He had a lot of cash in his wallet, close to five hundred dollars. I took all of it and split it with the cop who was helping me out. I figured it was just as well to let it look as though someone had rolled our friend.
Besides, if we didn't take it the first cops on the scene would, and look at all we'd done to earn it.
We got out of there without attracting any attention. I drove us up to the Village and bought my buddy a couple of drinks, and then we called it in to Headquarters anonymously and let them route it to the local precinct. The ME didn't miss noticing that the deceased had died elsewhere, but death itself was clearly a result of natural causes, so nobody had any reason to make waves. The old whoremaster died with his reputation unbesmirched, Elaine stayed out of trouble, and I got to be a hero.
I've told that story a couple of times at AA meetings. Sometimes it comes out funny, and other times it's
anything but that. It depends, I guess, on how it's told, or how you listen.
* * *
Elaine lived on Fifty-first between First and Second, on the sixteenth floor of one of those white brick apartment buildings that went up all over town in the early sixties. Her doorman was a West Indian black, very dark-skinned, with perfect posture and the build of a wide receiver. I gave him her name and mine and waited while he spoke on the intercom. He listened, looked at me, said something, listened again, and handed me the phone. 'She wants to talk to you,' he said.
I said, 'I'm here. What's up?'
'Say something.'
'What do you want me to say?'
'You just mentioned a man who blew a fuse. What was his name?'
'What is this, a test? Can't you recognize my voice?'
'This thing distorts voices. Look, humor me. What was the fuse man's name?'
'I don't remember his name. He was a patent lawyer.'
'Okay. Let me talk to Derek.'
I handed the thing to the doorman. He listened for a moment while she assured him I was okay, then motioned me to the elevator. I rode up to her floor and rang her bell. Even after the ritual over the intercom, she checked the judas peephole before opening the door for me.
'Come in,' she said. 'I apologize for the dramatics. I'm probably being silly, but maybe not. I don't know.'
'What's the matter, Elaine?'
'In a minute. I feel a lot better now that you're here, but I'm still a little shaky. Let me look at you. You look terrific.'
'You look pretty good yourself.'
'Do I? That's hard to believe. I've had some night. I couldn't stop calling you. I must have called half a dozen times.'
'There were five messages.'
'Is that all? I don't know why I thought five messages would be more forceful than one, but I kept picking up the phone and dialing your number.'
'Five messages may have been better,' I said. 'They made it a little harder to ignore. What's the problem?'
'The problem is I'm scared. I feel better now, though. I'm sorry for the inquisition before but it's impossible to recognize a voice over my intercom. Just for your information, the patent attorney's name was Roger Stuhldreher.'
'How could I ever have forgotten it?'
'What a day that was.' She shook her head at the memory. 'But I'm being a terrible hostess. What can I
get you to drink?'
'Coffee, if you've got some.'
'I'll make some.'
'It's too much trouble.'
'It's no trouble at all. You still like it with bourbon in it?'
'No, just black.'
She looked at me. 'You stopped drinking,' she said.
'Uh-huh.'
'I remember you were having some trouble with it the last time I saw you. Is that when you stopped?'
'Around then, yes.'
'That's great,' she said. 'That's really great. Give me a minute and I'll get some coffee made.'
The living room was as I remembered it, done in black-and-white with a white shag rug and a chrome-and- black leather couch and some matte black mica shelving. A couple of abstract paintings provided the room's only color. I think they were the same paintings she'd had before, but I couldn't swear to it.
I went over to the window. There was a gap between two buildings that afforded a view of the East River, and
