'Of course I want to see you today! Oh, Jesus. Look, if you want to come over around eleven-'
'No,' I said.
'What?'
'I said no. You were right the first time and I shouldn't be doing a number on you. I'm like my client, that's all. I've just got to adjust to a new reality. I think you're doing the right thing.'
'Do you really?'
'Yes. And if I'm somebody you ought to stay away from, I think that's what you'd better do for the time being. And if we're supposed to get together later on, well, it'll happen.'
A pause. Then, 'Thank you, Matthew.'
For what? I got out of the booth and went back upstairs to my room. I put on a clean shirt and tie and treated myself to a good steak dinner at the Slate. It's a hangout for cops from John Jay College and Midtown South, but I was lucky enough not to see anyone that I knew. I had a big meal all by myself, with a martini in front and a brandy afterward.
I walked back to Ninth Avenue and passed St. Paul's. The church itself was closed now. I descended a narrow flight of steps to the basement. Not the big room in front where they have Bingo a couple nights a week, but a smaller room on the side where they have the meetings.
When you live in a neighborhood you know where different things are. Whether you have any interest in them or not.
I stood in front of the door for a minute or two. I felt a little light-headed, a little congested in the chest.
I decided that was probably from the brandy. It's a powerful stimulant. I'm not used to it, don't drink it often.
I opened the door and looked in. A couple dozen people sitting in folding chairs. A table holding a big coffee urn and a few stacks of Styrofoam cups. Some slogans taped to the wall-EASY DOES IT, KEEP
IT SIMPLE. The fucking wisdom of the ages.
She was probably in a room like this downtown. Some church basement in SoHo, say.
Best of luck, lady.
I stepped back, let the door shut, walked up the stairs. I had visions of the door opening behind me, people chasing after me and dragging me back. Nothing like that happened.
The tight feeling was still there in my chest.
The brandy, I told myself. Probably be a good idea to stay away from it. Stick to what you're used to.
Stick to bourbon.
I went on over to Armstrong's. A little bourbon would take the edge off the brandy rush. A little bourbon would take the edge off almost anything.
THE END
About the Author
The prolific author of more than fifty books and numerous short stories, Lawrence Block is a Mystery Writers of American Grand Master, a four-time winner of the Edgar Allan Poe and Shamus Awards, and the recipient of literary prizes from France, Germany, and Japan.
Block is a devout New Yorker who spends much of his time traveling.
Louis Pinell, the recently apprehended 'Icepick Prowler,' freely admits to having slain seven young women nine years ago-but he swears it was a copycat who killed Barbara Ettinger. Matthew Scudder believes him. But the trail to Ettinger's true murderer is twisted, dark and dangerous … and even colder than the almost decade-old corpse the p.i.
is determined to avenge.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
