“Not anymore. It was really so unnecessary. Goodness, who’d want to hurt me?”
Cone doesn’t answer, but follows her up the stairs and down the hallway to the greenhouse. She stops suddenly and turns to him.
“Would you like a blueberry yogurt?” she asks. “Really delicious.”
“Thanks, but no, thanks. I had a heavy lunch.”
“I can imagine,” she says. “You men with your rare roast beef and Yorkshire pudding-it’s not good for you, you know.”
“I know,” Cone says. “I try to avoid it.”
“Well, there’s Irving!” she says, pointing. “Isn’t he beautiful?”
“He surely is,” Cone says, meaning it. “You have a way with growing things, Mrs. Dempster.”
“Oh, well, I try,” she says, blushing. “I have my share of failures, I do assure you, but I keep trying. Now look at this one, Mr. Timothy. A new arrival. It’s a Chinese elm, and it’s older than you and I put together. But isn’t it magnificent?”
“Very impressive. Have you named it yet?”
She stares at the little tree. It’s thick and sturdy-and stunted.
“Yes,” she says in a low voice. “I call it John J. Dempster. For my late husband, you know.”
“I know,” Cone says. “I hope you haven’t been lonely since your husband di-since your husband passed over.”
“Lonely? Oh, no. I know so many wonderful people who call and visit. I’m so fortunate. And my sons are coming home next month. I don’t have time to be lonely.”
“Good for you,” he says. “And I’m sure your brother-in-law comes by occasionally.”
“Occasionally?” she says, and laughs: a high-pitched trilling sound. “Why, he’s here almost every day.”
“Since you lost your husband?”
“Oh, long before that. David and I are such good friends. Heavens, he practically lives here. John was away so much-on business, you know-and David would take me out to dinner and to the theater.”
“So David would know when your husband was leaving on a business trip?”
“Of course,” she prattles on. “I’d tell him, and we’d plan what we’d do while John was gone. The opera or ballet or just a long walk through Central Park. Once we went to the Cloisters. David is so good to me. And especially since John went on. You know it’s difficult for a woman to get around and see things by herself.”
“I know,” Cone says sympathetically. Then he leans close to her with a viperish smile. “You don’t suppose, do you, Mrs. Dempster, that David has a crush on you?”
It’s a calculated risk. He knows she is not a total meshuggeneh, and if she resents his question and tells him to get lost, he won’t be a bit surprised. But she leans even closer, and her voice is lower than his.
“How odd you should suggest that. You know, it had occurred to me, but I thought I was imagining things. I do that at times.”
“No reason why he shouldn’t be attracted to you,” Timothy says bravely. “You’re a fascinating woman.”
“Oh, my!” Teresa says, blushing again and putting her long fingers to her cheek. “I thank you, sir. What a nice thing to say.”
“The truth,” he says. “Well, I’m afraid I must go now, Mrs. Dempster. I hope you won’t be alone all evening.”
“Oh, no,” she says. “I have so much to do, and later David is coming over to take me to dinner and a Mostly Mozart recital at Lincoln Center. Do you like Mozart, Mr. Timothy?”
“Oh, yeah,” Cone says. “Can’t get enough of him. Thanks for letting me see Irving, Mrs. Dempster.”
“He’s yours, you know. And you have visitation rights whenever you wish.”
He wants to kiss that velvety cheek, but resists. He leaves her home, not proud of what he has done, but telling himself it was necessary. That doesn’t help much.
He drives back to the loft, wondering how the possible destruction of David Dempster might affect that sweet, innocent woman. Not a happy thought. But she impresses him as being a survivor, able to endure grief and tragedy. He hopes his appraisal is correct. It’s even possible that her wackiness is her salvation. A more rational woman might crack.
When he gets to his building, he finds the front door has been jimmied-again. But it’s not yet 6:00 P.M., so the elevator is still working, and he doesn’t have to trudge up six flights. Cleo greets him with an ankle rub and a desperate growl that signals starvation.
Cone brings out that length of garlic salami-still plenty left-and whacks off a thick chunk. Cleo takes it under the bathtub to enjoy. Cone opens a cold beer and, on impulse, pours it into an empty jelly jar. Then he sprinkles it with salt.
He can’t remember why they did that when he served with the USMC. For the flavor? To raise a head on the brew? But the taste of salted beer brings back old memories, most of which he’d like to forget forevermore.
He slumps at his spavined table, feet up, totally drained by the day’s events. All those people, all that pushing and shoving to get what he wants. And then, most recently, duping an ingenuous woman. He’s wiped out.
Before he knows it, he’s brooding about the victim, John J. Dempster. From what he’s heard from everyone, he figures the guy was a hustler-in the boardroom and in the bedroom. With all the chutzpah in the world. Willing to risk his balls in the coliseum. In fact, going from risk to risk because that’s where the fun is.
Cone has known a lot of hustlers, on the street, in combat, in the business world. He admires them all, straight or crooked, for their gall and their energy. They play the cards they were dealt to the best of their ability and never whine that they didn’t draw a better hand.
Occasionally, but not often, Cone wishes he could be like that. But he hasn’t got the temperament, and he knows it. Instead, he seems destined to plod through life armed with a push broom and dustpan, cleaning up after the hustlers.
These melancholy reflections are interrupted by ferocious pounding at the loft door. He slips the magnum out of his ankle holster. Standing to one side of the door, he shouts, “Who is it?”
“The police!” Neal Davenport shouts back. “Open up! Have you got a naked cat in there?”
Cone replaces his revolver, unchains, unbolts, unlocks the door. The city detective lumbers in, followed by a skinny, stooped guy who’s wearing a costume so decrepit that he makes Cone look like a candidate for
Davenport jerks a thumb at his companion. “Meet Officer Sam Shipkin,” he says.
“You could have fooled me,” Cone says, shaking the man’s hand.
He’s got a black beard that looks as if mice have been at it, and he’s wearing shades that are practically opaque. His ragged jeans weren’t stone-washed, they were ground between boulders, and his scuffed motorcycle boots look like Salvation Army castoffs. He’s got on a sweat-stained T-shirt bearing the legend: ALL THE NUDES FIT TO PRICK.
“How d’ya like this dump?” Neal asks Shipkin. “As ratty as I told you?”
The undercover cop looks around. “I like it,” he pronounces. “Poverty chic.”
“Listen,” the NYPD bull says, “let’s not waste time. I’ve got to get home to Staten Island-and don’t ask me why.”
“You don’t want a drink?” Cone asks.
“Who says so? What’ve you got?”
“Vodka, beer, wine, some brandy.”
“A beer for me. Sam?”
“A little brandy.”
They sit at the rickety table, and the host serves them.
“What in God’s name is that?” Davenport cries, pointing.
“A garlic salami. Want a hunk?”
“Jesus, no! You want a slice, Sam?”
“I’ll pass,” Shipkin says. “My ulcer would be infuriated.”
“Sam’s going up to Paddy’s Pig,” Neal says, “and see what he can work. I told him you’d prep him.”
“Sure,” Cone says, and describes the tavern to the undercover man: the physical layout of the place, the patrons, what they drink.
“The hard guys are in the booths on your right,” he says. “Down-and-out boozers at the tables in the center.
