Kiss

10.

She called him at a little before eight that Saturday night. She sat listening to the phone ringing on the other end, once, twice, gripping the receiver tightly in her hand, three times, and then his voice came onto the line-"Hello?"- startling her into silence for a moment so that he said, "Hello?" again, somewhat impatiently this time.

"Yes, hello, it's me," she said.

"Who's me?" he asked.

It occurred to her that this was the first time he'd heard her voice on the telephone.

"Emma," she said. "Emma Bowles.”

"Oh, hello," he said. "How are you?”

She visualized him smiling, lying on a bed someplace. A rented room someplace. The lights out. Neon flashing downstairs someplace.

He was living down there near the bridge someplace, he could probably see the lights of the bridge from his window, Calm's Point glittering in the distance. Lying on the bed. Smiling.

"The reason I'm calling," she said, and hesitated. "Well ..." she said, and hesitated again. "You see, when Martin got home from the office yesterday, he told me he had to go out of town for the weekend ...”

"Oh?”

"Yes. Up to Boston," she said.

"Must be cold up there," he said.

"Yes.”

She hesitated again.

"Anyway," she said, "I was thinking of going to a movie tonight.”

"What do you mean?" he said at once. "You don't mean alone, do you?”

"Well, yes, that's why I'm calling. I know how serious you are about your job, although with Tilly dead ...”

"I am serious," he said.

"Yes, which is why I'm calling to tell you not to worry. In case you decided to call and got no answer. Because I told you I'd be home all day today ...”

“Yes, you did.”

"... but that was before Martin decided to go out of town all of a sudden.”

There was a silence on the line.

"I really don't like this," he said at last.

"Oh, I'll be fine, don't worry about it.”

"I'm not so sure about that. What time does this movie start?”

"Nine-something, I'll have to look it up. But I'm sure you've made other plans.”

"No, I haven't made any. ...”

"Which would be perfectly understandable. I did tell you I'd be ...”

"Yes, but I haven't made any plans, really. I'd be happy to come up there and ...”

"Well, that's ...”

"... make sure you got home safe.”

"That's very nice of you. Although, as I said, with Tilly dead there's nothing to worry about anymore.”

"Well, I haven't seen a movie in a long time," he said.

"Well, if you really ...”

"I'll catch a cab, be up there in half an hour or so.”

"Well, all right," she said. "But really, I'd be perfectly safe by my ...”

"Be no trouble at all," he said. "See you soon.

She heard a click on the other end of the line.

She put the receiver back on the cradle and stood by the phone, one hand on the receiver, the other holding to her mouth an Elsa Peretti lowercase letter e in gold. She nibbled on the e for an instant, and then let it drop on its slender chain to fall between her naked breasts.

Carmen Sanchez stood tall and loose-limbed in a blue spotlight that turned her long silvery gown to brilliant glare ice.

A rhinestone clip twinkled on the right side of her head, caught in a mop of curly black hair that echoed eyes as black as midnight, sparkling in the cold blue beam, scattering reflected glints of light. She held the microphone in her right hand, its long cord trailing down one thigh and then curling behind her like a slender black snake. She had just broken a single chord into at least seven shimmering pieces, riding it to the ceiling of the club like a diatonic rocket, and following it with an expectant silence as deep and as dark as an ocean.

Smoke drifted up languidly on the air, blue in the light that bathed her. She looked out beyond the light, into the room, into the crowd, dark eyes slyly insinuating, microphone close to her mouth, lips opening in a caress around the single word that began the next song, the word hissing out of her mouth, her lips caressing it, whispering it onto the air and into the darkness.

"Kiss ...”

From where they sat at the bar, Meyer and Carella listened and watched.

"It all begins with a ...

Kiss ...

But kisses wither And die Unless The first Caress Is true.

"Kiss ...

These lips that burn in a Kiss ...

Are only learning To lie Unless The first Caress Is true.

"So hold me tight and whisper Words of Love Against my eyes.

And kiss me sweet and promise Me your Kisses won't be lies.

"Kiss ...

And show me, tell me of Bliss ...

Because I know I Will die Unless This first Caress Is true.”

The last word of the song hung on the air, drifted, faded, to be replaced by a silence as deep as the earlier expectant hush had been.

And then someone shouted, "Yeah!" and the - crowd leaped to its feet in thunderous applause.

Carmen snapped the mike back onto its stand, and then, smiling graciously, she put her hands together as if in prayer and bowed her head in acknowledgment, the rhinestone clip tossing bouquets of glistening light to the audience. Still smiling, she swept the long silver gown around her long legs, and moved sinuously off the stage, one arm raised in a final salute, the blue light following her. The clock in a green neon circle over the bar read twenty minutes to eleven. Carella and Meyer nodded to each other and then got off the barstools and headed for the small curtained doorway to the right of the stage.

She knew they were here, she was expecting them.

They told her how terrific she was ...

"Thanks, I appreciate it," she said.

... and then got down to business.

"The telephone calls that morning ...”

"Here we go with the telephone again," she said, and looked suddenly very tired. She took a towel from where it was hanging on her dressing table, and draped it over her shoulders and the sloping tops of her breasts in the low-cut gown. Sitting before the mirror with its edging of small bright lights, she began taking off her makeup. Cold-creaming the makeup away, slowly revealing the shining face of a young and beautiful woman.

"Are you sure there were only two calls? The one that came in, and the one he ...”

"Yes, I'm positive.”

"Just the two calls, right?”

"What did I just say?”

Eyes watching them in the mirror. Eyeliner gone, lipstick coming off. A fresh-faced beauty underneath. Watching them.

"If we gave you some names, would you remember Tilly ever mentioning them?”

"How would I know? Try me.”

"Ray Androtti," Carella said. "Or Ramón Andros.”

"Neither one.”

"How about Gofredo Cabrera?”

"No.”

She took the towel from her shoulders and wiped her face clean with it. Rising suddenly and splendidly in the long silver gown and sequined silver slippers, she whisked across the room to a door, opened it, went into the bathroom on the other side of it, said, "I'll just be a minute," and closed the door behind her.

The detectives waited.

They could hear water running in there.

They kept waiting.

The water stopped running.

She was humming inside there now, the same tune that had closed her act. Kiss. Humming it softly. Some five minutes later, the door opened again. She was wearing a short skirt and a white blouse, low-heeled shoes, no makeup.

She went over to the dressing table and began combing out her hair.

"This is Saturday night," she said, "I have another show at midnight. I usually go out for something to eat between shows. The food here is terrible.”

"We won't be long," Meyer said.

"I hope not. 'Cause I work up a real hunger out there.”

"What we want to know is everything you can remember about that second call.”

"I told you everything I knew.”

"Are you sure you heard Tilly say the name Bowles?”

"That's what I heard.”

"Because if this is the man he was going downstairs to meet ...”

"... and if it had something to do with money,”

Meyer said, "you remember telling us the conversation had something to do with money, don't you?”

"Yes, I remember.”

"Tilly wanting the rest of his money from Bowles.”

"Yes, I think that's what they were saying. I told you, I was in the shower. ...”

"No, you said you were dressing, don't you remember? This was after ...”

"Either way, I wasn't paying too much attention to what Roger was saying on the phone.”

"Well, let's go over it one more time, okay?" Meyer said.

"You know," Carmen said, "every time you guys come to see me, I'm on the way somewhere. And you always tell me this won't take long, this'll just take a minute, and it always takes forever. Only this time I just finished doing a show, and I'm starving to death, and I don't want it to take forever. I want to go eat, okay? You think you got that?

I'm hungry, I'm famished, I'm starving to ...”

“So let's go eat," Carella said, and smiled.

The movie let out at five minutes past eleven. It was a cold, clear starlit night, and Emma suggested that they walk back to the apartment.

She had not worn her mink to the theater. Instead, she was wearing the long gray cavalry officer's coat and a gray woolen hat with a red stripe.

Andrew was wearing the only coat he'd brought with him from Chicago, the camel-hair Burberry.

Under that, he had on a tan Shetland sweater with a shawl collar, a brown wool turtleneck, and brown tweed slacks. He liked to look casually elegant, even if he was only going to a movie. He hoped she appreciated this.

Even if it was a lousy movie. He was telling her he had not liked the movie because he'd found it unbelievable.

"All that stuff about the hooker," he said.

"I guess you know a lot of hookers,”

Emma said. "Your line of work.”

"Well, I've run into a few of them, let's say that.”

"What did you find unbelievable?" she asked.

As they walked rapidly through the windswept streets, he reeled off all the inconsistencies he had spotted. She was amazed that he'd watched an essentially mindless film so carefully. When at last they reached her building, she said, "Thanks a lot for coming all the way up here, I really appreciate it.”

"It was no trouble," he said.

The doorman had seen them now. He was walking toward the glass entrance doors, reaching for the long brass handle.

"Would you like to come up?" she asked.

"Good evening, Mrs. Bowles," the doorman said.

"For a cup of coffee or something?”

Sometime after midnight, the streets would begin to change. In the wink of an eye, what had at least appeared civilized would transmogrify into an alien landscape. But it was only twenty past eleven now, and the predators hadn't yet surfaced. The all-night deli around the corner from Clancy's was crowded with theatergoers, tourists, a few residents of the area, all of them enjoying a snack before toddling home to beddie-bye. Midnight was the witching hour.

No one looked up at the clock on the wall opposite the door, but anyone living in this city had an internal clock that told him when the slime would come bubbling up out of the sewers. Best to be home before then. Best not to be touched by that slime. So they chatted nonchalantly, and they ate and drank with gusto, but the internal clocks were ticking away, and all these people would be out of here by twelve-thirty, one-because after that you had to be crazy. Only Carmen Sanchez kept an eye on the clock. She had a show to do at midnight, and she had to be in costume and made up by then.

She ate as if she hadn't had a decent meal in a decade.

Big hot-pastrami sandwich on a seeded roll, packed with rich red meat and dripping mustard. Huge platter of French fries smothered in ketchup. Sliced sour pickles smelling of garlic and brine. Celery tonic in a bottle, straws sticking out of it. Just as if she'd been born Jewish. The cops were drinking coffee.

They watched her wolfing down the food. Meyer was wondering why she bothered getting out of her makeup when she only had to put it on again an hour later. Maybe she was shy, didn't want to be seen all dolled up in public. She didn't eat as if she was shy. She ate like the Russian Army.

"I'm positive the name was Bowles," she said, biting into the sandwich again, and then picking up a slice of pickle and biting into that and sipping at the celery tonic and popping a couple of fries into her mouth, a regular eating machine. Meyer watched her in wonder and awe.

"And there were only those two calls, is that right?" he said.

"Yes, that morning," she said.

"Well ... were there other calls?" Carella asked.

"Well, sure, the phone rings all the time,”

Carmen said. "What do you mean, were there other calls?”

"I mean for Tilly," he said. "Not necessarily that morning.”

"Sure. When he was there, he got calls.”

"How often was he there?”

"Now and then.”

"What my partner's asking ..." - Meyer started.

"I know what he's asking. The answer is no, we weren't living together, but yes, he came by every now and then.”

"To spend the night.”

"To spend the night, to spend a few days, whatever.”

"Did you know he'd served time in prison?”

"Yes. But that was a bullshit thing, he beat somebody up.”

"Hurt him pretty badly, from what we understand," Meyer said.

"Broke his nose ...”

"Both his arms ...”

"Sent him to the hospital ...”

"Still bullshit," Carmen said. "Anyway, there are people who go to jail, you know, who are just as decent as you or me.”

Neither of the detectives cared to argue this point.

Carella looked up at the clock. So did Meyer. There was no detaining her this time. She had a show to do, and she had to be out of here by twenty-to.

That was what she'd told them, and this time they'd honor it. It was now twenty-five past eleven.

Carmen looked up at the clock, too, which made three clock-watchers in a place oblivious to time except for the ticking of all the internal clocks.

"Would you remember any of those other calls?”

Carella asked. "The ones for Tilly?”

"Come on, guys, gimme a break, huh?”

Carmen said, and bit into the sandwich again. A blob of mustard oozed out from between the slices of bread.

"Oops," she said, and caught it with a paper napkin before it hit the tabletop.

"The night before, for example," Meyer said.

"Or anytime in the twenty-four hours preceding his death," Carella said.

"Any calls during that period.”

"Any names you might have heard him mention.”

They were still trying to put together a 24-24. The twenty-four hours preceding a homicide were important because if you could get a bead on what the victim had done, the people he'd seen, the places he'd visited, you might stumble across a murderer somewhere along the way. The twenty-four hours following the murder were important only because after that the trail got cold and the killer's edge widened. It was now five days since they'd found Tilly dangling from a basement pipe. And it was very cold outside.

Carmen was thinking.

"I got home late, you know ...”

"Yes.”

"Two o'clock or thereabouts. Roger may have been on the phone when I came in, I'm not sure.

He was still watching television, so maybe it was someone on the screen who was on the phone, you understand?”

"Uh-huh. How about the next morning? You said you woke up and had breakfast ...”

"Yeah.”

"And then went back to bed for a little while.”

"Yeah.”

"After which you heard Tilly on the phone with two different people. Once with a car dealer, and the next time with Bowles.”

"Right.”

"And he said he'd meet him downstairs ...”

"On the front stoop, right ...”

"Right, in half an hour.”

"But then Roger changed it to twelve sharp.”

"Which is when Tilly went downstairs,”

Meyer said.

"Yes. Well, a few minutes before. Five to twelve. Around then.”

"Okay. Were there any other calls that morning? While you were having breakfast, for example ...”

"No.”

"Or while you were in bed afterward. ...”

"No, just those two calls.”

"We know the first one was to a number listed to Arcade Motors. ...”

"I don't know the name of the ...”

"Well, we do. We checked with the phone company for any outgoing calls that morning or the night before. But the ...”

"I only heard the man's name. Mr.

Steinberg. I remember it because Roger had some other conversations with him. About the car he was looking at.”

"What kind of car was he buying?" Carella asked abruptly.

"A Mercedes.”

"M/'ve come into some money recently, huh?”

"We never discussed his business.”

"What was his business?”

"I just told you we never discussed it.”

"Then you don't know what it was, right?”

"I don't know what it was, right.”

"You wouldn't know if it was dope or not.”

"Is your partner deaf?" she asked Meyer.

"If I don't know what it was, how would I know if it was dope?”

"Expensive car like that," Carella said, and shrugged.

Meyer glanced at the clock. Time was running out. He knew why Carella was reluctant to drop the dope angle. If, in fact, Bowles had not come uptown to meet with Tilly, then it had to have been someone else who'd been waiting downstairs to introduce him to Mr.

Hi-Standard and his partner Mr. Snub. Buying an expensive motorcar tied in very nicely with selling dope. So Carella kept circling the dope possibility. Because if it wasn't Bowles and it wasn't dope, then it had to be a wild card. Something totally out of the blue, someone choosing a random victim, which nowadays happened more and more often. In which case, anybody in the whole damn city could have killed him. No wonder Carella was reluctant to let go of the dope angle. If dope was involved, there'd be people to talk to, paths to explore. In this city, dope always left a trail.

"But did you notice anything unusual?”

Meyer asked, pursuing his line of reasoning out loud. "In the neighborhood? Around the building?”

"No," Carmen said. "Unusual?”

"Anything peculiar. During the twenty-four hours preceding the murder, I mean.”

"No. Like what?”

"Someone watching the building ...”

"No.”

"... or checking the mailboxes ...”

"No.”

"... or asking questions?”

"No, I didn't see anyone ... what do you mean? Asking who?”

"Asking the super ...”

"No, nothing like that.”

"... asking people who live in the building?”

"No.”

"You know, trying to get a bead on him,”

Meyer said, and shrugged, and looked at Carella.

The clock on the wall read eleven-thirty-five. Carmen was finishing - off the last of the fries.

"Did you and Tilly ever leave the building together?" Carella asked, picking up on Meyer's line of questioning.

"Yes?”

"Ever see anyone following you?”

"No.”

"Ever have the feeling you were being followed?”

"No.”

"Or observed?”

"No.”

"Did Tilly ever mention any threatening phone calls or letters?”

"No.”

"And you never saw anyone who looked as if he didn't belong in the neighborhood. ...”

"No.”

"I'm not talking about the twenty-four hours before the murder, I'm talking ...”

"Well, yes, but ...”

"Who?" Meyer said at once. "Who did you see?”

"Well, it wasn't so much a person ...”

"Then what was it?" Carella asked.

"It just looked so strange up there," Carmen said.

"What did?”

"The limo," she said.

She was wearing a floppy black sweater, a gray flannel skirt cut just several inches above the knee, black French-heeled pumps, and what he assumed were black pantyhose. She stepped out of the pumps the moment she'd taken off her coat. Padding into the kitchen, she began measuring coffee into the pot, and then looked up and said, "Or would you prefer a drink?”

"Are you having one?" he asked.

"I rarely drink anything but wine," she said.

"I'll have a little vodka, if you've got some," he said.

He followed her back into the living room where she lowered the drop-leaf front of the bar and then searched among the decanters for the one containing vodka, studying the little hanging silver tags as if discovering them for the first time, squinting to decipher the lettering etched on them.

"I thought for sure we had vodka," she said, and knelt suddenly to open a pair of doors below the bar, her skirt riding up higher on her legs, the black nylon tightening over her knees. "Here it is," she said, and triumphantly held up a sealed bottle of Stolichnaya, swiveling toward him to display it, still kneeling, smiling. She rose in one swift motion then, like a dancer, the bottle in one hand, the other arm extended for balance. "How do you take it?" she asked.

"On the rocks, please," he said.

"I'll get the ice," she said, and put the bottle of vodka down and picked up the ice bucket. "Why don't you open it?" she said.

"And put on some music.”

He tore the seal on the vodka bottle and loosened the cap. Opening several doors on the wall unit, he located the digital disc player and a selection of discs on a shelf beneath it. Most of the discs looked like symphonies and such. He had lived his life by telling the truth only when it didn't matter. "I'm not too familiar with this kind of music," he said. "What would you suggest?”

"Try the Leningrad," she said.

"The what?”

"Shostakovich," she said. "The Seventh.”

"Okay.”

He searched through the discs, trying to find whatever it was she'd said, and surprisingly came across a Sinatra recording. "How about Sinatra?" he called to the kitchen.

"Oh sure," she said.

"Okay to put it on?”

"Whatever you like," she said, and came back into the room, cradling the ice bucket against her chest and holding a bottle of white wine in the other hand.

"Do you know how that works?" she asked.

"I think I can manage it.”

She put down the bucket, dropped three ice cubes into a short glass, and said, "I'll let you pour your own. You can open the wine for me, too, if you like.”

"Sure," he said, "just let me get this going.”

He had already turned on the power and was now studying the various little push buttons on the face of the player, each of them marked. He hit a few of them in succession, got the faint hum that told him the speakers were working and the disc was rotating, and then there was the sudden roar of trumpets as music boomed into the apartment. Emma grimaced and covered her ears with her hands, but he had already found the right control and was lowering the volume. The trumpets segued into muted trombones as Sinatra launched into the first tune.

"Nice," she said.

"Mm.”

He peeled the yellow lead foil from the neck of the wine bottle, worked the corkscrew into the cork, and yanked the cork free. Emma handed him a stemmed glass. He filled it for her, and then took the cap off the vodka bottle and poured a hefty drink over the ice already in the glass.

"Let's drink a toast," she said.

"Sure," he said, and held out his glass.

"To openness," she said.

"To openness," he repeated.

"And honesty," she said.

"And honesty," he repeated.

They clinked glasses. He sipped at the vodka. She sipped at the wine. In the background, Sinatra sang of unrequited love.

"Openness and honesty," she said. "You drank to it.”

"I did.”

"Are you planning to kill me?”

He arched his eyebrows in surprise.

"Are you?" she said.

"No," he said, "I'm not planning to kill you. What kind of question is that?”

"Well, you just show up out of the blue ...”

"I didn't just show up. Your husband hired me.”

"But not to kill me, huh?”

"To protect you.”

"Uh-huh," she said, and looked at him levelly. "Well, maybe so.”

They were sitting side by side on the leather sofa now, turned to face each other, her feet tucked up under her, his legs stretched, his head resting on the sofa back. A new song had started. A bouncier tune. Saxophones and flutes repeating a catchy riff. Sinatra rode the riff in.

"Because, you see," she said, "Martin has another woman.”

"Oh, come on.”

"Well, it's true," she said.

"How do you know?”

“Little things. I love the way he sings, don't you?”

"Yes. What little things?”

"Unexplained absences, breaks in the routine, credit-card expenses ... the usual. He's got another woman.”

"You sound pretty sure.”

"Yep.”

"Do you know who she is?”

"Yep.”

"Who?”

"A woman named Lydia Raines. She owns a flower shop on Parade, near Davidson.

I've been in there. She didn't know who I was, may I help you, madam? I didn't tell her, either.”

"How'd you get onto her?”

"We went to visit my sister in L.A. for Thanksgiving. She called me in December sometime, when she got her phone bill, asked if I'd made any long-distance calls while I was out there. Gave me a number listed on her bill. Three calls to the same number, right here in this city. All of them on the Friday after Thanksgiving. So I called the phone company here, and they gave me the name of the shop. I guess he was desperately lonely for her," she said, rolling her eyes on the operative word.

"Want to come work for me?" he asked, smiling, still playing the private eye.

"I'd be good at it," she said, and returned the smile.

"Have you asked him about her?”

"Nope.”

"Think he'd admit it?”

"Nope.”

Shoulders moving to the rhythm now, still tossing her head.

"Has he asked you for a divorce?”

"Nope. Let me freshen that for you, okay?”

she said, and took the glass from his hand, and swung her legs out from under her and padded to the bar, swaying in time to the music. He watched her as she poured the vodka into his glass. Hips and shoulders moving to the beat. "He wouldn't divorce me in any case," she said. "He's got too much to lose.”

She carried the glass back to him.

"There's lots of money involved," she said.

"Thanks," he said, and accepted the glass.

She had poured it almost full to the brim. - He suddenly wondered if she was trying to get him drunk. He almost smiled at the thought.

There were saxophones and flutes again, repeating the same figure that had started the tune.

Sinatra rode in on top of them with a sustained note that seemed to go on forever. There was the sudden crash of a cymbal-and then silence.

"Lots of money," she said again.

"Kiss ..." Sinatra sang.

"Oh God, I love this song," she said.

"It all begins with a ...”

"Kiss ...”

"Would you like to dance?" she asked.

"I'm not a very good dancer," he said.

"I'm not, either.”

"Well ...”

"So let's try it," she said, and opened her arms to him, and took a step toward him. He took her in his arms. His right hand rested lightly on the swell of her hip. Her left hand rested lightly on his shoulder. His left arm was bent at the elbow, her right hand in his hand. Their hands touched lightly. They began moving in time to the music.

Cautiously. Feeling the beat. Moving tentatively into the beat.

"... lips that burn in a ...

"Kiss ...”

"Nobody sings this better than he does,”

she said.

"Are only learning "To lie "Unless "The first "Caress "Is true.”

"By the way," she said, "I'm still not sure I believe you.”

"About what?”

"Killing me. Being hired to kill me.”

"When will you believe me?”

"Later," she said. "Maybe.”

And stepped in closer to him.

His hand moved up to the small of her back.

He realized all at once that she wasn't wearing a bra under the sweater, there was no bra strap crossing her back. And just as suddenly he felt her breasts against his chest, and her hand moved off his shoulder, and her arm circled his neck.

"... against my eyes.

"And kiss me sweet and promise "Me your "Kisses won't be lies.”

"The phrasing," she whispered. "It's his phrasing.”

"Kiss ...

"And show me, tell me of "Bliss ...

"Because I know I "Will die "Unless "This first "Caress "Is true.”

There were violins now, startling in that there hadn't been any on the previous two cuts, modulating into a different key for the bridge, swelling from the speakers, flooding the room, and then coming back to the original key for the final chorus.

She tilted her hips into him.

"Kiss ..." Sinatra sang again.

She lifted her face to his.

"And show me, tell me of "Bliss ...”

"Kiss me," she whispered.

"Because I know I "Will die "Unless "This first "Caress "Is true.”

Their lips met.

It was a kiss of death.