interview as speedily as possible, figuring it a total loss. But suddenly Teresa Dempster becomes talkative. He thinks at first she’s swaying as she speaks, but then realizes she’s standing in the blast of an air-conditioning vent set into the interior brick wall, and the draft is moving her insubstantial gown.
“David, my brother-in-law, was such a help,” she says. “He just took care of everything. I know people wanted to be kind, but why did they have to cut down all those flowers? Jack was buried near Schroon Lake. We have a summer home up there, you know, and a family plot in the dearest, sweetest cemetery you ever did see. Mom and daddy are there, and now Jack, and there’s a place for me.”
The idea seems to enchant her, and she pauses to smile fondly.
“Of course,” she goes on, “he’s not really there; just the envelope he temporarily inhabited. Because he came to me last night. Yes, he did. ‘Terry,’ he said. He always called me that. ‘Terry, I’m very happy here. I’ve crossed over, and it’s beautiful. I’m waiting for you, Terry.’ That’s what he said to me last night.”
The Wall Street dick can’t take much more of this.
“Mrs. Dempster,” he says sternly, “did your husband ever mention any enemies he had? Anyone who had threatened him or sworn revenge for one reason or another?”
“So many people have asked me that,” she says, and seems genuinely puzzled. “Of course Jack didn’t have any enemies. How could he-he was such a
“My sympathy on your loss,” Cone mumbles. Then, louder: “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Dempster. I appreciate it.”
“You’re going away now?” she says, sounding disappointed.
“Yeah, I’ve got to. Another appointment.”
“I suppose I should have offered you a drink or something.”
“That’s okay. You gave me a tree. Irving.”
“And you’ll come visit him, Mr. Timothy?”
“I certainly will,” he says, and then tries one last time. “The name is Cone. Timothy Cone.”
“Oh,” she says. “Well, it’s not important, is it?”
“Not important at all,” he assures her.
He’s hoping the lissome maid is lurking around to show him out, but there’s no one in sight. He makes his way along the hallway, down the staircase, and out into the hot afternoon sunlight. The same uniformed officer is still on duty at the gate. Cone pauses to light a cigarette.
“You ever talk to Mrs. Dempster?” he asks.
“No,” the cop says, “I never have.”
“You’re lucky,” Cone tells him.
“Maybe it was her husband’s death that made her flip out,” Samantha Whatley suggests. “Maybe she was a perfectly normal woman, but then that awful, bloody murder pushed her over the edge.”
“I don’t think so,” Cone says. “I’m guessing she’s been that way all her life. She’s not a wetbrain, you understand, but her gears have slipped a little; they don’t quite mesh. Not bad enough to have her committed, but the lady is balmy, no doubt about it.”
They’re sprawled on an oval rag rug in Sam’s tiny apartment in the East Village. She’s prepared a mess of chicken wings cooked in an Italian sauce with onions and small potatoes thrown in. The big cast-iron pot rests on a trivet between them, and they fill their plates with a ladle. There is also a salad of Bibb lettuce and cherry tomatoes.
“Good grub,” Cone says, sucking the meat from a wing. “Maybe a little more pepper and garlic next time.”
“Now you’re a cordon-bleu? If you stopped smoking, you’d be able to taste food the way it’s supposed to taste. So you got nothing from the widow?”
“Nah, nothing important. Except that I’m immortal. That makes me feel swell. Maybe I’ll do better with David Dempster, the brother. I called him and set up a meet for tomorrow. I’m also seeing Simon Trale, the Chief Financial Officer of Dempster-Torrey.”
“What do you expect to get from him?”
“Nothing, really. I’m just fishing.”
She looks at him suspiciously. “When you get that dopey look on your puss I know there’s something going on in that tiny, tiny brain of yours. What are you up to, buster?”
“Me?” he says innocently. “I’m not up to anything, boss. Except maybe illicit sex. But I better tell you: I don’t think you can separate the industrial sabotage from the murder. I think they’re connected. Scratching the Chairman and CEO was just the ultimate act of sabotage. To damage Dempster-Torrey.”
“Why? What for?”
“Beats the hell out of me. What’s for dessert?”
“Tapioca pudding.”
“I’ll pass,” he says. “You eat the fish eyes and I’ll take my portion home to Cleo. That cat’ll eat anything.”
“Thanks for the compliment. Coffee?”
“Sure,” he says. “And I brought a bottle of Spanish brandy. How about a noggin of that?”
“I’m game,” she says. “And later do you intend to work your evil way with me?”
“It had occurred to me,” he admits.
They watch the
“What’s with you?” Sam demands.
“I don’t know,” he says fretfully. “I think I’m mellowing out. Look at us: curled up on a rug, watching TV and inhaling brandy. It’s all so domestic and comfy I can’t stand it.”
“The trouble with you is-” she starts, then stops.
“Go ahead,” he says, “finish it. What’s the trouble with me?”
“You can’t endure being happy,” she tells him. “You don’t know how to handle joy. The moment you start feeling good, you pull back and ask, ‘What’s the catch?’ You just can’t believe that occasionally-not always, but now and then-it’s perfectly normal to be content.”
“Yeah, well, you may be right. I know I don’t go around grinning. So I admit I get a little antsy when things seem to be okay, but only because I haven’t had the experience. Being happy is like a foreign language. I can’t understand it, so naturally I get itchy and think someone is setting me up for a fall.”
“You think I’m playing you for a patsy?”
“Oh, Christ, no. I’m talking about God.”
“Since when have you been religious?”
“I believe in God,” he protests. “He looks a lot like my drill instructor at Parris Island. A mean sonofabitch who kept kicking our ass and telling us it was for our own good. Like my pa walloping me with his belt and telling me it hurt him more than it did me. God always has a catch. Maybe not right away, but sooner or later. You pay for your pleasure in this world, kiddo.”
“I’m willing,” Samantha says. “Fly now, pay later.”
Ten minutes later they’re in bed together.
Both would be shocked if someone had suggested anything admirable in their allegiance to each other. Not only their sexual fidelity but their constancy for more years than most of their acquaintances have been married. Each is a half-filled glass, needing the other for topping off. Alone, each is half-empty.
But no such dreary soul-searching for them; all they know, or want to know, is sweat and rut: a gorgeous game of shouted oaths and wailing cries. And in slick slide and fevered grasp they are oblivious to all else. Not even aware that the TV screen has gone blank after the closing rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
