The third Deadly Sin

Chapter 5

Zoe Kohler returned home after her adventure with Jerry. She slid gratefully into a hot tub, putting her head back. She thought she could feel her entrails warm, unkink, become lax and flaccid. All of her thawed; she floated defenseless in amniotic fluid.

When the tub cooled, she sat up, prepared to lather herself with her imported soap. She saw with shock that the water about her knees and ankles was stained, tinged a light pink. Thinking her period had started, she touched herself tenderly, examined her fingers. There was no soil.

She lifted one ankle to the other knee, bent forward to inspect her foot. Between her toes she found clots of dried blood, now dissolving away. There were spots of blood beneath the toes of the other foot as well.

She sat motionless, trying to understand. Her feet were not wounded, nor her ankles cut. Then she knew. It was Jerry's blood. She had stepped into it after he-after he was gone. The blood between her toes was his stigmata, the taint of his guilt.

She scrubbed furiously with brush and washcloth. Then she rinsed again and again under the shower, making certain no stain remained on her skin. Later, she sat on the toilet lid and sprayed cologne on her ankles, feet, between her toes. "Out, damned spot!" She remembered that.

She dried, powdered, inserted a tampon, clenching her teeth. Not against the pain; there was no pain. But the act itself was abhorrent to her: a vile penetration that destroyed her dignity. That little string hanging outside: the fuse of a bomb.

All her life, as long as she could remember, she had beer daunted by the thought of blood. As a child, with a cut finger or skinned knee, it had been incomprehensible that her body was a bag, a sack, filled with a crimson viscid fluid that leaked, poured, or spurted when the bag was punctured.

Later, at that dreadful birthday party when her menses began, she was convinced she was going to die.

"Nonsense," her mother had said irritably. "It just means you're not a girl anymore; you're a woman. And you must bear the cross of being a woman."

"The cross." That called up images of the crucified Christ, bleeding from hands and feet. To Him, loss of blood meant loss of life. For her, loss of blood meant loss of innocence, punishment for being a woman.

The cramps began with her early periods and increased in severity as she grew older. In a strange way, she welcomed the pain. It was expiation for her guilt. That dark, greasy monthly flow was her atonement.

She donned her flannel nightgown, went into the kitchen for her vitamins and minerals, capsules and pills. She took a Tuinal and went to bed. An hour later, she was still wide-eyed. She rose, took another sleeping pill, and tried again.

This time she slept.

Harry Kurnitz was having a cocktail party and dinner for employees of his textile company. Maddie called to invite Zoe.

"Harry does this once a year," she said. "He claims it's cheaper than giving raises. Anyway, it's always a big, noisy bash, lots to eat, and people falling-down drunk. All the executives make passes at their secretaries. That's why Harry has it on a Friday night. So everyone can forget what asses they made of themselves by Monday morning. Ernest Mittle will be there, so I thought you'd like to come."

"Thank you, Maddie," Zoe Kohler said.

Ernest had been calling twice a week, on Wednesday and Saturday nights at 9:00 p.m. They talked a long time, sometimes for a half-hour. They nattered about their health, what they had been doing, odd items in the news, movie reviews…

Nothing important, but the calls had assumed a growing significance for Zoe. She looked forward to them. They were a lifeline. Someone was out there. Someone who cared.

Once he said:

"Isn't it awful about the Hotel Ripper?"

"Yes," she said. "Awful."

Zoe went to the party directly from work. Harry Kurnitz had taken over the entire second floor of the Chez Ronald on East 48th Street, and Zoe walked, fearing she would be too early.

But when she arrived, the big room was already crowded with a noisy throng. Most of them were clustered about the two bars, but several were already seated at the tables. At the far end of the room, a trio was playing disco, but there was no one on the minuscule dance floor.

Madeline and Harry Kurnitz stood at the doorway, greeting arriving guests. They both embraced Zoe and kissed her cheek.

"Jesus Christ, kiddo," Maddie said, inspecting her, "you dress like a matron at the House of Detention."

"Come on, Maddie," her husband protested. "She looks fine."

"I didn't have time to go home and change," Zoe said faintly.

"That's just the point," Maddie said. "You go to work looking like that? You and I have to go shopping together; I'll tart you up. I told Mister Meek you'd be here tonight. He lit up like a Christmas tree." She gave Zoe a gentle shove. "Now go find him, luv."

But Ernest Mittle found her. He must have been waiting, for he came forward carrying two glasses of white wine. "Good evening, Zoe," he said, beaming. "Mrs. Kurnitz told me you'd be here. She said, 'Your love goddess is coming.'"

"Yes," Zoe said, smiling briefly, "that sounds like Maddie. How are you, Ernie?"

"I've got the sniffles," he said. "Nothing serious, but it's annoying. Would you like to move around and meet people, or should we grab a table?"

"Let's sit down," she said. "I'm not very good at meeting people."

They took a table for four near the wall. Ernest seated her where she could observe the noisy activity at the bars. He took the chair next to her.

"I don't want to get too close," he said. "I don't want you catching my cold. It was really bad for a couple of days, but it's better now."

"You should take care of yourself," she chided. "Do you take vitamin pills?"

"No, I don't."

"I'm going to make out a list for you," she said, "and I want you to buy them and take them regularly."

"All right," he said happily, "I will. Well… here's to us."

They hoisted their glasses, sipped their wine.

"I thought it was going to be the flu," he said. "But it was just a bad cold. That's why I haven't asked you out. But I'm getting better now. Maybe we can have dinner next week."

"I'd like that."

"Listen," he said, "would you like to come to my place for dinner? I'm not the world's greatest cook, but we can have, say hamburgers and a baked potato. Something like that."

"That would be nice," she said, nodding. "I'll bring the wine."

"Oh no," he said. "I'm inviting you; I'll have wine."

"Then I'll bring dessert," she said. "Please, Ernie, let me."

"All right," he said, with his little boy's smile, "you bring the dessert. A small one."

"A small one," she agreed. She looked around. "Who are all these people?"

He began to point out and name some of the men and women moving about the room. It was soon apparent that he had a taste for gossip and the wit to relate scandalous stories in an amusing manner. Once he used the word "screwing," stopped abruptly, looked at her anxiously.

"I hope you're not offended, Zoe?"

"No, I'm not offended."

Ernest told her about office affairs, the personal peccadilloes of some of his co-workers, rumors about others. He pointed out the office lothario and the office seductress-quite ordinary looking people. Then he hitched his chair a little closer, leaned toward Zoe.

"I'll tell you something," he said in a low voice, "but you must promise not to repeat it to a soul. Promise?"

She nodded.

"See that tall man at the end of the bar in front of us? At the right end?"

She searched. "Wearing glasses? In the gray suit?"

"That's the one. He's Vince Delgado, Mr. Kurnitz's assistant. Can you see the woman he's talking to? She's blond, wearing a blue sweater."

Zoe craned her neck to get a better look.

"She's sort of, uh, flashy, isn't she?" she said. "And very young."

"Not so young," he said. "Her name is Susan Weiner. Everyone calls her Suzy. She's a secretary on the third floor. That's our Sales Department."

Zoe watched Vince Delgado put his arm about Susan Weiner's waist and pull her close. They were both laughing.

"Are they having an affair?" she asked Ernest Mittle.

"She is," he said, eyes bright with malice, "but not with Vince. Mr. Kurnitz."

She looked at him. "You're joking?"

He held up a hand, palm outward.

"I swear. But Zoe," he added nervously, "you've got to promise not to repeat this. Especially to Mrs. Kurnitz. Please. It could mean my job."

"I won't say a word." She turned again to stare at the blonde in the blue sweater. "Ernie, are you sure?"

"It's all over the office," he said, nodding. "They think no one knows. Everyone knows."

Zoe finished her wine. Mittle rose immediately, took their glasses, headed for the bar.

"Refill time," he said gaily.

While he was gone, Zoe watched the woman at the bar. She seemed very intimate with Vince Delgado, putting a hand on his arm, smiling at something he said, touching his face lightly, affectionately. They acted like lovers.

Zoe saw them take their drinks, walk over to one of the vacant tables. Susan Weiner was short but full-bodied. Almost chubby. She had a heavy bosom for a woman of her size. Her hair was worn in frizzy curls. Zoe Kohler thought she looked cheap. She looked available. Soft and complaisant.

Ernest came back with two more glasses of wine.

"I still can't believe it," Zoe said. "She looks so involved with the man she's with."

"Vince?" he said. "He's the 'beard.' That's what they call the other man who pretends to be the lover. He and Suzy and Mr. Kurnitz go out to lunch together, or dinner, or work late. If they're seen, everyone's supposed to think she's with Vince. She's not married, and he's divorced. But she's really with Mr. Kurnitz. Everyone in the office knows it."

"That's so-so sordid," she burst out.

He shrugged.

"What does he see in her?" she demanded.

"Suzy? She's really a very nice person. Pleasant and cheerful. Always ready to do someone a favor."

"Apparently."

"No, you know what I mean. I think if you met her, you'd like her. Zoe, I hope you won't breathe a word of this to Mrs. Kurnitz."

"I won't say anything. I wouldn't hurt her like that. But she'll probably find out, eventually."

"Probably. He just doesn't seem to care. Mr. Kurnitz, that is."

"Ernie, why do men do things like that?"

"Oh, I don't know… Mrs. Kurnitz comes on strong; you know that. She's loud and brassy and sort of throws herself around. I know she's a lot of fun, but that can be wearing all the time. Maybe Mr. Kurnitz wants someone a little quieter and more submissive."

"And she's younger than Maddie."

"Yes. That, too."

"It's just not fair," Zoe Kohler said.

"Well…" he said, sighing, "I guess not. But that's the way things are."

"I know," she said dully. "That's why I'm divorced."

He put a hand over hers.

"I hope I haven't upset you, Zoe. I guess I shouldn't have told you."

"That's all right," she said. "It just makes me feel so sad and old-fashioned. When I got married, I thought it would be forever. I never even thought of divorce. I mean, I didn't think, Well, if this doesn't work out, we can always split up. I really thought it would be till death do us part. I was such a simp."

"These things happen," he said, but she would not be comforted.

"It's just so awful," she said. "I can't tell you how ugly it is. People get married and, uh, sleep together for a year or two. Then they wave goodbye and go somewhere else and sleep with someone else. Like animals."

"It doesn't have to be that way," he said in a low voice, looking down at their clasped hands. "Really it doesn't, Zoe."

Dinner was served at seven o'clock: roasted Rock Cornish hens with wild rice, baby carrots, and a salad of escarole and Bibb lettuce. Baked Alaska for dessert. Bottles of wine on every table and, with coffee, a selection of brandies and liqueurs.

Harry Kurnitz made a short, funny speech, and his employees applauded mightily. Then the trio started playing disco again; several couples got up to dance. Guests who lived in the suburbs thanked host and hostess and departed.

"Would you care to dance, Zoe?" Ernest Mittle asked politely. "I'm not very good with that kind of music, but…"

"Oh no," she said. "Thank you, but I can't dance to that at all. I'd like to, but I don't know how. Would you be angry if I left early? I ate so much, I'd really like to get home and just relax."

"Me, too," he said. "I think my cold is coming back; I'm all stuffed up. I have an inhaler at home; maybe that will help."

"Take some Anacin or aspirin," Zoe advised, "and get into bed."

"I will."

"Be sure to cover up and keep warm. Will you call me tomorrow?"

"Of course."

"I'll have a list of vitamins all made out and what strength to buy. I'll give it to you over the phone. You must promise to take them faithfully, every day."

"I will. Really I will."

They thanked Madeline and Harry Kurnitz for a pleasant evening and slipped away. They reclaimed their coats and hats downstairs. Ernest wanted to tip the hatcheck girl, but she told him that Mr. Kurnitz had taken care of everything.

Mittle said he wasn't feeling so great, and he was going to take a cab home. He would drop Zoe at her apartment house on his way downtown. Would that be all right? She said it would be fine.

The cab was unheated and Zoe saw he was shivering. She pulled his plaid muffler snugly about his throat and turned up the collar of his overcoat. She made him promise to drink a cup of hot tea the moment he got home.

He held the cab until he saw her safely inside her apartment house lobby. She turned to wave. She hoped he would take the hot tea and aspirin, and get into bed and stay covered up. She worried about him.

There were three letters in her mailbox: bills from Con Edison and New York Telephone, and a squarish, cream-colored envelope with her name and address written in a graceful script. Postmarked Seattle. She didn't know anyone in Seattle.

Inside her apartment, door bolted and chained, she turned on the living room lamp, hung away her coat and knitted hat. She glanced out the bedroom window before she lowered the Venetian blind and switched on the bedside lamp. She thought she glimpsed movement in the apartment across the street. That man was watching her windows again.

She let the blind fall with a clatter and pulled the drape across. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the squarish, cream-colored envelope. She sniffed at it, but it was not scented. The cursive script read simply: "Zoe Kohler." No Miss, or Mrs., or Ms.

She opened the envelope flap slowly, picking it loose. It seemed a shame to tear such thick, rich-looking stationery. Within the envelope was a smaller envelope. Then she knew what it was. A wedding announcement.

Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Foster Clark request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of thier daughter Eveltn Jane to Mr.Kenneth Garvin Kohler, Saterday, the tenth of May, at eleven o'clock, St. Anthony's Church, Pine Crest Drive, Rockville, Waqshington.

Reception immediatley following ceremony.

R.S.V.P. 20190 Locust Court, Rockville, Washington Zoe Kohler read this joyous message several times. Her fingertips drifted lightly over the raised type. She folded the small piece of tissue paper that protected the printed copy, folded it and folded it until it was a tiny square, so minute that she could have swallowed it.

The last she had heard of Kenneth, he was living in San Francisco. That's where his alimony checks were postmarked. Now here he was marrying Evelyn Jane Clark in Rockville, Washington.

She read the invitation again. St. Anthony's Church. Did that mean the bride was a Catholic? Marrying a divorced man? Had Kenneth taken instruction or agreed to raise the children in the Catholic faith? Would Evelyn Jane go to San Francisco to live or would the newly married couple make their home in Rockville? Or Seattle?

Pondering these absurd questions kept her mind busy for a few moments. But soon, soon, she had to let herself recognize the enormity of what he had done. Mailing his wedding invitation to her was a malicious gloat. "I have found the woman you could never be. Now I shall be happy."

It would have been simple, kind, human to tell her nothing of his marriage. He was legally free; he could do as he pleased; it was no concern of hers. Sending her an announcement was an act of viciousness, of hatred.

Suddenly she was weary. Physically exhausted, her joints watery. And mentally wrung-out and depleted. Energy gone, resolve vanished. She sat hunched over on the edge of the bed, feeling worn-out and empty. The wedding invitation slipped from her fingers, fluttered to the floor.

Her depression had started when Ernest told her about Harry Kurnitz and that secretary. Zoe did not know why that saddened her. Maddie had been married previously, and so had Harry. A divorce would not be cataclysmic. Just another failure.

And now here was a message artfully printed on rich stationery to remind her of yet another failure: her own. She searched her memory frantically for a success in her life, but could find none.

"Must you empty the ashtray every time I put out a cigarette?" Kenneth had complained. "I'll be smoking all night. Can't you wait to clean the goddamned ashtray until we go to bed?"

And…

"Jesus, Zoe, do you have to wear that dull sweater again? It's like a uniform. All the other women at the party will be wearing dresses. You're the youngest frump I've ever seen."

And…

"You're not falling asleep, are you? I'd hate to come, and hear you snoring. Pardon me all to hell if I'm keeping you awake."

Always complaining, always criticizing. And she never condemned him or blamed him for anything. Never! Though there was plenty she could have said:

"Must you leave your dirty socks and underwear on the bathroom floor? Someone has to pick it up, and that someone is me."

And…

"Did you have to put your hands on every woman at the party? Do you think I didn't notice? Do you know the kind of reputation you're getting?"

And…

"Why do you persist when you know I don't enjoy it? I just go through the motions and hope you'll get it done quickly."

But she had never said those things. Because she had been brought up to believe that a good wife must endure and work hard to make her marriage a success, to keep a clean, comfortable home for her husband. Prepare his meals. Listen to his problems sympathetically. Bear his children. And all that…

Until one day, ignoring all her efforts, rejecting her martyrdom, he had shouted in fury and frustration, "You're not definite! You're just not there!" And had stormed out. And was now marrying Evelyn Jane Clark.

Zoe Kohler understood that men were different from women in many ways. Their physical strength frightened her. They swaggered through life, demanding. Violence excited them. Secretly, they were all war lovers. They preferred the company of other males. Gentleness was weakness.

Their physical habits appalled her. Even after bathing they had a strong masculine odor, something deep and musky. They chewed cigars, sniggered over dirty pictures, smacked their lips when they ate, drank, or fucked something pleasurable. They broke wind and laughed. Her father had.

She did not hate men. Oh no. But she saw clearly what they were and what they wanted. Every man she had ever known had acted as if he would live forever. They were without humility.

They were so sure, so sure. Their confidence stifled her.

Worst of all was their hearty bluffness: voice too loud, smile too broad, manner too open. Even the sly, devious ones adopted this guise to prove their masculinity. Maleness was a role, and the most successful men were the most accomplished players.

She picked the wedding invitation from the floor and set it aside. She might send a gift and she might not. She would think about it. Would a gift shame Kenneth, make him realize the spitefulness of what he had done? Or would a gift confirm what he undoubtedly believed, that she was a silly, brainless, shallow woman who still loved him?

She undressed slowly. She showered, not looking at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. She pulled on her old flannel robe, slipped her feet into tattered mules.

It was still early, barely ten o'clock, and there were things she could do: write checks for her bills, listen to WQXR or watch Channel 13, read a book.

She did none of these things. She took the Swiss Army Knife from her purse. She had already washed it in hot water, dried it carefully. She had inspected it, then oiled the blades lightly.

Now she took the knife into the kitchen. She opened the largest blade. Her electric can opener had a knife sharpening attachment. She put a razor edge on the big blade, touching it to the whirling stone lightly, taking care to sharpen both sides of the steel.

To test its keenness, she took the knife into the bedroom, and with short, violent slashes, cut the wedding announcement of Evelyn Jane Clark and Kenneth Garvin Kohler into thin slivers.

On Saturday, April 26th, at about 6:00 p.m., Zoe Kohler left her apartment house and walked east to Second Avenue. She was carrying a bakery box containing four tarts, two strawberry and two apple, she had purchased that afternoon and kept fresh in her refrigerator.

It was a balmy spring evening, sky clear, the air a kiss. Her depression of the previous week had drifted away with a breeze flowing from the south, bringing a scent of growing things and a resurgence of hope. The setting sun cast a warm and mellow light, softening the harsh angles of the city.

She took a downtown bus, got off at 23rd Street, and walked down to Ernest Mittle's apartment on East 20th Street. As always, she was bemused by the infinite variety of New York, the unexpected appearance of a Gothic church, Victorian town-house, or a steel-and-glass skyscraper.

He lived in a five-story converted brownstone. It seemed to be a well-maintained building, the little front yard planted with ivy, the cast-iron fence freshly painted. Most of the windowsills displayed boxes of red geraniums. The brass mailboxes and bell register in the tiny vestibule were highly polished.

Mittle was listed in Apartment 3-B, and he buzzed the lock a few seconds after Zoe rang his bell. She climbed stairs padded with earth-colored carpeting. The walls were covered with flowered paper in a rather garish pattern. But they were cheerful and unmarked by graffiti.

Ernest was standing outside his open door, grinning a welcome. He leaned forward eagerly to kiss her cheek and ushered her proudly into his apartment. The first thing she saw was a vase of fresh gladiolus. She thought he had bought the flowers because of her, to mark her visit as an occasion. She was touched.

They looked at each other and burst out laughing. They had agreed on the phone not to dress up for this dinner. Zoe was wearing a gray flannel skirt, dark brown turtleneck sweater, and moccasins. Ernest was wearing gray flannel slacks, a dark brown turtleneck sweater, and moccasins.

"His-and-hers!" she said.

"Unisex!" he said.

"Here's our dessert," she said, proffering the bakery box. "Guaranteed no-cal."

"I'll bet," he scoffed. "Zoe, come sit over here. It's the most comfortable chair in the place-which isn't saying much. I thought that, for a change, we might have a daiquiri to start. Is that all right?"

"Marvelous," she said. "I haven't had one in years. I wish I knew how to make them."

"So do I," he said, laughing. "I bought these ready-mixed. But I tried a sip while I was cooking, and I thought it was good. You tell me what you think."

While he busied himself in the tiny kitchenette, Zoe lighted a cigarette and looked around the studio apartment. It was a single rectangular room, but large and of good proportions, with a high ceiling. It was a front apartment with two tall windows overlooking 20th Street.

The bathroom was next to the kitchenette, which was really no more than an alcove with small stove, refrigerator, sink, and a few cabinets. A wooden kitchen table was in the main room. It bore two plastic placemats and settings of melamine plates and stainless steel cutlery.

There were two armchairs, a convertible sofa, cocktail table. There was no overhead lighting fixture, just two floor lamps and two table lamps, one on a small maple desk. Television set. Radio. A filled bookcase.

Ceiling and walls were painted a flat white. There were two framed reproductions: Van Gogh's Bedroom at Aries and Winslow Homer's Gulf Stream. On the desk were several framed photographs. The sofa and armchairs were covered with a brown batik print and the same fabric was used for the drapes.

What Zoe Kohler liked best about this little apartment was its clean tidiness. She did not think Ernest had rushed about, transforming it for her visit. It would always look like this: books neatly aligned on their shelves, sofa cover pulled taut, desk and lamps dusted-everything orderly. Almost precise.

Ernest brought the daiquiris in on-the-rocks glasses. He sat in the other armchair, pulling it around so that he faced her. He waited anxiously as she sipped her drink.

"Okay?" he asked.

"Mmm," she said. "Just right. Ernie, have you been taking your vitamins?"

"Oh yes. Regularly. I don't know whether it's the placebo effect or what, but I really do feel better."

She nodded, and they sat a moment in silence, looking at each other. Finally:

"I didn't get any nibbles or anything like that," he said nervously. "I was going to have hamburgers and baked potatoes-remember?-but I decided on a meal my mother used to make that I loved: meatloaf with mashed potatoes and peas. And I bought a jar of spaghetti sauce you put on the meat and potatoes. It's really very good-if everything turns out right. Anyway, that's why I didn't get any nibbles; I figured we'd have enough food, and cheese and olives and things like that would spoil our appetites. My God," he said, trying to laugh, "I'm chattering along like a maniac. I just want everything to be all right."

"It will be," she assured him. "I love meatloaf. Does it have chopped onions in it?"

"Yes, and garlic-flavored bread crumbs."

"That's the way my mother used to make it. Ernie, can I help with anything?"

"Oh no," he said. "You just sit there and enjoy your drink. I figure we'll eat in about half-an-hour. That'll give us time for another daiquiri."

He went back to his cooking. Zoe rose and, carrying her drink, wandered about the apartment. She looked at the framed reproductions on the walls, inspected his books-mostly paperback biographies and histories-and examined the framed photographs on the desk.

"Your family?" she called.

"What?" he said, leaning out of the kitchenette. "Oh yes. My mother and father and three brothers and two sisters and some of their children."

"A big family."

"Sure is. My father died two years ago, but mother is still living. All my brothers and sisters are living and married. I now have five nephews and three nieces. How about that!"

She went over to the kitchenette and leaned against the wall, watching him work. He did things with brief, nimble movements: stirring the sauce, swirling the peas, opening the oven door to peer at the meatloaf. He seemed at home in the kitchen. Kenneth, she recalled, couldn't even boil water-or boasted he couldn't.

"One more," Ernest said, pouring a fresh daiquiri into her glass and adding to his. "Then we'll be about ready to eat. I have a bottle of burgundy, but I'm chilling it. I don't like warm wine, do you?"

"I like it chilled," she said.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters, Zoe?" he asked casually.

"No," she said, "I'm an only child."

She watched him mash and then whisk the potatoes with butter and a little milk, salt, pepper.

"You said you can't cook," she commented. "I think you're a very good cook."

"Well… I get by. I've lived alone a long time now, and I had to learn if I didn't want to live on just bologna sandwiches. But it's not much fun cooking for one."

"No," she said, "it isn't."

It turned out to be a fine meal. She kept telling him so, and he kept insisting she was just being polite. But he was convinced when she took seconds on everything and ate almost half of the small loaf of French bread. And also did her share in finishing the bottle of burgundy.

"That was a marvelous dinner, Ernie," she said, sitting back. "I really enjoyed it."

"I did, too," he said, with his elfin grin. "A little more pepper in the meatloaf would have helped. Coffee and dessert now or later?"

"Later," she said promptly. "Much later. I ate like a pig. Can I help clean up?"

"Oh no," he said. "I'm not going to do a thing. Just leave everything right where it is. Let's relax."

They sat at the littered table, lighted cigarettes. Ernie brought out a pint bottle of California brandy and apologized because he had no snifters. So they sipped the brandy from cocktail glasses, and it tasted just as good.

She said, "It must be nice to grow up in a big family."

"Well…" He hesitated, touching the end of his cigarette in the ashtray. "There are some good things about it and some not so good. One of the things I hated was the lack of privacy. I mean, there was just no space you could call your own-not even a dresser drawer."

"I had my own bedroom," she said slowly.

"That would have been paradise. I shared a bedroom with one of my brothers until I went away to college. And then I had three roommates. It wasn't until I graduated and came to New York that I had a place of my own. What luxury! It really was a treat for me."

"Do you still feel that way?"

"Most of the time. Everyone gets lonely occasionally, I guess. I remember that even when I was living at home with my brothers and sisters, sometimes I'd be lonely. In that crowd! Of course, all my brothers were bigger. I was the runt of the litter. They played football and basketball. I was nowhere as an athlete, so we didn't have a lot in common."

"What about your sisters?" Zoe asked. "I always wished I had a sister. Did you have a favorite?"

"Oh yes," he said, smiling. "Marcia, the youngest. The baby of the family. We had a lot in common. We used to walk out of town, sit in a field and read poetry to each other. Do you know what Marcia wanted to do? She wanted to be a harpist! Isn't that odd? But of course there was no one in Trempealeau to teach her to play the harp, and my folks couldn't afford to send her somewhere else to school."

"So she never learned?"

"No," he said shortly, pouring them more brandy, "she never did. She's married now and lives in Milwaukee. Her husband is in the insurance business. She says she's happy."

"I suppose we all have dreams," Zoe Kohler said. "Then we grow up and realize how impossible they were."

"What did you dream, Zoe?"

"Nothing special. I was very vague about it. I thought I might teach for a few years. But I guess I'd thought I'd just get married and have a family. That seemed to be the thing to do. But it didn't work out."

"You told me about your mother. What is your father like?"

"Dad? Oh, he's still a very active man. He has a car agency and owns half a real estate firm, and he's in a lot of other things. Belongs to a dozen clubs and business associations. He's always being elected president of this and that. I remember he was away at meetings almost every night. He's in local politics, too."

"Sounds like a very popular man."

"I guess. I hardly saw him. I mean, I knew he was there, but he really wasn't. Always rushing off somewhere. Every time he saw me, he'd kiss me. He smelled of whiskey and cigars. But he was very successful, and we had a nice home, so I really can't complain. What was your father like?"

"Tall and skinny and kind of bent over when he got older. I think he worked himself to death; I really do. He always had two jobs. He had to with that family. Came home late and fell into bed. All us boys had jobs-paper routes and things like that. But we didn't bring home much. So he worked and worked. And you know, I never once heard him complain. Never once."

They sat in sad silence for a few minutes, sipping their brandies.

"Zoe, do you think you'll ever get married again?"

She considered that. "I don't know. Probably not-as of this moment."

He looked at her. "Were you hurt that much?"

"I was destroyed," she cried out. "Demolished. Maddie Kurnitz can hop from husband to husband. I can't. Maybe that's my fault. Maybe I'm some kind of foolish romantic."

"You're afraid to take another chance?"

"Yes, I'm afraid. If I took another chance, and that didn't work out, I think I'd kill myself."

"My God," he said softly, "you're serious, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"Zoe, none of us is perfect. And relationships aren't perfect."

"I know that," she said, "and I was willing to settle for what I had. But he wasn't. I really don't want to talk about it, Ernie. It was all so-so ugly."

"All rightee!" he sang out, slapping the table. "We won't talk about it. We'll talk about cheerful things and have dessert and coffee and laugh up a storm."

She reached out to stroke his hair.

"You're nice," she said, looking into his eyes. "I'm glad I met you."

He caught her hand, pressed it against his cheek.

"And I'm glad I met you," he said. "And I want to keep on seeing you as much as I can. Okay?"

"Okay," she said. "Now… strawberry or apple tart? Which are you going to have?"

"Strawberry," he said promptly.

"Me, too," she said. "We like the same things."

They had dessert and coffee, chattering briskly about books and movies and TV stars, never letting the conversation flag. Then they cleared the table and Ernest washed while Zoe dried. She learned where his plates and cups and saucers and cutlery were stored.

Then, still jabbering away, they sat again in the armchairs with more brandy. He told her about his courses in computer technology, and she told him about the unusual problems of hotel security officers. They were both good listeners.

Finally, about eleven o'clock, feeling a bit light-headed, Zoe said she thought she should be going. Ernest said he thought they should finish the brandy first, and she said if they did, she'd never go home, and he said that would be all right, too. They both laughed, knowing he was joking. But neither was sure.

Ernie said he'd see her home, but she refused, saying she'd take a taxi and would be perfectly safe. They finally agreed that he'd go out with her, see her into a cab, and she'd call the moment she was in her own apartment.

"If you don't phone within twenty minutes," he said, "I'll call out the Marines."

They stood and she moved to him, so abruptly that he staggered back. She clasped him in her arms, put her face close to his.

"A lovely, lovely evening," she said. "Thank you so very much."

"Thank you, Zoe. We'll do it again and again and again."

She pressed her lips against his: a dry, warm, firm kiss.

She drew away, stroked his fine hair.

"You are a dear, sweet man," she said, "and I like you very much. You won't just drop me, will you, Ernie?"

"Zoe!" he cried. "Of course not! What kind of a man do you think I am?"

"Oh…" she said confusedly, "I'm all mixed up. I don't know what to think about you."

"Think the best," he said. "Please. We need each other."

"We do," she said throatily. "We really do."

They kissed again, standing and clasped, swaying. It was a close embrace, more thoughtful than fervid. There was no darting of tongues, no searching of frantic fingers. There was warmth and intimacy. They comforted each other, protective and reassuring.

They pulled away, staring, still holding to each other.

"Darling," he said.

"Darling," she said. "Darling. Darling."

He went about turning off lamps, checking the gas range, taking a jacket from a pressed wood wardrobe. Zoe went into the bathroom. Because the door was so flimsy and the apartment so small, she ran the faucet in the sink while she relieved herself.

Then she rinsed her hands, drying them on one of the little pink towels he had put out. The bathroom was as clean, tidy, and precisely arranged as the rest of his apartment.

She looked at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. She thought her face was blushed, glowing. She felt her cheeks. Hot. She touched her lips and smiled.

She examined her hair critically. She decided she would have it done. A feather-cut perhaps. Something youthful and careless, to give her the look of a gamine. And a rinse to give it gloss.

Zoe Kohler brought morning coffee into Mr. Pinckney's office. He was behind his desk. Barney McMillan was lolling on the couch. She had brought him a jelly doughnut.

"Thanks, doll," he said; then, with a grin, "Whoops, sorry. Thank you, Zoe."

She gave him a frosty glance, went back to her own office. She could hear the conversation of the two men. As usual, they were talking about the Hotel Ripper.

"They'll get him," McMillan said. "Eventually."

"Probably," Mr. Pinckney agreed. "But meanwhile the hotels are beginning to hurt. Did you see the Times this morning? The first cancellation of a big convention because of the Ripper. They better catch him fast or the summer tourist trade will be a disaster."

"Come to Fun City," McMillan said, "and get your throat slit. The guy must be a real whacko. A fegelah, you figure?"

"That's the theory they're going on, according to Sergeant Coe. They're rousting all the gay bars. But just between you, me, and the lamppost, Coe says they're stymied. They had a police shrink draw up a psychological profile, but you know how much help those things are."

"Yeah," McMillan said, "a lot of bullshit. What they really need is one good fingerprint."

"Well…" Mr. Pinckney said judiciously, "prints are usually of limited value until they pick up some suspects to match them with. You know, there hasn't been a single arrest. Not even on suspicion."

"But that guy in command-what's his name? Slavin?-he keeps putting out those stupid statements about 'promising leads' and 'an arrest expected momentarily.' It's gotten to be a joke."

"If he doesn't show some results soon," Mr. Pinckney said, "he'll find himself guarding a vacant lot in the Bronx. The hotel association has a lot of clout in this town."

Then the two men started discussing next week's work schedule, and Zoe Kohler began flipping through her morning copy of The New York Times. The story on the Hotel Ripper was carried on page 3 of the second section, the Metropolitan Report.

The murder of Jerome Ashley, the third victim, had been front-page news in all New York papers for less than a week. Then, as nothing new developed, follow-up stories dropped back farther and farther.

That morning's Times had nothing to add to the story other than the mention of the first cancellation of a large convention directly attributable to the crimes of the Hotel Ripper. The story repeated the sparse description of the suspect: five feet five to five feet seven, wearing a black nylon wig.

But below the news account was an article bylined by Dr. David Hsieh, identified by the Times as a clinical psychologist specializing in psychopathology, and author of a book on criminal behavior entitled The Upper Depths.

Zoe Kohler read the article with avid interest. In it, Dr. Hsieh attempted to extrapolate the motives of the Hotel Ripper from the available facts, while admitting that lack of sufficient data made such an exercise of questionable validity.

It was Dr. Hsieh's thesis that the Hotel Ripper was driven to his crimes by loneliness, which was why he sought out hotels with their dining rooms, cocktail lounges, conventions, etc. "Places where many people congregate, mingle, converse, eat and drink, laugh and carry on normal social intercourse denied to the Ripper.

"Solitude can be a marvelous boon," Dr. Hsieh continued. "Without it, many of us would find life without savor. But there is this caveat: solitude must be by choice. Enforced, it can be as corrosive as a draft of sulfuric. To be wisely used, it must be sought and learned. And the danger of addiction lingers always. A heady thing, solitude. An elixir, a depressant. One man's triumph, another man's defeat. The Hotel Ripper cannot handle it.

"Solitude decays; mold appears; loneliness makes its sly and cunning infection. Loneliness rots the marrow, seeps through shrunken veins into the constricted heart. The breath smells of ashes, and men become desperate. The police call them 'loners,' making no distinction between those who eat alone, work alone, live alone and sleep alone by choice or through the grind of circumstances. Some desire it; some do not. The Hotel Ripper does not.

"There is a fatal regression at work here. It goes like this: Solitude. Loneliness. Isolation. Alienation. Aggression. In the penultimate stage, the happiness of others becomes an object of envy; in the final, an object of rage. 'Why should they…? When I…?' The Hotel Ripper is a terminal case."

Zoe Kohler put the newspaper aside and stared off into the middle distance. Try as she might, she could not recognize herself in the portrait drawn by Dr. David Hsieh.

Something new was happening to her. She had heretofore never sought to deny her responsibility for what had been done to those three men. She had planned her adventures carefully, carried them out with complete awareness of what she was doing, and reviewed her actions afterward.

She, Zoe Kohler, was the Hotel Ripper. She had not disavowed it. Never. Not for a minute. Indeed, she had gloried in it. Her adventures were triumphs. And the notoriety she had earned had been exciting.

But now she was beginning to feel a curious disassociation from her acts. She felt cleft, tugged apart. She could not reconcile the lustful images of the Hotel Ripper with the gentle memories of a woman who said, "Darling. Darling. Darling."

On May 6th, a few minutes before 6:00 p.m., Zoe Kohler entered the office of Dr. Oscar Stark. There were two patients in the reception room, which usually meant a wait of thirty minutes or so. But it was almost an hour before Gladys beckoned. The nurse led her directly to the examination room.

Zoe was weighed, then went into the lavatory with the wide-mouthed plastic cup. She handed the urine sample to Gladys and sat down, sheet-draped. Dr. Stark came bustling in a few minutes later, trailing a cloud of smoke. He set his cigar carefully aside.

"Well, well," he said, staring at Zoe. "What have we here? A new hairdo?"

"Yes," she said, blushing. "Sort of."

"I like it," he said. "Very fetching. Don't you like it, Gladys?"

"I told her I did," the nurse said. "I wish I could wear a feather-cut. It's so youthful."

"Maybe I should get one," the doctor said.

He pulled up his wheeled stool in front of Zoe, warmed the stethoscope on his hairy forearm. She let the sheet drop to her waist. He began to apply the disk to her naked chest and ribcage.

"Mmp," he said. "You didn't run over here from your office, did you?"

"No," Zoe said seriously, "I've been in the waiting room for almost an hour."

He nodded, then felt her pulse, something he rarely did. He took the examination form and clipboard from Gladys and made a few quick notes. The nurse bent over him and pointed out something on the chart. The doctor blinked.

Gladys wheeled up the sphygmomanometer. Stark wrapped the cuff about Zoe's arm and pumped the bulb. The nurse leaned down to take the reading.

"Let's try that again," Stark said and repeated the process. Gladys made more notes.

The doctor sat a moment in silence, staring at Zoe, his face expressionless. Then he took the blood sample and set the syringe aside.

"Gladys," he said, "that big magnifying glass-you know where it is?"

"Right here," she said, opening the top drawer of a white enameled taboret.

"What would I do without you?" he said.

He hitched the wheeled stool as close to Zoe as he could. He leaned forward and began to examine her through the magnifying glass. He inspected her lips, face, neck, and arms. He peered at the palms of her hands, the creases in her fingers, the crooks of her elbows. He scrutinized aureoles and nipples.

"What are you doing that for?" Zoe asked.

"Just browsing," he said. "I'm a very kinky man. This is how I get my kicks. Zoe, do you shave your armpits?"

"Yes."

"Uh-huh. Open the sheet, please, and spread your legs."

Obediently, eyes lowered, she pulled the sheet aside and exposed herself. He tugged gently at her pubic hair, then examined his fingers. He had come away with a few curly hairs. He inspected them through the magnifying glass.

"Why did you do that?" she asked faintly.

He looked at her kindly. "I'm stuffing a pillow," he said, and Gladys laughed.

He handed the glass back to the nurse and began breast palpation. The pelvic examination followed. Ten minutes later, Zoe Kohler, dressed, was seated in Dr. Stark's office, watching him light a fresh cigar.

He blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. He pushed his half-glasses atop his halo of white hair. He stared at Zoe, shaking his big head slowly. His pendulous features swung loosely.

"What am I going to do with you?" he said.

She was startled. "I don't understand," she said.

"Zoe, have you been under stress recently?"

"Stress?"

"Pressure. On your job? Your personal life? Anything upsetting you? Getting tense or excited or irritable?"

"No," she said, "nothing."

He sighed. He had been a practicing physician for more than thirty years; he knew very well how often patients lied. They usually lied because they were embarrassed, ashamed, or frightened. But sometimes, Stark suspected, a patient's lies to his doctor represented a subconscious desire for self-immolation "All right," he said to Zoe Kohler, "let's go on to something else… Are you on a diet? Trying to lose weight?"

"No. I'm eating just the same as I always have."

"You weigh almost four pounds less than you did last month."

Now she was shocked. "I don't understand that," she said.

"I don't either. But there it is."

"Maybe there's been some mistake," she said. "Maybe when Gladys-"

"Nonsense," he said sharply. "Gladys doesn't make mistakes. All right, here's what you've got… Your pulse is too rapid, your heart sounds like you just ran the hundred-yard dash, and your blood pressure is way up. It's still in the normal range, but very high-normal, and I don't like it. These are all signs of incipient hypertension-all the more puzzling because low blood pressure is a characteristic of your disease. That's why I asked if you've been under nervous or emotional stress."

"Well, I haven't."

"I'll take your word for it," he said dryly. "But it presents us with a small problem. A slight dilemma, you might say. You're still taking your salt tablets?"

"Yes. Two a day."

"Do you have any craving for additional salt?"

"No, not particularly."

"Well, that's something. The menstrual cramps continue?"

She nodded.

"Better, about the same, or worse?"

"About the same," she said. "Maybe a little worse last month."

"You're due-when?"

"In a few days."

He set his cigar aside. He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers across his heavy stomach. His china-blue eyes regarded her gravely. When he spoke, his voice was flat, toneless, without emphasis.

"If you were under stress," he said, "it might account for the higher blood pressure. That would be, uh, of some concern in a woman with your condition. Increased stress-even a tooth extraction-results in higher cortisol secretion in the normal individual. But your adrenal cortex is almost completely destroyed. So if you are under stress of any kind, we should increase your cortisone intake to bring your levels up to normal."

"But I'm not under stress!" she insisted.

He ignored her.

"Also, while under stress, a higher amount of sodium chloride is required so that your body does not become dehydrated. You haven't been vomiting, have you?"

"No."

"Well, we'll have to wait for the blood and urine tests to come back from the lab before we know definitely that we have a cortisol deficiency. I saw minor signs of skin discoloration, which is usually a sure tip-off. A decrease in armpit and pubic hair is another indication. And there's that weight loss…"

"But you're not sure?" she said.

"About the cortisol deficiency? No, I'm not sure. It's the high blood pressure that puzzles me. Cortisol deficiency should be accompanied by lower blood pressure. The small problem I mentioned, the slight dilemma, is this: Ordinarily, for patients with high blood pressure, a reduced- or salt-free diet is recommended. But the nature of your disease demands that you continue to supplement your diet with sodium chloride. So what do we do? For the time being, I suggest an increased cortisone dosage. What are you taking now?" He flipped down his glasses, searched through her file on his desk. "Here it is-twenty-five milligrams once a day. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"When do you take it?"

"In the morning. With breakfast."

"Any stomach upset?"

"No."

"Good. I'm going to suggest you take another dose in the late afternoon. That will give you fifty milligrams a day. You may not need it, but it won't do any harm. Try to take the second dose with milk or some antacid preparation. Sometimes the cortisone affects the stomach if it's taken without food. You understand all that?"

"Yes, doctor. But I'm running short of cortisone. I need another prescription."

He pulled a pad toward him and began scribbling.

"While you're at it," Zoe Kohler said casually, "could I have another prescription for Tuinal?"

He looked up suddenly.

"You're suffering from insomnia?"

"Yes. Almost every night."

"Try a highball just before you go to bed. Or an ounce of brandy."

"I've tried that," she said, "but it doesn't help."

"Another dilemma," he mourned. "Ordinarily, with insomnia, I'd reduce the cortisone dosage. But in view of your weight loss and the other factors, I'm going to increase it until the lab tests come in and we know where we are."

"And what about the salt pills?"

He drummed his blunt fingers on the desktop, frowning. Then…

"Continue with the salt. Two tablets a day. Zoe, I don't want to frighten you. I've explained to you a dozen times that if you take your medication faithfully-and you must take it for the rest of your days, just like a diabetic-there is no reason why you can't live a long and productive life."

"Well, I've been taking my medication faithfully," she said with some asperity, "and now you say something's wrong."

He looked at her strangely but said nothing. He completed the two prescriptions and handed them to her. He suggested she call in four days and he'd tell her the results of the blood test and urinalysis.

"Please," he said, "try not to worry. It might be hard not to, but worry will only make things worse."

"I'm not worried," she said, and he believed her.

After she had gone, he sat a moment in his swivel chair and relighted his cigar. He thought he knew the reason for the higher blood pressure. She was under stress, moderate to severe, but certainly acute enough to require an increase in corticosteroid therapy.

She had lied to him for her own good reasons. He wondered to what possible pressures this quiet, withdrawn, rather emotionless woman might be a victim. It wasn't unusual for female patients with her disorder to experience a weakening of the sex drive. But in Zoe Kohler's case, he suspected, the libido had been atrophied long before the onset of her illness.

So if it wasn't sexual frustration, or an emotional problem, it had to be some form of psychic stress that was demanding a higher cortisol level, burning up calories, and setting her blood pounding through her arteries. He felt like a detective searching for a motive when he should be acting like a physician seeking the proper therapy for a disorder that, untreated, was invariably fatal.

Sighing, he dug through Zoe Kohler's file for the photocopies he had made at the New York Academy of Medicine when Zoe had first consulted him. She had just come to New York and had brought along her medical file from her family doctor in Winona.

Stark thought that Minnesota sawbones had done a hell of a job in diagnosing the rare disease before it had reached crisis proportions. It was a bitch of an illness to recognize because many of the early symptoms were characteristic of other, milder ailments. But the Minnesota GP had hit it right on the nose and prescribed the treatment that saved Zoe Kohler's life.

Dr. Oscar Stark found the photocopies he sought. The main heading was "Diseases of the Endocrine System." He turned to the section dealing with "Hypofunction of Adrenal Cortex."

He began to read, to make certain he had forgotten nothing about the incidence, pathogenesis, symptoms, diagnosis, and treatment of Addison's disease.

Her menstrual cramps began on the evening of May 7th, twenty-four hours after her visit to Dr. Stark. In addition to the low-back twinges and the deep, internal ache, there was now an abdominal pain that came and went.

She felt so wretched on the evening of May 8th, a Thursday, that she took a cab home from work, although the night was clear and unseasonably warm. After she undressed, she probed her lower abdomen gingerly. It felt hard and swollen.

She took her usual dosage of vitamins and minerals. And she gulped down a Darvon and a Valium. She wondered what physiological effect this combination of painkiller and tranquilizer might have.

She soon discovered. Soaking in a hot tub, sipping a glass of chilled white wine, she felt the cramps ease, the abdominal pain diminish. She felt up, daring and resolute.

She had been watching the hotel trade magazine for notices of conventions, sales meetings, political gatherings. It appeared to her that the activities of the Hotel Ripper had not yet seriously affected the tourist trade in New York. Occupancy rates were still high; desirable hotel rooms were hard to find.

The Cameron Arms Hotel on Central Park South looked good to her. During the week of May 4-10, it was hosting two conventions and a week-long exhibition and sale of rare postage stamps. When she had looked up the Cameron Arms in the hotel directory, she found it had 600 rooms, banquet and dining rooms, coffee shop, and two cocktail lounges, one with a disco.

Lolling in the hot tub, she decided on the Cameron Arms Hotel, and pondered which dress she should wear.

But when she stepped from the tub, she felt again that familiar weakness, a vertigo. Her knees sagged; she grabbed the sink for support. It lasted almost a minute this time. Then the faintness passed. She took a deep breath and began to perfume her body.

It took her more than an hour to dress and apply makeup. It seemed to her she was moving in a lazy glow; she could not bring her thoughts to a hard focus. When she tried to plan what she was about to do, her concentration slid away and dissolved.

An odd thought occurred to her in this drifting haze: she wondered if her adventures were habit-forming. Perhaps she was venturing out this night simply because it was. something she always did just prior to her period. It was not dictated by desire or need.

She drank two cups of black decaf coffee, but no more wine and no more pills. By the time she was ready to leave, close to 9:00 p.m., her mindless euphoria had dissipated; she felt alert, sharp, and determined.

She wore a sheath of plummy wool jersey with a wide industrial zipper down the front from low neckline to high hem. Attached to the tab of the zipper was a miniature police whistle.

She transferred belongings to the patent leather shoulder bag, making certain she had her knife and the small aerosol can of Chemical Mace. As usual, she removed all identification from her wallet.

She was wearing her strawberry blond wig. Around her left wrist was the gold chain with the legend: why not?

An hour later she strode briskly into the crowded lobby of the Cameron Arms Hotel, smoking a cigarette and carrying her trenchcoat over her arm. She noticed men turning to gawk, and knew she was desired. She felt serenely indifferent and in control.

She looked in at the cocktail lounge featuring the disco, but it was too noisy and jammed. She walked down the lobby corridor to the Queen Anne Room. It appeared crowded, but dim and reasonably quiet. She went in there.

It was a somewhat gloomy room, with heavy upholstery, fake marquetry, and vaguely Oriental decoration and drapes. All the tables and banquettes were occupied by couples and foursomes. But there were vacant stools at the bar.

Zoe Kohler went into her act. She looked about as if expecting to be met. She asked the hatcheck girl the time as she handed over her trenchcoat. She made her way slowly to the bar, still peering about in the semidarkness.

She ordered a glass of white wine from a bartender dressed like an English publican of an indeterminate period: knickers, high wool hose, a wide leather belt, a shirt with bell sleeves, a leather jerkin. The cocktail waitresses were costumed as milkmaids.

She sat erect at the bar, sipping her wine slowly, looking straight ahead. On her left was a couple arguing in furious whispers. The barstool on her right was empty. She waited patiently, supremely confident.

She had just ordered a second glass of wine when a man slid onto the empty stool. She risked a quick glance in the mirror behind the bar. About 45, she guessed. Medium height, thick at the shoulders, florid complexion. Well-dressed. Blondish hair that had obviously been styled and spray-set.

His features were heavy, almost gross. She thought he looked like an ex-athlete going to fat. When he picked up his double Scotch (he had specified the brand), she saw his diamond pinkie ring and a loose chain of gold links about his hairy wrist.

The Queen Anne Room began to fill up. A party of three raucous men pushed in for drinks on the other side of the single man. He hitched his barstool closer to Zoe to give them room. His shoulder brushed hers. He said, "Pardon me, ma'am," giving her a flash of white teeth too perfect to be natural.

"Getting crowded in here," he offered a moment later.

She turned to look at him. He had very small, hard eyes.

"The conventions, I suppose," she said. "The hotel must be full."

"Right," he said, nodding. "I made my reservation months ago, or I never would have gotten in."

"Which convention are you with?"

"I'm not with any," he said, "exactly. But I came up for the meeting of the Association of Regional Airline Owners and Operators. Here…"

He dug into his jacket pocket, brought out a business card. He handed it to Zoe, then flicked a gold cigarette lighter so she could read it.

"Leonard T. Bergdorfer," he said. "From Atlanta, Georgia. I'm a broker. Mostly in sales of regional airlines, feeder lines, freight forwarders, charter outfits-like that. I bring buyers and sellers together. That's why I'm at this shindig. Pick up the gossip: who wants to sell, who wants to buy."

"And have a little fun with the boys?" she asked archly.

"You're so right," he said with a thin smile. "That's the name of the game."

"From Atlanta, Georgia," she said, handing back his card. "You don't talk like a southerner."

He laughed harshly.

"Hell, no, I'm no rebel. But Atlanta is where the money is. I'm from Buffalo. Originally. But I've lived all over the U.S. and A. Where you from, honey?"

"Right here in little old New York."

"No kidding? Not often I meet a native New Yorker. What's your name?"

"Irene," she said.

He had a suite on the eighth floor: living room, bedroom, bath. There was a completely equipped bar on wheels, with covered tubs of ice cubes. Liquor, wine, and beer. Bags of potato chips, boxes of pretzels, jars of salted peanuts.

"Welcome to the Leonard T. Bergdorfer Hospitality Suite," he said. "Your home away from home."

She looked around, wondering if anyone in the Queen Anne Room or on the crowded elevator would remember them. She thought not.

"All the booze hounds are at a banquet right now," he said. "Listening to a fat-ass politician give a speech on the deregulation of airfares. Who needs that bullshit?"

This last was said with some bitterness. Zoe suspected he had not been invited.

"But it'll break up in an hour or so," he went on, "and then you'll see more freeloaders up here than you can count. Stick around, Irene; you'll make a lot of friends."

She was uneasy. It wasn't going the way she had planned.

"I better not," she said. "You boys will want to talk business. I'll have a drink and be on my way."

"You don't want to be like that, honey," he said with his thin smile, "or poppa will spank. Be friendly. I'll make it worth your while. Now then… let me have your coat. We'll have a drink and a little fun before the thundering herd arrives."

He hung her coat in a closet, returned to the bar. He busied himself with bottles and glasses, his back to her.

I could take him now, she thought suddenly. But it wouldn't be-wouldn't be complete.

"You married, sweetie?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Divorced. What about you, Lenny?"

"Still a bachelor," he said, coming toward her with the drinks. "Why buy a cow when milk is so cheap-right?"

She took the wine from him. When she sipped, she made certain she implanted lipstick on the rim so she could identify the glass later.

"What's this for?" he asked, fingering the small whistle hanging from the tab of her zipper.

"In case I need help," she said, smiling nervously.

"You don't look like a woman who needs help," he said with a coarse laugh. "Me, maybe. Not you, babe."

He pulled the zipper down to her waist. The dress opened.

"Hey-hey," he said, eyes glittering. "Look at the goodies. Not big, but choice." He caught up her wrist, read the legend on her bracelet. "Well… why not? Let's you and me go in the bedroom and get acquainted before anyone else shows up."

He grabbed her upper arm in a tight grip. He half-led, half-pulled her into the bedroom. He released her, shut the bedroo door. He set his drink and hers on the bedside table. He began to take off jacket and vest.

"Wait, Lenny, wait," Zoe said. "What's the rush? Can't we have a drink first?"

"No time," he said, pulling off his tie. "This will have to be a quickie. You can drink all you like later."

He stripped to his waist rapidly. His torso was thick, muscular. None of the fat she had imagined. His chest, shoulders, arms were furred. He sat down on the bed and beckoned, making flipping motions with his hands.

"Come on, come on," he said. "Get with it."

When she hesitated, he stood again, took one stride to her. He ripped her zipper down its full length. The front of her dress fell apart. He embraced her, hands and arms inside the opened dress, around her naked waist. He pressed close, grinding against her.

"Oh yeah," he breathed. "Oh yeah. This is something like."

His face dug into her neck and shoulder. She felt his tongue, his teeth.

"Wait," she gasped. "Wait just a minute, Lenny. Give a girl a chance. I've got to get my purse."

He pulled away, looked at her suspiciously.

"What for?" he demanded.

"You know," she said. "Female stuff. You get undressed. I'll just be a sec."

"Well, hurry it up," he growled. "I'm getting a hardon like the Washington Monument. All for you, baby."

She ran into the living room. She saw at once that she could easily escape. Grab up shoulder bag and coat, duck out the corridor door. He was half-undressed; he wouldn't follow. She could be long gone before he was able to come after her.

But she wanted to stay, to finish what she had to do. He deserved it. It was the timing that bothered her, the risk. He was expecting guests. Could she complete her job and be out of the suite before the others arrived?

Softly, she locked and chained the corridor door. She went back to the bedroom with her shoulder bag. He was pulling down his trousers and undershorts. His penis was stiffening, empurpled. It was rising, nodding at her. A live club. Ugly. It threatened.

"Be right with you," she said and went into the bathroom. Closed and locked the door. Leaned back against it, breathing rapidly. Zipped up her dress, tried to decide what to do next.

"Come on, come on," he shouted, trying the locked door, then pounding on it. "What the hell's taking you so long?"

She would never be able to lull him, get behind him. Unless she submitted to him first. But that wasn't the way it was supposed to be. That would spoil everything.

She opened the knife, placed it on the edge of the sink. Took the can of Mace from her purse. Gripped it tightly in her right hand.

"All set, Lenny!" she cried gaily.

She unlocked the door with her left hand. He slammed it open. He was close, glowering. He reached for her.

She sprayed the gas directly into his face. She kept the button depressed and, as he staggered back, followed him. She held the hissing container close to his eyes, nose, mouth.

He coughed, sneezed, choked. He bent over. His hands came up to his face. He stumbled, fell, went down on his back. He tried to suck in air, breathing in great, hacking sobs. His fingers clawed at his weeping eyes.

She leaned over him, spraying until the can was empty.

She ran back to the bathroom, hurriedly soaked a washcloth in cold water. Held it over her nose and mouth. Picked up the knife, returned to the bedroom.

He was writhing on the floor, hands covering his face. He was, making animal sounds: grunts, groans. His hairy chest was pumping furiously.

She bent over him. Dug the blade in below his left ear. Made a hard, curving slash. His body leaped convulsively. A fountain of blood. She leaped aside to avoid it. Hands fell away from his face. Watery eyes glared at her and, as she watched, went dim.

The gas was beginning to affect her. She gasped and choked. But she had enough strength to complete the ritual, stabbing his naked genitals again and again, with a mouthed, "There. There. There."

She fled to the bathroom, closed the door. She took several deep breaths of clear air. She soaked the washcloth again, wiped her eyes, cleaned her nostrils. She inspected her arms, dress, ankles, the soles of her shoes. She could find no bloodstains.

But her right hand and the knife were wet with his blood. She turned on the hot water faucet in the sink. She began to rinse the blood away. It was then she noticed the knife blade was broken. About a half-inch of the tip was missing.

She stared at it, calculating the danger. If the blade tip wasn't near him, lying on the rug, then it was probably lost in the raw swamp of his slashed throat, broken off against bone or cartilege. She could not search for it, could not touch him.

She began moving quickly. Finished rinsing hand and knife. Dried both with one of his towels. Put towel, knife, and emptied Chemical Mace can into her shoulder bag. Strode into the bedroom. The gas was dissipating now.

Leonard T. Bergdorfer lay sprawled in a pool of his own blood. Zoe looked about, but could not see the knife blade tip.

She picked up her glass from the bedside table, drained the wine. The empty glass went into her shoulder bag, too. She turned back to wipe the knobs of the bathroom door and the faucet handles with the damp washcloth. She did the same to the knobs of the bedroom door.

She put on her coat in the living room. She unlocked and opened the hallway door a few inches, peeked out. Then she wiped off the lock, chain, and doorknob with the washcloth, and tucked it into her bag. She opened the door wide with her foot, stepped out into the empty corridor. She nudged the door shut with her knee.

She was waiting for the Down elevator when an ascending elevator stopped on the eighth floor. Five men piled out, laughing and shouting and hitting each other. Men were so physical.

They didn't even glance in her direction, but went yelling and roughhousing down the corridor. They stopped in front of Bergdorfer's suite. One of them began knocking on the door.

Then the Down elevator stopped at the eighth floor, the doors slid open, and Zoe Kohler departed.