The Hot Rock

8

"So this is your apartment!" the girl said. "Mm, yes," said Alan Greenwood, smiling. He shut the door and pocketed the keys. "Make yourself comfortable," he said.

The girl stood in the middle of the room and turned in a big admiring circle. "Well, I must say," she said. "It certainly is well kept for a bachelor's apartment."

Greenwood, walking toward the bar, said, "I do what I can. But I do feel the lack of a woman's touch."

"It doesn't show at all," she said. "Not at all."

Greenwood switched on the fireplace. "What's yours?" he said.

"Oh," she said, shrugging, doing the coquette a little, "just anything light."

"Coming up," he said. He opened the bar portion of the bookcase and made her a Rob Roy just sweet enough to hide the deadliness of the Scotch.

When he turned, she was admiring the painting between the maroon-velvet-draped windows. "My, that's interesting," she said.

"It's the Rape of the Sabine Women," he told her. "In symbolic terms, of course. Here's your drink."

"Oh, thank you."

He raised his drink - light on the Scotch, heavy on the water - and said, "To you." Then, with hardly any pause at all, he added, "Miranda."

Miranda smiled and ducked her head in embarrassed pleasure. "To us," she whispered.

He smiled his agreement. "To us."

They drank.

"Come sit down," he said, leading her to the white sheepskin sofa.

"Oh, is that sheepskin?"

"So much warmer than leather," he said softly and took her hand, and they sat down.

Seated side by side, they gazed a moment into the fireplace, and then she said, "My, that is realistic, isn't it?"

"And no ashes," he said. "I like things - clean."

"Oh, I know what you mean," she said and smiled brightly at him.

He put his arm around her shoulders. She lifted her chin. The phone rang.

Greenwood closed his eyes, then opened them again. "Ignore it," he said.

The phone rang again.

"But it might be something important," she said.

"I have an answering service," he said. "They'll get it."

The phone rang again.

"I've thought about getting an answering service," she said. She sat forward a bit, dislodging his arm, and turned half toward him, one leg tucked under her. "Are they expensive?"

The phone rang the fourth time.

"Around twenty-five a month," he said, his smile becoming a bit forced. "But it's worth it for the convenience."

Fifth time.

"Oh, of course," she said. "And not to miss any important calls."

Sixth.

Greenwood chuckled realistically. "Of course," he said, "they aren't always as reliable as you'd like."

Seven.

"Isn't that the way with people nowadays," she said. "Nobody wants to do an honest day's work for an honest day's pay."

Eight.

"That's right."

She leaned closer to him. "Is that a tic in your eyelid? The right eye."

Nine.

He jerked a hand to his face. "Is it? I get that sometimes, when I'm tired."

"Oh, are you tired?"

Ten.

"No," he said quickly. "Not in particular. Maybe the light in the restaurant was a bit too dim, I might have been straining my-"

Eleven.

Greenwood lunged at the phone, yanked the receiver to his head, shouted, "What is it?"

"Hello?"

"Hello yourself! What do you want?"

"Greenwood? Alan Greenwood?"

"Who's this?" Greenwood demanded.

"Is that Alan Greenwood?"

"God damn it, yes! What do you want?" He could see from the corner of his eye that the girl had risen from the sofa, was standing looking at him.

"This is John Dortmunder."

"Dort-" He caught himself, coughed instead. "Oh," he said, much calmer. "How are things?"

"Fine. You available for a piece of work?"

Greenwood looked at the girl's face while thinking of his bank accounts. Neither prospect was pleasing. "Yes, I am," he said. He tried a smile at the girl, but it wasn't returned. She was watching him a bit warily.

"We're meeting tonight," Dortmunder said. "At ten. You free?"

"Yes, I think I am," Greenwood said. Not happily.