'Matt?'
'Just a reflex. I thought the place was about to be held up. Put it down to nerves.'
'Sure.' Her hand covered mine. 'Getting late,' she said.
'Is it?'
'Kind of. Would you walk me home? It's just a couple of blocks.'
SHE lived on the tenth floor of a new building on Fifty-sixth between Ninth and Tenth. The doorman roused himself enough to flash her a smile. 'There's some booze,' she told me, 'and I can make better coffee than Jimmie can. Want to come up?'
'I'd like to.'
Her apartment was a studio, one large room with an alcove that held a narrow bed. She showed me where to hang my coat and put on a stack of records.
She said she'd put on some coffee, and I told her to forget about the coffee. She made drinks for both of us. She curled up on a red plush sofa and I sat in a frayed gray armchair.
'Nice place,' I said.
'It's getting there. I want pictures for the walls and some of the furniture will have to be replaced eventually, but in the meantime it suits me.'
'How long have you been here?'
'Since October. I lived uptown, and I hated taking cabs to and from work.'
'Were you ever married, Trina?'
'For three years, almost. I've been divorced for four.'
'Ever see your ex?'
'I don't even know what state he lives in. I think he's out on the Coast, but I'm not sure. Why?'
'No reason. You didn't have any kids?'
'No. He didn't want to. Then when things fell apart I was glad we didn't.
You?'
'Two boys.'
'That must be rough.'
'I don't know. Sometimes, I guess.'
'Matt? What would you have done if there was a holdup tonight?'
I thought it over. 'Nothing, probably. Nothing I could do, really. Why?'
'You didn't see yourself when it was going on. You looked like a cat getting ready to spring.'
'Reflexes.'
'All those years being a cop.'
'Something like that.'
She lit a cigarette. I got the bottle and freshened our drinks. Then I was sitting on the couch next to her and telling her about Wendy and Richard, telling her just about all of it. I don't know whether it was her or the booze or a combination of the two, but it was suddenly very easy to talk about it, very important that I talk about it.
And I said, 'The impossible thing was knowing how much to tell the man.
He was afraid of what he might have done to her, either by limiting his affection for her or by behaving seductively toward her without knowing it himself. I can't find those answers any better than he can. But other things. The murder, the way his daughter died. How much of that was I supposed to tell him?'
'Well, he already knew all that, didn't he, Matt?'
'I guess he knew what he had to know.'
'I don't follow you.'
I started to say something, then let it go. I poured more booze in both our glasses. She looked at me.
'Trying to get me drunk?'
'Trying to get us both drunk.'
'Well, I think it's working. Matt-'
I said, 'It's hard to know just how much a person has any right to do. I suppose I was on the force too long. Maybe I never should have left. Do you know about that?'
She averted her eyes. 'Somebody said something once.'
'Well, if that hadn't happened, would I have left anyway sooner or later? I always wonder about that.
There was a great security in being a cop. I don't mean the job security, I mean the emotional security.
There weren't as many questions, and the ones that came up were likely to have obvious answers, or at least they seemed obvious at the time.
