, he thought.

"Just a moment," he said.

It was probably about the refrigerator. Fook had said detectives would come around asking about the refrigerator. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to the door. It was unlocked. He twisted the knob and opened the door wide.

Two men were standing in the hallway. One was very tall, and the other was short. The tall one had red hair with a jagged white streak across the right temple.

"Mr. Broome?" the short one said.

"Yes?" Roger answered.

"I'm Detective Willis," the short one said. "This is my partner, Detective Horse. We wonder if we could ask you a few questions."

"Sure, come in," Roger said.

He moved back and away from the door. Willis entered the room first and then Horse — had he said Horse? — came in after him and closed the door. Roger sat on the edge of the bed and then indicated the two chairs in the room and said, "Have a seat, won't you?"

Willis sat in the hard-backed chair near the dresser. Horse — his name couldn't be Horse — stood just behind the chair, one hand resting on the dresser. They were both wearing heavy overcoats. Willis kept his buttoned. The other one had opened his; he was wearing a plaid sports jacket. Roger could see a leather gun holster clipped to his waist in the opening of the coat and jacket.

"I'm sorry,'" he said, "what did you say your name was?"

"Me?"

"Yes. Um-huh."

"Hawes."

Roger nodded.

"H-A-W-E-S," the detective said.

"Oh." Roger smiled. "I thought you said Horse."

"No."

"That would be a funny name. Horse, I mean."

"No, it's Hawes."

"Sure," Roger said.

The room went silent.

"Mr. Broome," Willis said, "we got a list of all the tenants from your landlady, Mrs. Dougherty, and we're just making a routine check through the building. I guess you know a refrigerator was stolen from the basement sometime last night."

"Yes," he said.

"How did you hear about it, Mr. Broome?" Hawes asked.

"Fook told me. Fook Shanahan. He has a room down the hall."

"Fook?" Hawes said.

"I think his real name is Frank Hubert Shanahan, or something like that. Fook is a nickname."

"I see," Hawes said. "When did he tell you about it, Mr. Broome?"

"Oh, I don't know. What time is it now?"

Willis looked at his watch. "Three o'clock."

"About a half-hour ago, I guess. Or maybe fifteen minutes, I don't know. He stopped in to tell me about it, and we had a few drinks."

"But you hadn't known about the refrigerator until he told you, is that right?"

"That's right. Well, actually, I knew something was wrong when I got home a little while ago because I saw Mrs. Dougherty downstairs talking to two policemen."

"But you didn't know exactly what was wrong until Mr. Shanahan told you about the refrigerator."

"That's right."

The two detectives looked at him and said nothing. It almost seemed for a moment that they had no further questions. Willis cleared his throat.

"You understand, Mr. Broome," he said, "that this is all routine, and we're in no way implying—"

"Oh, sure," Roger said.

"The logical place to start an investigation, though, is with the tenants of a building, those who would have had access—"

"Oh, sure," Roger said.

"—to the item or items stolen."

"Sure."

The room went silent again.

"Mr. Broome, I wonder if you could tell us where you were last night."

"What time last night?"

"Well, let's start with dinner. Where did you have dinner?"

"Gee, I don't remember," Roger said. "Someplace around here, a little Italian restaurant." He paused. "I'm not too familiar with the city, you see. I don't get in too often. I've only been here a few days this trip."

"Doing what, Mr. Broome?"

"Selling woodenware."

"What's that, Mr. Broome? What kind of woodenware?"

"We've got a little shop up home, we make coffee tables and bowls, spoons, things like that. We sell the stuff to places in the city. That's why I'm here."

"When do you plan to go home?"

"I really should be getting back tonight." Roger shrugged. "I sold all the stuff yesterday. I've really got no reason to hang around."

"Where is that, Mr. Broome? Your home."

"Carey." He paused. "It's near Huddleston," he said automatically.

"Oh, yes," Hawes said.

"You know it?"

"I've skied Mount Torrance," Hawes said.

"You have?"

"Yes. Nice area up there."

"Well, our shop is on 190, just east of Huddleston. The turnoff just before the mountain road."

"Oh, yes," Hawes said.

"How about that?" Roger said, and he smiled. "Small world."

"It sure is," Hawes said, and returned the smile.

"What time would you say you had dinner, Mr. Broome?" Willis asked.

"Must've been about five."

"So early?"

"Well, we eat early back home, I guess I'm used to it." He shrugged.

"What'd you do after dinner?"

"Came back here."

"What time was that?"

"Six-thirty? Around then."

"Did you stay in after that?"

"No."

"Where'd you go?"

"To a bar."

"Where?"

"Right in the neighborhood, oh, no more'n six or seven blocks from here, walking south on Twelfth Street."

"Would you remember the name of the bar?"

"No, I'm sorry. I really went out for a walk. I only stopped in the bar because I was getting kind of chilly. I'm not usually a drinking man."

"But you did have a drink with Mr. Shanahan just a little while ago, didn't you?" Hawes asked.

"Oh, yeah, that," Roger said, and laughed. "We were celebrating."

"Celebrating what?"

"Well, I shouldn't even tell you this, you'll get the wrong idea."

"What's that?" Hawes said, smiling.

"Well, Fook doesn't care too much for Mrs. Dougherty, you know. He was glad somebody stole her old refrigerator." Roger laughed again. "So he wanted to have a few drinks to celebrate."

"You don't think he stole it, do you?" Willis said.

"Who? Fook? No." Roger shook his head. "Oh, no, he wouldn't do anything like that. He was just glad it happened, that's all. No. Listen, I don't mean to get Fook in trouble by what I said. He's a very nice person. He's not a thief, I can tell you that."

"Mm-huh," Willis said. "What time did you leave the bar, Mr. Broome?"

"Midnight? I don't know. About then."

"Do you have a watch?"

"No."

"Then you're not sure it was midnight."

"It must've been around then. I was pretty sleepy. I usually get pretty sleepy around that time."

"Were you alone?" Hawes asked.

"Yes," Roger said, and looked at the detectives squarely and wondered if they could tell he had just lied to them for the first time.

"What'd you do when you left the bar?"

"Came back here," Roger said. That was true, anyway. He had come back to the room.

"And then what?"

"I went to bed." That was true, too.

"Did you go right to sleep?"

"Well, not right off." He was still telling the truth. More or less.

"When did you fall asleep?" Hawes asked.

"Oh, I don't really remember. A half-hour, an hour. It's hard to tell just when you drop off, you know."

"Mmm," Willis said, "it is. Did you hear anything strange while you were in bed trying to fall asleep?"

"What do you mean, strange?"

"Any strange noises."

"Well, what kind of noises?"

"Anything out of the ordinary," Hawes said.

"No, I didn't hear anything."

"Anything wake you during the night?"

"No."

"You didn't hear any noises in the street outside, you know, maybe men's voices, or the sound of someone struggling with a heavy load, anything like that?"

"No, I didn't."

"Or something being dragged or pulled?"

"No. This is the third floor," Roger said. "Be pretty hard to hear anything like that, even if I wasn't asleep." He paused. "I'm a pretty sound sleeper." He paused again. "Excuse me, but would you know what time it is?"

Willis looked at his watch. "Three-ten," he said.

"Thank you."

"Do you have an appointment, Mr. Broome?"

"Yeah, I'm supposed to meet somebody."

"What do you suppose that refrigerator was worth?" Hawes asked suddenly.

"I don't know," Roger said. "I never saw it."

"Have you ever been down in the basement of this building?"

"No," Roger said.

"Mrs. Dougherty says it was worth about fifty dollars," Willis said. "Do you agree with her?"

"I never saw it," Roger said, "so I couldn't say. Fook says it wasn't worth more than a few dollars."

"The only reason we bring up the value," Willis said, "is that it would make a difference in the charge."

"The charge?"

"Yes, the criminal charge. If the value was under twenty-five dollars, it would be petit larceny. That's only a misdemeanor."

"I see," Roger said.

"If the crime's committed at night, and the property is taken from the person of another," Willis went on, "that's automatically grand larceny. But if it was taken from a dwelling place . . ." Willis paused. "Somebody's house, you know?"

"Yes?"

"Yes, and at night also, then the value has to be more than twenty-five dollars for it to be grand larceny."

"Oh," Roger said.

"Yeah. Grand larceny's a felony, you know. You can get up to ten years on a grand larceny conviction."

"Is that right?" Roger said. "For a measly twenty-five dollars? Boy!" He shook his head.

"Oh, sure," Willis said. He looked at Hawes. "You got any questions, Cotton?"

"Are those the only windows?" Hawes asked.

"Those?" Roger said. "Yes, they're the only ones."

"You don't have any facing on the back yard?"

"No."

"I just can't see anybody hauling that heavy refrigerator all the way out to the front of the building," Hawes said. "A car or a truck must have backed into the alley to the basement door. That's what I think." He shrugged. "Well, Mr. Broome wouldn't have heard it, anyway. His windows face the front."

"That's right," Roger said.

Willis sighed. "You've been very cooperative, Mr. Brome. Thank you very much."

"I hope we haven't kept you from your appointment," Hawes said.

"No, I'm supposed to meet her at three-thirty," Roger said.

"Thanks again," Willis said.

"Glad to help," Roger said. He walked them to the door. "Will you be needing anything else from me?"

"No, I don't think so," Hawes said. He turned to Willis. "Hal?"

"I don't think so, Mr. Broome. I hope you understand we had to make a routine check of all the—"

"Oh, sure," Roger said.

"Chances are this was a neighborhood junkie," Hawes said.

"Or a kid. Sometimes it's kids," Willis said.

"We get a lot of little thefts," Hawes said. "Not much we can do about them unless we're lucky enough to turn up a witness."

"Or sometimes we'll catch some guy, oh, maybe six months from now — on something else, you understand — and he'll tell us all about having swiped a refrigerator from a basement back in February. That's the way it goes." Willis smiled. "We try to keep up with it."

"Well, I wish you luck," Roger said. He opened the door.

"As far as you're concerned though," Hawes said, "you can forget all about it. Go home, stay a few days, entirely up to you. We won't be bothering you any further."

"Well, thank you," Roger said.

"Thank you for your time, sir," Hawes said.

"Thank you," Willis said.

They both went out. Roger closed the door behind them. He waited until he could no longer hear their footsteps, and then he locked the door.

Molly's scarf was in the bottom drawer of his dresser.

10

They had come back to the room at a little past midnight, coming quietly up the steps to the third floor, walking past Fook's apartment, and then pausing silently outside Roger's room as he searched for his key and unlocked the door. They stepped inside, and he closed the door behind them, shutting out the light from the hallway. They stood in darkness for several seconds while he groped for the light switch just inside the door. When the light went on, Molly seemed surprised that he hadn't tried to kiss her in the dark.

"This is very nice," she said, looking around the room. "Very nice."

"Thank you," he said. They were both whispering. No one had seen them come into the building, and no one knew she was here in the room with him, but they whispered nonetheless, as though the entire building knew they were alone together, as though each and every one of the tenants was eavesdropping.

"It's not too small at all," Molly said.

"No, it's all right. Plenty of room for just one person."

"That's right," Molly said. She took off her coat and scarf and put them over the arm of the easy chair. "Well," she said, "this is really nice. Maybe I'll move. Do you think there are any vacancies?"

"Gee, I wouldn't know," Roger said. "But actually, this room'll be empty tomorrow, you know. I'll be going back to Carey tomorrow."

"That's right," she said, "I almost forgot."

"Yeah," Roger said, and nodded.

She sat on the edge of the bed. "It's too bad you're going back so soon," she said.

"Well, there's really no reason for me to stay any longer, you know. My mother's expecting me, so really I have to—"

"Oh, sure," Molly said. "This is very comfortable. The bed."

"Yeah, it's not a bad bed," Roger said.

"It seems very comfortable. I hate lumpy mattresses, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Or ones that are too soft."

"This one is pretty good, actually," Roger said. "You get a good night's sleep on it."

Molly leaned back suddenly, swinging her legs up on to the bed and stretching her arms over her head. "Mmmm," she said, "this sure feels good." She smiled at Roger. "I'd better be careful or I'll fall asleep."

"Well," Roger said, and smiled.

"Do you know what gets me about looking for a job?" she asked.

"No what?"

"My feet. They're killing me. Would you mind if I took off my shoes?"

"No, not at all."

"I'll be leaving in a minute," she said, sitting up, and crossing her legs, and taking off first one high-heeled pump and then the other. "But while I'm here I might as well take advantage of the opportunity, huh?"

"Sure," Roger said.

"Ahhhhh," she said, and wiggled her toes. "Ahhhh, that feels good." She put her arms behind her, the elbows locked, and stared up at him. "Aren't you going to take off your coat?" she asked.

"What? Oh. Oh, I thought—"

"I've got a few minutes," she said. "We don't have to rush right out again. I mean, not unless you want to."

"No, no," Roger said.

"Besides, it feels so good with these shoes off," she said, and smiled.

"Just make yourself comfortable," he said. He took off his coat and went to the closet with it. "I'm sorry I can't offer you a drink or anything, but I haven't got any in the room."

"Oh, that's all right," she said. "I don't drink much anyway."

He hung his coat on a hanger, and then took Molly's from the chair and put it over his on the same hanger. He looped her scarf over the hanger hook, and put everything back in the closet. "If the liquor stores were open," he said, "I'd go down for some. But I think—"

"No, I don't mind. I hope I didn't give you the impression that I drink a lot."

"No, I didn't get that impression."

"Because I usually don't, except socially. It's been so depressing, though, marching around this city and not being able to find anything. It can get really depressing, I mean it."

"I can imagine," Roger said.

"Boy, it's good to get out of those shoes," she said, and she leaned back, propping herself on one elbow so she could watch him. She smiled. "Is that the only light in here?" she asked.

"What?"

"The light. It's kind of harsh."

"There's a lamp on the dresser," Roger said. "Would you like it better if I—"

"Please. It's just that lying back like this, I'm looking right up into the light there.".

"I'll just put this one on," Roger said, and went to the dresser. He turned on the small lamp, and then flicked out the overhead light. "How's that?"

"Better," she said. "Much better."

She closed her eyes. The room was silent.

"Mmm," she said. She stretched and then leaned back and said, "I really better be careful or I will fall asleep."

"It's early yet," Roger said.

"The night is young, huh?" she said, and giggled. "Be funny if your landlady walked in here tomorrow morning and found a strange girl in your bed, wouldn't it?"

"Well, she never walks in," Roger said. "Nobody ever bothers you here."

"You mean you've had strange girls in here before?"

"No, I didn't mean that," Roger said.

The girl giggled. "I know. I'm teasing." She opened her eyes and looked at him solemnly. "I'm a big tease."

Roger said nothing.

"Though not that way," Molly said. She paused. "Do you know what I mean?"

"I'm not sure."

She smiled briefly, and then sat up suddenly, swung her legs over the side of the bed and said, "I'm getting your bedspread all wrinkled. Your landlady won't like that a bit. I mean, she may not object to girls in your room, but I'll bet she doesn't like a wrinkled bedspread or lipstick all over the pillow."

"Well, she's never found any lipstick on the pillow," Roger said, and smiled.

"No, and we're not going to give her any to find, either." She padded to the dresser in her stockinged feet, opened her bag, took out a Kleenex, and leaned close to the mirror. She wiped off her lipstick quickly, and then put the tissue back into her bag. "There," she said, and smiled at him. He was beginning to dislike the way she was making herself so comfortable, the way she was moving around the room so easily and naturally, as if she owned the place. He watched her as she went to the bed and pulled back the bedspread and fluffed up the pillows. "There," she said again, and sat on the edge of the bed.

She smiled at him.

"Well," she said, "here we are."

The room was silent again. She stared at him levelly.

"Do you want to make love to me?" she asked.

"That's not why I brought you up here," he said quickly.

The smile was still on her face, but it seemed to have weakened somewhat, as though his words had embarrassed her, or injured her. He didn't want to make her feel bad, and he certainly didn't want to hurt her. But at the same time, he didn't particularly feel like getting involved with her, not in that way, not with a girl as plain as she was.

"I mean, I didn't bring you up here to take advantage of you," he said gallantly. "I only wanted to show you the room because you said maybe you—"

"I know."

"—might want to move if it was a good-sized room."

"It's a good-sized room," she said.

"But, believe me, I wasn't planning—"

"And it's a very comfortable bed," she said.

"—on taking advantage of you, if that's what you thought."

"That's not what I thought."

"Good because—"

"I didn't think you'd take advantage of me."

"Good because—"

"It wouldn't be taking advantage of me," Molly said flatly.

He looked at her silently.

"I have a lot to give," she said.

He did not answer her.

She stood up suddenly and pulled the flaps of her blouse out of the black skirt. Slowly, she began unbuttoning the blouse. There was something ludicrous about her performance. She stood alongside the bed with her head erect, the flaming red hair burnished in the glow of the single lamp on the dresser, her hands slowly unbuttoning the blouse, staring at him, her eyes serious and solemn in the plain face, the fake eyelashes, the penciled eyebrows, the pointed fake breasts in the padded bra slowly revealed as her hands worked the buttons at the front of the blouse. She threw the blouse and the bra onto the bed behind her and then unzipped the skirt and stepped out of it. He felt nothing. He looked at her as she took off the rest of her clothing and moved toward him, an oddly shaped woman with tiny breasts, large bursting nipples, wide in the hips, far too wide in the behind, thick in the thigh and ankle, there was nothing exciting about her, nothing attractive about her, he felt no desire at all for her. She moved into his arms. She was very warm.

They whispered in the night.

"I sometimes feel all alone in the world," she said.

"I do, too."

"I don't mean alone just because I have no parents, or because Doris went off to Hawaii, not that way, not that kind of alone. I mean really alone."

"Yes."

"Alone inside," she said.

"Yes."

"Even when I'm surrounded by people. Even when there are people everywhere around me, like in that bar tonight, before I met you."

"I almost didn't come over to you."

"Because I'm not pretty," she said.

"You're beautiful," he said.

"No, please . . ."

"Yes."

"Please don't lie to me."

"You're the most beautiful girl I've ever known in my life."

"Ahhh," she said.

"Yes."

"Ahhh."

"Molly, you're beautiful," he whispered.

"I'm a good lay, is what you mean?"

"Yes, you're a good lay, but—"

"Mmmm, and that's it."

"No."

"Yes, that's all of it. Roger, please, I know."

"How do you know?"

She shrugged. "You're a man. I know what men want."

"That's not all I want," he said.

She moved closer to him. She buried her face in his shoulder. Her lips vibrated against his skin as she spoke. "You're the only man who ever told me I was beautiful," she whispered. She paused for a long time. "Roger?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me."

"What?"

"Tell me again."

"What?"

"Don't make me beg."

"You're beautiful," he said.

"You embarrass me," she whispered.

"I want to hold you," he said.

"Ahhh."

"I want to kiss you."

She moved into his arms. "What's this?" she whispered.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" she whispered. "Oh, it's something. Oh, I can tell it's something. Oh, I'm sure it's something. Oh yes. Yes, yes, that's it, yes."

"Molly, Molly . . ."

"Ooooh, kiss you," she whispered. "Ooooh, hold you, kiss you, kiss you."

"Beautiful," he whispered, "beautiful."

Her scarf was in the bottom drawer of the dresser. He walked to the dresser now and opened the drawer and took out the scarf and held it in his hands. It was a pale-blue scarf, light, almost transparent, made of nylon, he supposed, he didn't really know. It was the only article of her clothing left behind in the apartment. He had discovered it afterward near the closet door, he supposed it had dropped from the hanger when he'd gone to get her coat.

He looked at the scarf and wondered what he should do with it. Suppose those two detectives came back to ask more questions, suppose they search the room? Well, no, they needed a warrant to do that, didn't they? Or did they? Suppose they came back while he was out with Amelia? He'd have to get rid of the scarf, that was for sure. Or else, he could simply take it with him when he went to the police station to tell them about it, yes, that would make things a lot simpler, sure. He would go there with the scarf and that would make it easier to talk about Molly. He would ask for the detective with the deaf-mute wife. He hadn't really liked any of the others, not Parker in the luncheonette, and not those two who had just been here, either, although they weren't too bad — still, he preferred the one with the beautiful wife.

Amelia, he thought.

I'd better get rid of this scarf, first, he thought, and wondered how he should do it.

I suppose I can cut it into little pieces and flush it down the toilet. That would probably be best. Only trouble is I haven't got a scissors, nor even a knife. I can tear it in my hands, I suppose.

He looked at the scarf again.

He grasped it firmly in both hands and tried to rip it, but it wouldn't start because there was a tight, strong welting all around the edge of it. He put the end of the scarf into his mouth and tore the welting with his teeth, and then ripped it in half along a jagged line, and then decided throwing it down the toilet wouldn't be any good. Suppose the damn toilet got stuffed, that would be just great.

He went to the dresser. A book of matches was lying in the ash tray near the lamp. He picked up the matches and went to the bathroom with the scarf. He struck a match, and then held the scarf hanging from one hand over the toilet bowl, almost touching the water. He brought the other hand, with the lighted match, toward the dangling end of the scarf and was about to set fire to it when he heard someone calling him.

He recognized Mrs. Dougherty's voice, and wondered how in hell she had known he was about to set fire to a scarf in her bathroom. He shook out the match and dropped it into the bowl, and went back to his room. There he wadded the scarf into a ball and put it into the bottom dresser drawer again.

Mrs. Dougherty was still yelling his name in the hallway. "Mr. Broome, Mr. Broome, Mr. Broome!"

He went to the door and opened it.

"Yes," he said, "what is it?"

"Mr. Broome, there's a phone call for you."

"What?" he said.

"The telephone," she said.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"I don't know. It's a woman."

My mother, he thought, and wondered how she had got the number.

"I'll be right down," he said. He closed the door, went back into the room, opened the bottom dresser drawer, and shoved the blue scarf all the way to the back of it. Then he closed the drawer and went out into the hall. The pay phone was on the wall of the first-floor landing. Mrs. Dougherty was standing near the phone, waiting for him.

"Did the detectives talk to you?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"They were nice boys, weren't they?"

"Yes, they seemed very nice. Are they still in the building?"

"They're talking to Mrs. Ingersol on the fifth floor."

"Then they're almost finished, I guess," Roger said. He took the receiver from her hand. "Thank you," he said.

"Do you think they'll get my refrigerator back?" Mrs. Dougherty asked.

"I hope so," Roger said, and he smiled and put the receiver to his ear. "Hello?"

Mrs. Dougherty smiled and nodded and started down the steps to her apartment on the ground floor just as the voice at his ear said, "Roger, is it you? This is Amelia."

"Amelia? How — Amelia, did you say?"

"I was hoping you hadn't left yet."

"No, I'm still here. What time is it?"

"It's three-twenty. I was afraid you might have left."

"Why? What's the matter?"

"I'm going to be a little late."

"Why?"

"Something unexpected."

"Like what?"

"I'll tell you when I see you."

"How late will you be?"

"Four-thirty?" she said. "Is that too late?"

"No, that's fine."

"Same place?"

"Yes, outside the drugstore."

"Aren't you curious?"

"About what?"

"About how I got your phone number?"

"Yeah, how about that?" he said.

"Some memory, huh?"

"What do you mean? I never gave you the number here. I don't even know the number here myself."

"Aha," she said.

"How'd you get it?"

"Agnes Dougherty," she said.

"What?"

"The name on one of your valentines. The cards. Remember?"

"Oh, yeah, that's right," he said, smiling.

"Your landlady."

"That's right."

"Or so you said."

"She is. I'll introduce you to her, if you like."

"When?"

"Later."

"Sure," Amelia said. "You can't kid me. She's some big old blond broad you're living with, you can't kid me."

"No," he said, grinning, "she's my landlady."

"Hey, you know something?"

"What?"

"I like you."

"I like you, too, Amelia."

"Good."

"Four-thirty, okay?"

"Yes." She paused. "Roger?"

"Yes?"

"I more than just like you."

"Okay."

"Okay, look at the brushoff," she said, and laughed.

"What brushoff?"

"You're supposed to say you more than just like me, too."

"I do."

"Ah, such enthusiasm," Amelia said. "Okay, I'll see you later. You think you can keep out of trouble between now and four-thirty?"

"I'll try," Roger said.

"Yeah, try," she answered. "Try real hard."

"I will."

"You're very cute," she said, and hung up.

He stood grinning at the receiver for a moment, and then replaced it on the cradle.

He went up to the apartment then and burned Molly's scarf and flushed the ashes down the toilet, and then opened the bathroom window to let out the smoke.

11

The snow had stopped.

There was a silence to the city.

There was a clean silence that reached somewhere deep inside him the moment he stepped outside and began walking toward the garage. His footfalls were hushed, his breath plumed out ahead of him in visible silence, there was the normal hush of late afternoon, the whispering minutes before twilight, intensified now by the cushion of snow, deepened, the gentle rhythmic sound of skid chains, muffled. I'll have to put chains on the truck, he thought.

The thought came into his mind with a suddenness that was totally surprising because it carried with it the idea of going home; if he was planning to put chains on the truck, then he was planning to use the truck, to go someplace with it, and the only place he would take the truck would be home to Carey. He knew that was what he ought to do, put chains on the truck, and then call his mother and tell her he was leaving the city, probably be home this evening sometime, that was the thing to do. But there were also a few other things he knew he should do, or at least felt he ought to do, and suddenly everything seemed mixed up, suddenly the silence of the city was irritating to him rather than soothing. He knew he should call his mother and then head for home, and he also knew he should go to the police station and talk to that detective with the deaf-and-dumb wife, but he also knew he should meet Amelia at four-thirty because Amelia was the most beautiful woman he had ever known in his life and he had the feeling he should not allow her to get away from him, colored or otherwise. It still bothered him that she was colored, but not as much as it had bothered him earlier. He thought suddenly of Molly and how she had become beautiful all at once at two o'clock last night, but that was something different, that wasn't the way he felt about Amelia, that was something entirely different. Amelia really was beautiful, everything about her was beautiful — the way she looked, and the soft way she had of speaking, and that fine bright quickness about her, and the way she kissed, she really was a beautiful girl. His mother certainly wouldn't be able to kid about her the way she had kidded about all the ugly ducklings he took out in Carey, not by a long shot. It troubled him that he would be seeing Amelia when he knew he should be going home to his mother. After all, somebody had to take care of her now that his father was dead. But at the same time he really did want to see Amelia, to know Amelia, and this frightened him because at some point last night when he was in bed with Molly he had begun to think that he would really like to know her, too, and not just as somebody to take to bed, some ugly girl to take to bed, but as a beautiful person secret and private inside this very plain outside shell. That was when he supposed he began to get angry with her, that was when he supposed the argument started.

He did not want an argument to start with Amelia, and yet he had the feeling that if he met her later on he would argue with her, too, and all because he knew he should be home in Carey taking care of his mother and not getting involved with pretty girls in the city, especially pretty girls who were colored. He didn't see how he could get involved with a colored girl. Hell, he wouldn't even have asked her to take the afternoon off if he'd thought there was the slightest possibility of getting involved with someone who was colored. But then he hadn't thought he'd get involved with anyone as ugly as Molly, either, until he found himself really wondering about her and looking at her as if she was beautiful, and really believing she was beautiful, that was what had caused all the trouble.

So the thing he should do, he supposed, was to go to the police and tell them about Molly, and then go home to Carey. No, that wouldn't exactly work, either. Going to the police would keep him away from Amelia, would keep him from getting involved with her, or of getting angry with her the way he'd got angry with Molly, but it would also keep him away from his mother in Carey, well, maybe that wouldn't be so bad. He was suddenly very confused.

Look, he told himself, I'd better Look, I think the police Well, look, let me put the chains on the truck for now. Let me do that, and I'll work out the rest.

I mean, what the hell, she's sitting all the way up there, somebody's got to take care of her.

Buddy's just a kid.

Somebody's got to take care of her.

The garage attendant was a short fellow with curly black hair and very white teeth. He was wearing an old World War II flight jacket, the same jacket he'd been wearing the other day when Roger pulled in with the truck loaded.

"Hey," he said, "how you doing?"

"Fine," Roger said. "I just thought I'd stop by to put my chains on. I wasn't expecting this kind of snow."

"Something, huh?" the attendant said. "You could freeze your ass off in this city."

"It gets a lot colder up where I live," Roger said.

"Yeah, where you live?" the attendant asked, grinning. "Siberia? Or Lower Slobovia, which?"

Roger didn't know where Lower Slobovia was, so he just said, "Well, it gets pretty cold up there, believe me."

"I see you got rid of all your stuff," the attendant said.

"Yes. I sold it all yesterday."

"That's good, huh?"

"Yes, that's fine," Roger said.

"Late last night?" the attendant said.

"What?"

"That when you sold it?"

"No. No," Roger said. He stared at the attendant, puzzled. "I don't think I get you."

"The benches and stuff, the bowls. You know?"

"Yes?"

"Did you sell them late last night?"

"No. I sold the last of them yesterday afternoon sometime. Downtown."

"Oh."

"Why?"

"Oh, nothing," the attendant said. "Only I must've been gone when you came back, and the night man said you took the truck out again later."

"He did?"

"Yeah. He only told me about it because he wasn't sure he should have let it go out, you know, so he was just checking. To make sure he didn't pull a boner. You know?"

"Mmm," Roger said.

"That was pretty late."

"Yes."

"Three o'clock in the morning." The attendant grinned. His teeth were very white. "Or early, depending how you look at it, huh? Three o'clock could be very early."

"It was early," Roger said. "I had to carry some stuff."

"More of that wood stuff, huh?"

"No," Roger said quickly. "I . . ." He paused. "A man offered me a job. Yesterday afternoon, while I was downtown."

"Oh? Yeah?"

"Hauling some vegetables for him. From the market."

"Hey, that's a lucky break, huh?" the attendant said.

"Yes, I had to take them over the bridge to the other side of the river. Over there. I had to pick them up at the market."

"Downtown, huh?"

"Yes."

"Where? Down near Cummings?"

"What?"

"Cummings Street? The market down there?"

"Yes, the market."

"Sure, they open very early," the attendant said.

"Yes, I had to be there at three-thirty to make the pickup. And then I had to drive all way to the bridge and across the river."

"All the way to Lower Slobovia, huh?" the attendant said, and laughed. "Well, you're a hard worker, that's good. I admire guys who are willing to work to earn a buck. Christ knows I work hard enough. Your truck's over there near that '62 Caddy. You want a hand with the chains?"

"No, I think I can manage. Thanks." "Don't mention it. You want the keys?" "I don't know. How much space have I got?" "I think you can get them on without moving it. But if you need the keys, they're right here on the board."

"Okay," Roger said, and walked to where the truck was parked at the far end of the garage. He glanced at the Cadillac alongside it, and then lowered the tailgate and climbed up into the back. His chains were in the right-hand forward corner of the truck, up near the cab, wrapped in burlap. He always dried them carefully each time he took them off, and then wrapped them in burlap so they wouldn't rust. He picked up the chains and was heading for the rear of the truck again when he saw the stain.

The stain was no larger than a half-dollar, circular, with a sawtooth edge and tiny spatters radiating from the rim.

That must've been from her nose, he thought. He climbed down from the truck and dropped the chains near the left rear wheel, and then looked around the garage and saw a hose attached to a faucet, and alongside that a can. He glanced toward the front of the garage to check if the attendant was anywhere in sight. He walked to the hose and picked up the can and filled it about a quarter full, and then went back to the truck again. He put the can down near the tailgate. From under the front seat he took an old soiled rag, and he carried that with him to the back of the truck again, where he dipped it into the can of water.

He was very lucky. The blood had dripped onto one of the metal strips running the length of the truck, and had not fallen on the wooden floor of the body. It might have been difficult to remove a bloodstain from a wooden floor. Instead, he wiped the blood off the metal in as long as it took him to pass the wet cloth over it.

He rinsed the cloth out several times until it was clean. The water in the can showed hardly any discoloration, hardly any trace of red or even pink. He poured the water down the open drain near the hose attachment, and rinsed the can out several times.

He went back to the truck and put on the chains.

She was waiting for him outside the drugstore.

She spotted him as he turned the corner, and waved immediately and came running up to him.

"Hi," she said, and looped her arm through his. "You're late."

"I haven't got a watch," he said.

"Well, you're not too late, it's only about twenty to. Where were you?"

"Putting chains on my truck."

"Fine thing. Guy'd rather put chains on his truck than be with me."

"No, I'd rather be with you, Amelia."

"There are times, you know," she said, smiling, "when I think you have absolutely no sense of humor."

"None at all," he said, and returned her smile.

"So look at me," she said. I He looked at her.

"Well?"

"You changed your coat."

"This is my best coat. I only wear it on very special occasions. The collar is genuine fitch."

"What's fitch?"

"An animal."

"I know that, but—"

"You've never heard of rat fitch?"

"No."

"It's a close relative to rat fink. There are millions of rat finks in this city, but only very few rat fitches. One of them voluntarily donated his life to make a collar for my coat. Stunning, isn't it?"

"Stunning."

"Also, look." She unbuttoned the coat and held it open, her arms widespread. She was wearing a black skirt and a V-necked black sweater cut very low over her breasts. A string of tiny pearls circled her throat, startling white against her dark skin. "Very sexy number, huh?" she said.

"Very sexy."

"Also," she said, and winked, "black bra underneath. Men like black bras, huh?"

"Yes."

"Now, if you don't mind, I'll close the coat before I freeze everything I own, you don't mind, huh?" She closed the coat and buttoned it. "Brrrr, my hands are freezing." She put her left hand into the pocket of her coat, and then entwined the fingers of her right hand in his, and put both their hands into the pocket of his coat. "There," she said, "nice and cozy and warm, I can't stop talking, what the hell is it about you?"

"I'm a good listener," he said, "that's what it is."

"Yeah, how come?"

"In my house, I listen all the time."

"To who?"

"My mother."

"Mmm, mothers, don't talk about mothers. You should hear the lecture I got this afternoon."

"About what?"

"About you, what do you think?"

"Why?"

"Man, you de white man. You Mr. Charlie." Amelia giggled.

"Is that what Mr. Charlie is?"

"Well, sure. You Mr. Charlie, and you de ofay, and you sometimes just De Man, although De Man is also sometimes a plain old pusher, but he usually a white man, too, so I guess you synonymous, is that de word, man?"

"I don't know."

"It went on for hours, I thought she'd never stop."

"Is that why you couldn't make it at three-thirty?"

"That's why. She had my brother come over to talk to me. He's married and has two kids, and he drives a cab. So she called his garage and asked them to tell him to call his mother as soon as he checked in. He doesn't check in 'til about four, so I knew I'd be stuck there 'til at least a quarter after, his garage is on Twentieth, near the river. Anyway, he got to the house at twenty-five after, and I talked to him for about three seconds flat and then left."

"What'd he say?"

"He said, 'Amelia, you are out of your head.'"

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'Louis, go to hell.'"

"And then what?"

"He said if he caught us together he would cut off your balls."

"Will he really?"

"Louis is a fat happy cab driver who wouldn't know where to find your balls because he hasn't had any of his own since the day he married Mercedes in 1953, do you mind my talking this way?"

"What way?"

"Well, I swear a lot, I guess. Although, actually, I'm only repeating what my brother said. Anyway, I told him to go to hell again, and I walked out."

"I don't mind," Roger said.

"What do you mean?"

"Your swearing a lot." He paused. "We never swear in our house. My mother's pretty strict about that."

"Well, the hell with mothers, huh?" she said.

He felt a momentary spark of anger, and then he simply nodded. "What would you like to do?" he asked.

"Walk a little. I love snow. It makes me stand out."

"You stand out anyway," he said.

"Do I?"

"Yes."

"You say very sweet things, sweet-talker. Mother warned me. Oops, excuse me, we're not supposed to talk about mothers."

"Where would you like to walk?"

"Any place, who cares?"

He didn't like the way Amelia said that, but he told himself not to get angry. She was, after all, allowing him to assume the responsibility. She was saying she would follow him wherever he wanted to go. She was allowing him to be the man. It's you who's the man in the family now, Roger. He did not want to get angry with her the way he had got angry with Molly last night. Last night, he had begun to get angry with Molly when she started telling him about that man in Sacramento. He told himself later that she should not have begun talking about another man when she was in bed with him. That was what had got him so angry. But he had the feeling, even while he was trying to convince himself, that the real reason for his sudden anger had nothing at all to do with the man in Sacramento. He couldn't quite understand it, but he knew somehow he had got angry with Molly only because he was beginning to like her so much. That was the part he couldn't understand.

"There's been only one other man in my life who mattered," Molly had said last night. "Before you. Only one other."

He said nothing. They were lying naked on the bed in his room, and he felt spent and exhausted and content, listening to the February wind howling outside, wind always sounded more fierce in the dead of night, especially in a strange city.

"I met him when I was twenty, just a year after my mother passed away, do you mind my talking about this?"

"No," he said, because he really didn't mind yet, he wasn't angry with her yet, he liked her very much. He kept thinking about how his mother would make fun of him for bringing home another ugly duckling and of how he would say, "Why Mom, she's beautiful, what's the matter with you?"

"It was the first job after secretarial school, I really didn't know how to handle either the job or him. I never went out much with boys, boys hardly ever asked me out. I think I'd been kissed maybe half a dozen times in my life, and once a boy touched my breast when we were decorating the high school gym for a senior dance. I didn't even go to the dance because no one asked me." She paused. "His name was Theodore Michelsen, he had a brother who was a priest in San Diego. He was married and had two children, a little boy and a little girl, their pictures were on his desk. His wife's picture was on his desk, too, in the same frame, one of those frames that open like a book. His wife was on the left-hand side and his two children on the right. Do you mind my talking about this?"

"No," he said. He didn't mind. He was lying with his arm around her, and her lips close to his ear, staring up at the ceiling and thinking how soft her voice was and how warm and smooth she felt in his arms.

"I don't know how it started," Molly said. "I guess one day he just kissed me, and I guess it was the first time I'd ever really been kissed by anyone, I mean really kissed by a man. And then, I don't know, we just began, not that same day, but a few days later, I guess it was a Friday, I guess it was after everyone had gone home. We made love in his office, look, I know you don't want to hear this."

"No, that's all right," he said.

"We did it every day," she said. "I loved it," she said.

That was when he got angry.

He could hear the snow squeaking under his shoes. Amelia held his arm tightly and said, "We're heading for the river, did you know that?"

"No, I didn't."

"What were you thinking?"

"Thinking?" He shook his head. "Nothing."

"Oh, yes you were. Just a few minutes ago. You were a million miles away."

"I was thinking I ought to be getting home."

"I must be a real fascinating girl. You're walking with me, and all you can think about is getting home."

"I didn't mean it that way. It's just my mother's all alone up there. Not really alone, I have a younger brother, but you know."

"Yes," Amelia said.

"It's just I'm the man in the family."

"Yes."

"That's all." He shrugged.

"Still, you are here," she said. "You are with me."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"I mean, I am a fairly good-looking girl, you know, what with my rat-fitch collar and my sexy black sweater." She grinned. "I mean well, you know, a girl doesn't get all dressed up so some guy can think of running back home to Gulchwater Flats."

"Carey," he said, and smiled.

"Right?"

"Right."

"So what do you intend to do about it, look, there's ice on the river, you could probably walk clear across to the other shore."

"There wasn't any ice last night," he said.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Were you here last night?"

"Well, I meant early this morning. About three o'clock."

"What were you doing here at three in the morning?"

"I wasn't here"

"But you said—"

"I had to make a delivery."

"A delivery?"

"Yes. Vegetables."

"Oh."

"So I had a chance to see the river, that's all I meant."

"And there was no ice." \

"No. I guess it must have been a little above freezing."

"It felt a lot colder than that yesterday," she said.

"Yes, it did. But the river wasn't frozen."

"Okay," she said. "You want to walk across to the other side?"

"No."

"Vegetables, did you say?"

"Yes, I got the job from a man, to pick up these vegetables and deliver them. With my truck."

"Oh." She nodded, and then said, "How cold do you think it is now?"

"I don't know. In the twenties, I'd guess."

"Are you cold?"

"A little."

"My feet are cold," she said.

"You want to go someplace? For coffee or something?"

"I thought you had a room," she said.

"I do."

"Let's go there."

They walked in silence for several moments. The river was frozen from shore to shore. The bridge uptown spanned the ice, rose from the ice as if it were a silvery spidery extension of it.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said.

"Hurt me? How can you hurt me?"

"I don't know," he said, and shrugged.

"Honey," she said, "I've been had by experts."

"Amelia, there are . . ." He shook his head.

"Yes? What?"

"There are a lot of things . . ." He shook his head again.

"What is it, Roger?"

"I should do."

"What?"

"Things I should do."

"Yes, like what?"

"Well ... I want to be with you."

"Yes, I want to be with you, too."

"I want to kiss you again, I've been wanting to ever since—"

"Yes, yes—"

"But I don't want to hurt you."

"But, baby, how can you possibly—"

"I just want you to know that."

She stared at him silently. At last she said, "You're a funny person." She reached up and kissed him swiftly and then moved back from him and looked into his face and said, "Come," and took his hand.

12

The party in Roger's room started at about five-thirty when Fook Shanahan came in with a man who lived on the second floor and whom Roger didn't know at all. He and Amelia had just come into the room, had in fact barely taken off their coats when Fook knocked on the door and — without waiting for anyone to answer — opened the door and came in, followed by a very tall thin man with thick-rimmed eyeglasses and a thatch of brown hair turning white. His eyebrows were already completely white, thick and shaggy; they looked fake to Roger, as if they had been pasted on as a disguise. Fook had a bottle of bourbon in one hand, and two glasses in the other. He went immediately to the dresser where he put down the bottle and the glasses and then he turned to Roger and said, "Aren't you going to introduce us to the young lady?"

"Oh, sure," Roger said. "This is Amelia Perez. Amelia, I'd like you to meet Fook Shanahan, and I'm afraid I don't know the other gentleman's name."

"The other gentleman's name is Dominick Tartaglia," Fook said, "and he's no gentleman, believe me." Tartaglia laughed. Fook laughed with him and then said, "I gather you two have just come in from the frozen tundra out there, and would appreciate a drink."

"Well . . ." Roger said hesitantly, and then glanced at Amelia.

"Sure," Amelia said. "I'd love a drink."

"The problem is one of numerical disproportion," Fook said. "We seem to have four people and only three glasses."

"Roger and I can share a glass," Amelia said, and smiled gently at him.

"Then there's no problem," Fook said. He went to the dresser and opened the bottle. Amelia sat on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs and leaning forward, resting her elbow on her knee, one hand toying with the pearls at her throat. Tartaglia stood alongside the dresser, smiling as Fook poured the drinks. Roger glanced at Amelia to see if she minded them being here, but she seemed to be pretty happy. We'll make love as soon as they leave, he thought.

And suddenly he was frightened.

"We were waiting for you to come home, Roger," F/ook said, "because we wanted to know how you made out with the bulls."

"Oh, we had a nice talk," Roger said.

"Were the police here?" Amelia asked, and she suddenly sat up straight and looked at Roger.

"Yeah," Tartaglia said. "Our landlady had a refrigerator stolen from her."

"A refrigerator?" Amelia said. "Thank you," she said to Fook as he handed her the drink.

"I apologize for the lack of ice," Fook said. "Would you like a little water in that?"

"Spoils the taste," Amelia said, and grinned.

"Ah, an Irish colored girl," Shanahan said. "The best kind." He lifted his glass. "Cheers, Miss."

Amelia sipped at her drink and then raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes. "Whoosh!" she said, and handed the glass to Roger. Roger sniffed it, and then took a short swallow.

"So what happened?" Fook asked.

"Nothing," Roger said. "They came in and they were very polite, and they asked me where I'd been last night, and I told them. Then, let me see, I guess we talked about how much I thought the refrigerator was worth, and then they said I could go home or stay here, whichever I wanted, they had no more questions for me."

"That means they think he's clean," Tartaglia said to Fook.

"Of course," Fook said. "We're all clean. Who the hell would want to steal that old bitch's box, excuse me, Miss."

"That's all right," Amelia said, and she took another sip of the drink.

"Did you tell him about the shelves?" Tartaglia said.

"No," Fook said.

"What about the shelves?"

"They found them."

"What shelves?" Amelia asked.

"From the refrigerator. They found them near the furnace downstairs," Tartaglia said.

"Which means," Fook said, "that whoever went to the trouble of stealing that broken-down piece of machinery also went to the trouble of removing the shelves from it first. Now does that make any sense to you?"

"None at all," Amelia said, and finished her drink.

"Are you ready for another one, young lady?" Tartaglia asked.

"Just to take off the chill," Amelia said, and she winked.

"She's Irish, I tell you," Fook said.

Tartaglia took her glass and poured it half full. He poured more bourbon into his own glass, and then handed Amelia hers and walked to Fook with the bottle, filling his glass as Fook talked.

"What good is a refrigerator without shelves?" Fook asked. "You're not drinking, Roger. You're supposed to be sharing the young lady's drink."

"Amelia," she said.

"Yes, Amelia, of course. You're a beautiful girl, Amelia," Fook said. "May I congratulate you upon your taste, Roger?"

"Yes, you may," Roger said, and smiled.

"Congratulations," Fook said. "Isn't there another glass in this place?"

"I'm afraid not."

"I insist that you share the lady's—"

"Amelia," she said. , "Yes, I insist that you share Amelia's drink. Amelia, let the man have a sip."

"Well, I don't want to drink too much," Roger said.

"He gets violent when he's drunk," Fook said, and winked at Amelia.

"No, I don't think so," she said. "I don't think he's that kind."

"No, he's a very sweet man," Fook said, taking the glass from her gently, and handing it to Roger. "Drink," he said "And tell me what you think about those shelves."

Roger sipped at the bourbon and then handed the glass back to Amelia. "Gee, I don't know what to make of it," he said.

"Why would anyone steal a refrigerator and leave the shelves behind?" Fook asked.

"Maybe it was too heavy to carry with the shelves in it," Tartaglia said, and burst out laughing.

"Let me get this straight," Amelia said, drinking. "A refrigerator was stolen from your landlady's apartment last night, but the shelves—"

"From the basement," Tartaglia corrected. "It was stolen from the basement."

"Oh. I see. Oh. But in any case, whoever took it first removed the shelves from inside, is this right?"

"That's right."

"Fingerprints." Amelia said.

"Of course!" Fook said.

"They'll find fingerprints on the shelves," Tartaglia said. "That's right. You're right, miss, have another drink."

"I'll get plotzed," Amelia said. "You'll get me plotzed here, I won't know what the hell I'm doing." She held out her glass.

They won't find fingerprints on the shelves, Roger thought. I was wearing gloves. They won't find fingerprints anywhere in that basement.

"But why did he take out the shelves?" Fook insisted. "That's the problem. Fingerprints aside, why did he bother to remove the shelves?"

They were all silent, thinking.

"I don't know," Amelia said at last, and took another swallow of bourbon.

"I don't know, either," Tartaglia said.

"Nor I," Fook said.

"Roger?" Amelia said. She grinned somewhat foolishly, and cocked her head to one side, as though she were having trouble keeping him in focus. "You seem to have an idea."

"No," he said.

"You seemed very thoughtful there," she said.

"No."

"Didn't he seem very thoughtful there?" she asked.

"He certainly did," Tartaglia said.

"Well, I don't have any ideas," Roger said, and smiled.

"I have the feeling he would like us to get out of here," Fook said.

"No, no . . ."

"I have that feeling, too," Tartaglia said.

"I think we've overstayed our welcome," Fook said. "I'm sure Roger and Amelia have a great many things to talk about, and couldn't care less about Mrs. Dougherty's goddamn icebox."

"Refrigerator," Tartaglia said.

"Yes, pardon me," Fook said, "and pardon me for

saying goddamn, Miss." i "Amelia." /

"Yes, Amelia."

"You don't have to rush off," Roger said. "Have another drink."

"No, no, we simply wanted to know how you'd made out with those two bulls they sent over from the station house. What were their names, Dominick? Do you remember their names?"

"Mutt and Jeff," Tartaglia said, and laughed. "You think they're ever going to find that refrigerator?"

"Never," Fook said.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"I'll bet somebody's got that refrigerator in his kitchen right this minute. I'll bet it's full of beer and eggs and milk and soda and cheese and apples and oranges and bananas and grapes and jelly and—"

"Oh, you should never put ba-nan-nuhs," Amelia sang, "In the re-fridge-a-ray-ter!"

''Cha-cha-cha," Fook said, and laughed.

"And this guy probably lives right across the hall from a cop," Tartaglia continued, "and tonight this cop'll go in there for a glass of beer or something, and the guy'll go to his refrigerator he swiped and the cop'll sit there and not even know it's a hot refrigerator," he said, and burst out laughing.

"How can a refrigerator be hot?" Amelia asked, and began laughing.

"We've got to go," Fook said. He went to the dresser and picked up his bottle. "We're glad the police gave you a clean bill of health, Roger. The least you could do, however, is ask whether Dominick here and myself also passed muster."

"Oh, gee, I'm sorry," Roger said. "I didn't mean to—"

"You will be delighted to learn that we are neither of us suspects. In the considered opinion of the police, this was an outside job. As a matter of fact, they think the basement door was jimmied. The short one said so."

"Good night, Amelia," Tartaglia said from the door.

"Good night," she said.

"It was a pleasure meeting you," he said.

"Thank you. You, too."

"It was a pleasure," Tartaglia said again.

"Miss," Fook said, and he stopped in front of her and made a small bow. "You are with one of the sweetest people who ever walked the face of this earth, Roger Broome, a fine man even on short acquaintance."

"I know," Amelia said.

"Good. You are a fine woman."

"Thank you."

"Good," he said. He went to the door. "Be sweet to each other," he said. "You are very sweet people. Be sweet."

He made a short bow and then went out. Tartaglia went out behind him, closing the door.

"I think you had better lock it," Amelia said thickly.

"Why?"

"Mmm," she said, and grinned wickedly. "We have things to do, Roger. We have nice things to do." She rose unsteadily and walked to the closet door, opening it, and then pulling back in surprise and turning to him and covering her giggle with a cupped hand. "I thought it was the John," she said. "Where's the John?"

"Down the hall."

"Would you mind if I went to wash my face?" she asked.

"No, not at all," he said.

"I'll be right back," she said. She went to the door, opened it, turned, and then said — with great dignity -"I really have to pee," and went out.

Roger sat on the edge of the bed.

His hands were sweating.

He had hit Molly very suddenly.

He had not known he was going to hit her until his hand came out, not in an open-palmed slap, but the fist bunched instead into a tight hard ball. He had struck out and hit her in the eye, and then had pulled back his fist and hit her again, making her nose bleed. He saw her opening her mouth to scream, everything looked very peculiar all at once, the blood starting from her nose, he instinctively knew he could not allow any blood to stain the sheets, her mouth beginning to open in what he knew would be a piercing scream, he reached out quickly and grabbed her throat in both huge hands, squeezing. The scream died somewhere back in her throat, leaving only a small clicking gasp as his fingers closed on her neck. He lifted her off the bed at the same moment, bending her back so that the blood ran from her nose to the side of her face and over her jawbone and down her throat, over his hands — he almost released her when the blood touched his hands — and then down over her collarbone and her small naked breasts, but not touching the bed or the floor, he did not want bloodstains on anything. He wondered for a split instant — as her eyes bulged in her head, and she struck out at him with weakening hands, the hands fluttering aimlessly like broken butterflies — he wondered why he was doing this, he loved her, she was beautiful, why was he doing this, he hated her. Everything was bottled inside her head, everything was bulging into her head as he continued squeezing, blood was bursting from "her nose, her eyes were getting wider and wider, her mouth opened, a curious retching sound came from her, he thought she would vomit on his hands, he almost backed away from her and then everything seemed to stop. He realized she was no longer struggling. She hung limp at the ends of his hands. He lowered her slowly to the floor, taking care that he did not tilt her head, not wanting to get any blood on anything. He left her naked, lying on her back, and went into the bathroom to wash his hands.

He sat with her for perhaps a half hour trying to figure out what he should do.

He thought maybe he should call his mother and tell her he had killed a girl. But then he had the funniest feeling his mother would just say Come home as quick as you can, son, leave her there and come home. He didn't think that was the right thing to do.

He kept looking at the girl lying naked on the floor. She looked even uglier in death, and he wondered how he could have ever thought she was beautiful, and then for a reason he could not understand, he reached down and with his forefinger he gently and tenderly traced the outline of her profile. Then he closed her staring eyes.

I'll take her to the police, he thought.

He went to the closet for her coat, thinking he couldn't carry her into a police station naked. He took the coat from the hanger and spread it on the floor beside her, and then lifted her and put her onto the coat as though it were a blanket, without making any attempt to put her arms into the sleeves. He went around the room then, picking up her clothing, the blouse, the skirt, the padded bra, the shoes she had taken off because her feet hurt from looking for a job, the panty-girdle, and folded these and put them all on her chest in a neat flat pile, leaving out only her nylons. He closed the coat over her chest. He did not button it. He took one of the nylons and slipped it under her back and her arms and then pulled it over her breasts and knotted it tightly. He wrapped the other nylon around her thighs, just above where the coat ended, and again knotted it tightly, and then looked down at the girl.

Her nose had stopped bleeding.

He couldn't just carry her in his arms, could he? In the street that way? He wondered what time it was. He supposed it was two o'clock or a little after, no, it wouldn't be right carrying her to the police station in his arms. No.

He didn't even know where the police station was.

He guessed he ought to go get the truck.

He could put her in the back of the truck.

He looked down at her once more where she lay trussed on the floor, one nylon tightly knotted over her breasts, holding the piled clothing in place under the coat, the other knotted around her thighs, her head sticking out of the top of the coat and her legs out of the bottom. He figured she'd be all right while he went to get the truck. He put on his coat and then went outside, testing the door behind him to make sure it was locked. He could hear Fook snoring in his room down the hall. He went down the steps quietly and cautiously and then came out into the street and began walking toward the garage. It was not as cold as it had been earlier. That surprised him. It was very windy, but the temperature wasn't all that bad. He walked with a quick spring in his step, the whole thing very clear in his mind. He would get the truck and back it down that alley alongside the building, into the back yard to the basement door. He knew there was a back door to the basement because he had seen the man from the electric company going down the alley to read the meter just yesterday. He had never been down in the basement, but he knew there was a door back there.

The night attendant at the garage wanted to know who he was, and he said he was Roger Broome and that he would like his truck, the '59 Chevy. The night man wasn't too keen on letting the truck go out at close to two-thirty in the morning, but Roger showed him the registration for the truck, and the night man sort of clucked his tongue and shook his head and said, Well, okay, I guess it's all right, I sure hope it's all right.

The streets were fairly deserted at that hour.

He backed the truck down the alley, cutting the engine at the top of the drive, and letting it roll back down, and then pulling the wheel sharply at the bottom of the drive so that the truck swung in close to the back of the building. He got out and saw the basement door at once. He tried the knob, but the door was locked. He walked back to the truck and took the lug wrench from under the front seat and then went to the door and kept prying at the area near the lock until the wood was splintered and jagged, and finally the lock snapped. He went into the basement and groped his way around until he found the steps leading to the ground floor of the building. He went up the steps without turning on any lights and felt for the lock on the door, and then opened the door and came into the hallway. He propped — the door open by putting his truck keys on the floor in the narrow wedge where the door joined the jamb. Then he went upstairs to his room.

The girl was where he'd left her, lying on the floor.

He went to the bed and looked at it to see if there were any bloodstains on the sheets, and then he checked the floor for bloodstains, and then he looked around to make sure he'd got all of her clothes. He dragged her over to the door and opened it a crack and looked out into the hall. He didn't know why he was being so careful about bloodstains and clothes and looking out into the hallway, especially when his plan was to drive straight to the nearest police station and go in and tell them he'd killed this girl, that was going to be hard to do.

There was no one in the hallway, the building was asleep.

He picked her up, she was as light as a feather, and carried her into the hall, bracing her with one arm while he pulled the door shut with his free hand, and then holding her in both arms and going quickly down the steps to the basement door. He opened the door and then bent down for his truck keys, bracing the girl against his knee again. He went down the steps. The basement was illuminated with thin shafts of moonlight that glanced through the small side windows high up on the cinderblock wall. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the light. He could make out the furnace, and beyond that an old refrigerator, and beyond that a bicycle with one wheel. He carried Molly out of the basement and then put her into the back of the truck. A think trickle of blood had run from her nose to her upper lip. He was about to get into the truck cab and drive to the police station when he wondered what he would tell them. He stood in the silent back yard. Above him the clotheslines stretched from pole to pole, frantically and silently moving in the wind. Boy, it sure would be hard to go in there and tell them what had happened. He stood near the rear of the truck, staring at the girl wrapped in her own coat.

If he took her someplace Well, he ought Well Well, what he ought to do was go to the police.

Still, if No.

No, he had to get rid of her.

He kept looking at the girl.

Yes, he had to get rid of her.

He shrugged and went back into the basement. He went directly to the refrigerator he had seen and he opened the door and looked inside and knew immediately he would have to take the shelves out. The first two came out easily enough, but he had to struggle with the third one, and then the fourth came out just by lifting it. He put all four shelves alongside the furnace, and then he wrapped his arms around the refrigerator and tried to lift it. It was too heavy for him. He would never be able to carry it clear across the basement to the back door.

He wondered if he should forget about it.

Maybe he should take her to the police station after all.

He kept staring at the refrigerator.

Finally, he wrapped his arms around it again, but this time he lifted one end of the box and walked it forward and then lifted the opposite end, and kept doing that, shifting from one leg of the refrigerator to the other, walking it toward the door. At the door, he lifted it over the sill and then shoved it onto the concrete of the back yard and walked it to the tailgate of the truck. He wasn't at all tired. Walking the box out to the truck had been fairly simple, but he knew it would take all his strength to lift it up onto the tailgate and into the truck.

He looked at the girl.

He kept expecting her to move or something. Maybe open her eyes.

He bent at the knees and wrapped his arms around the refrigerator again and then braced himself and began lifting. The box slipped. He backed away from it in surprise. It made a dull heavy noise as it fell back to the concrete, upright. He gripped it again, and this time he mustered every ounce of power he possessed, straining, grunting, pulling it up onto the tailgate and allowing it to fall over backward into the truck. He pushed and shoved it over to the middle of the truck and then opened the door and lifted the girl and put her inside.

She wouldn't fit.

He put her in head first and then tried closing the door, but she wouldn't fit.

He tried turning her on her side and bending her legs behind her, but that didn't work either. He was beginning to get very nervous because he was afraid someone would turn on a light or open a window or look down into the yard and see him struggling there trying to get the girl into the refrigerator.

He broke both her legs.

He closed the door.

He got into the truck and began driving.

The city was an empty wilderness, he did not know where to go, he did not know where he could leave her. He did not want anyone to find the refrigerator because then they would find the girl and know who she was and possibly they would trace the refrigerator back to Mrs. Dougherty's rooming house and begin to ask questions. He found the river almost be accident. He knew the city was surrounded by water, but it didn't occur to him that he could just drive up to the river's edge and drop the refrigerator in. He had come across a small bridge and looked down and seen lights reflecting in water, and then realized he was looking down into a river and had taken the first left turn off the bridge and driven down to a deserted dock where a railroad car loomed alone and empty on a silent track. He backed the truck to the water's edge. He wondered how deep the water was. He went to the edge of the dock and got down on his hands and knees and looked over to see if there were any markings on the dock, but there weren't. He didn't want to go dropping the refrigerator into shallow water. They'd find it right off, and that wouldn't be too good.

He got into the truck again and drove off.

Now that he knew he wanted to drop the refrigerator in the river, he began actively looking for a place that would be deep enough. He didn't know how he would recognize a deep spot unless he just happened to come across a dock or bridge that was marked. But the chances of finding such a placed seemed A bridge.

Actually, if he Well, just drive onto it.

The middle of it.

The rail.

He could simply He began looking for a bridge. He'd have to be very careful, he'd have to pretend something was wrong, yes, that was it, wait for a break, just bide his time, that refrigerator was very heavy. Yes.

Yes.

He drove crosstown, thinking a high bridge would be best, the refrigerator would drop a very long distance and then sink into the mud on the bottom of the river. Yes, a high bridge would be best. He headed automatically toward the highest and longest bridge he knew, the one connecting the city with the adjoining state, and then he started across it. The bridge seemed to sway somewhat in the strong wind. He wondered if the refrigerator would drop straight and true to the river, or if the wind would affect its fall.

He stopped the truck.

He went immediately to the front and lifted the hood.

He stood in front of the truck as though he were looking into the engine, but he was really watching the far end of the bridge and the approaching headlights. As soon as there was a break in the traffic, he would go to the back and lift the refrigerator down, and carry it behind the side of the truck so that he would be shielded from any other passing cars. He kept watching the cars in the distance. The headlights rushed past.

All at once, there was nothing.

Nothing was coming.

I hope this works, he thought.

He went quickly to the back of the truck, thinking how heavy the refrigerator was going to be and then surprised to find that it was amazingly light, he could lift it with hardly any effort at all. He felt almost a little giddy as he lifted the refrigerator, God it was light, and carried it around the side of the truck and then hoisted it up onto the guard rail. He looked down once quickly, to make sure no boats were passing under the bridge, and then he let the refrigerator drop. He watched it as it went down, leaving his hands large and white and getting smaller and smaller and hitting the water with an enormous splash that sent up a large white geyser of water. A car rushed past in the opposite direction. The water below was settling, a wide circle of white spreading, there were headlights at the far end of the bridge now. He went quickly to the front of the truck and pulled down the hood. He came around the side again and took one last look at the water below.

You could hardly tell anything had been dropped into the river.

He started the truck and drove across the bridge and into the next state. He drove about a mile past the toll booths, and then made a U-turn and headed back for the city. He dropped the truck off at the garage and walked to Mrs. Dougherty's. There was no one outside the building or in the hallway. Everyone was asleep. He went up to his room and got into bed.

He fell asleep almost instantly.

Amelia opened the door.

She had washed her face, and washed the lipstick from her mouth and now she entered the room and closed the door behind her, and carefully and slowly locked it. She put her bag on the dresser, and then turned to face him, leaning against the door with her hands behind her back.

"Hi," she said.

He looked up at her. "Hello."

"Did you miss me?"

"Yes."

"Tell me."

"I missed you."

"You've got some fancy bathroom down the hall there," she said. She did not move from the door. She kept staring at him, a faint strange smile on her face. "Blue toilet paper, very fancy."

"I didn't notice," Roger said.

"You're not a very observant person, are you?" She tripped on only the one word, observant, saying it a little thickly and almost missing it entirely. She wasn't really too drunk, she'd just had a few too many, and she stood inside the locked door with her hands behind her back and that very strange, mischievous, somehow evil smile on her face. He looked at her and thought how beautiful she was and then thought I'd better get her out of here before I hurt her.

She moved away from the door.

She came to where he was sitting on the edge of the bed and she moved very close to him, with her knees touching his, and then she reached down seriously and solemnly, with a drunken dignity, and spread her hands on either side of his head like two open fans. She tilted his face up and then bent down and kissed him on the lips, with her own mouth open. He reached up behind her to cup her buttocks in his huge hands, thinking how much he wanted to love her, and thinking how his mother would of course object even though she was very beautiful. His mother would of course point out that she was a colored girl. He wondered when it had begun to matter just what the hell his mother thought about the girls he went out with, who the hell cared what his mother thought? And then he realized that he'd been caring what his mother thought for a long long time and that last night when he had finally said to hell with her, when he had finally let himself go with Molly, why that was the bad part, that was why he'd had to do it to her.

To kill her.

I killed her, he thought.

Amelia's mouth was covering him, her tongue was insistently probing, her lips were thick and soft and wet and he felt himself falling back onto the bed with her on top of him, and feeling the softness of her breasts against his chest, his heart beating wildly. He began trembling. She had taken off her bra in the bathroom, he realized she had taken off her bra. His hands moved swiftly up under her sweater and over her back. He rolled onto her suddenly, moaning, and kissed her breasts, the dark swollen nipples. "Oh, Roger," she was saying, "oh Roger, I love you, I love you."

He was lost in the aroma of her and in the warmth of her and in the dizzy insistence of her mouth, but at the same time he was thinking more clearly than he had since late last night when he had dropped the refrigerator in the river. He was thinking that he had to get her out of here because he was sure he would hurt her. He had hurt Molly without even having liked her at first, had hurt her only later when she somehow got him angry, but he felt a lusting rage now for this girl who was beautiful and "She is colored," his mother would say, "Why are you bringing home a little colored whore to me," he loved her lips and the way her hands she was dangerous if he did not get rid of her they would find out about Molly. If he hurt her, if she allowed him to love her, if she allowed him to enter her the dark pulsing interior of her in his hands now warm and moving against him the smooth dark smothering breasts if she allowed him to love her you're the man in the family now he would have to kill her there would be no other way he would have to kill her, they would find out about Molly, get away from me he thought.

He drew away from her sharply.

She stared up at him.

Her sweater was pulled up over her naked breasts, her skirt was high on her thighs. He crouched over her trembling with love for her. She reached for him tenderly. Her hand came up to him slowly and with infinite gentleness, touching him, assuring him "No!" he shouted.

"What?"

"Get— No," he said.

He moved off the bed. He turned his back to her.

"Go," he said. "Go home. Get out of here. Get out!"

"What?"

He was at the closet. He opened the door and took out her coat and brought it to the bed and put it down beside her without looking at her again, knowing she had still not pulled down the sweater, loving her and afraid he would hate her, please, please, go, please, not knowing whether he said the words aloud.

She got off the bed silently. She adjusted her sweater, and silently got into her coat. She picked up her bag from the dresser, went to the door, and unlocked it.

"I'll never as long as I live understand," she said and went out.

It was about seven o'clock when he went down for the truck and drove it over to the police station.

He parked just across the street, pulling up the hand brake and then cutting the ignition and glancing over to where the green globes were lighted now, the 87 showing on each of them, flanking the entrance doors.

He knew he was about to do the right thing.

It seemed very good to him that he had not harmed Amelia. That seemed like a very good sign. He didn't know why he hadn't done this right from the beginning, why he simply hadn't brought Molly here last night, right after he'd killed her, instead of putting her in the refrigerator and throwing her in the river where they'd never find her. He could have told it to someone right then and spared himself all the fear and Wouldn't they?

Find her?

He sat quite still behind the wheel of the truck with darkness covering the city and with the precinct globes feebly glowing across the street, throwing a pale-green stain on the snow banked along the precinct steps. There was the sound of shovels scraping the sidewalks, tire chains rattling on snow. His breath plumed into the cold cab interior, the windshield was getting frosted.

She had only been in the city a week, no one knew she was here, except of course the hotel she was staying at. She would have signed a register, yes, what was the name of the hotel, a Spanish name. It didn't matter. They would think she'd skipped without paying her bill, that was all. They'd maybe report it to the police, or maybe not, depending on what she'd left behind, didn't she say she'd come here with only a suitcase and a little money, sure. But even if they did report her missing, even if they said Molly Nolan who was staying here at the hotel has just vanished without taking her clothes out of the dresser, well, okay, let's say they did that. Let's say they told the police.

She's at the bottom of the river, Roger thought.

She's not going to float up to the top because she's locked inside a heavy refrigerator, I could barely lift it onto the tailgate of the truck, I dropped that refrigerator maybe a hundred and fifty feet from the bridge to the water, maybe more, I was never good at judging distance. It must have sunk ten feet into the river bottom, or at least five, or even three, it didn't matter. Even if it was just laying there exposed on the bottom it was never going to be found, never. It was just going to sit there forever with Molly Nolan dead inside it, and nobody in the world would ever know she was down there. Her parents were dead, her only friend was in Hawaii, nobody had noticed Roger and her in the bar, nobody had seen them go up to his room together, no one would ever know.

All he had to do was drive away.

No one would ever know.

If he did not go into the police station across the street and tell them he had killed her, why they just would never know about it, they just would never find out.

He looked across the street.

I'd better go tell them, he thought.

He got out of the truck.

He was about to cross the street when the door opened. Two men came out of the station house. He recognized the taller one as the detective he'd followed to the restaurant that afternoon, and he thought, Good, he's the one I wanted to tell this to in the first place. The man with him was bald. Roger supposed he was a detective, too. The green precinct lights shone on his bald head. They gave him a funny appearance.

The men had reached the sidewalk.

Go ahead, Roger thought. Go tell him. He's the one you wanted to tell.

He hesitated.

The one with the bald head ran to the curb and made a snowball and threw it at the taller detective. The taller detective laughed, and then picked up a pile of snow and just flipped it at the bald-headed one in a big lump, without packing it, and they both laughed like kids.

"I'll see you tomorrow," the taller one said, laughing.

"Right, Steve. Good night," the bald-headed one said.

"Good night."

The men walked off in opposite directions.

Roger watched the taller one until he was out of sight.

He got back into the truck and turned the ignition key, starting the engine. He looked at the station house one more time, and then began driving home.

To mother.

He was a big strong country boy, alone in the big bad city.

Staying in a cheap rooming house till his business was finished. Really, he should have been on his way back home to his mom and his brother. But there were things he had to do.

First he had to send a Valentine's Day card to his mother.

Then he had to go find the police and tell them something.

And the coloured girl from the drugstore, who'd smiled at him. He needed to see her again. Talk to her and maybe forget the other girl. The one he'd met in a bar. Who'd been nice and warm as well.

The other girl he really had to tell the police about.

Who would never ever be able to be nice and warm to anyone else again ...

Загрузка...