room fell under the category of life-affirming, and that was what Pearl needed-her life to be affirmed.
What would Quinn think of her tryst with Jones-she had to smile slightly-other than wanting to kill Jeb? Though Quinn would disapprove because of how Pearl knew he felt about her, she didn't think he'd disapprove on a professional basis. Jeb was simply a guy who'd had a few dates with the luckless Marilyn Nelson, not a suspect. Not even a person of interest. If there was a difference. And though he'd dated Marilyn a few times, they'd always met someplace. According to Jeb, the only time he'd been in her apartment was when he showed up after she was murdered.
On the other hand, Pearl didn't even know if Jeb had a solid alibi for the night of Marilyn's death. Or for the time of Anna Bragg's.
She figured it might behoove her to ask.
She let her head fall to the side to gaze over the near white horizon of her pillow, and the cop in her took over.
There were her clothes folded neatly on the desk chair. She knew Jeb's were in a pile on the floor. On the desk were a Toshiba notebook computer, a portable printer, and a small spiral notebook with a blue cover. There was an opened package of printer paper on top of the nearby radiator cover. On a small table near the desk was a stack of books, all nonfiction on economics or politics. The largest one, on the bottom, was titled America and Canada-Friends and Traders. Pearl didn't think it was a threat to outsell Stephen King. Topping the uneven stack of books were a pad of yellow Post-its, a cheap ballpoint pen, and a couple of stubby yellow pencils. Though the pencils were worn down, their erasers looked fresh and unused.
A freelance journalist's room. At least as Pearl imagined one.
Pearl looked back at the ceiling and thought about Jeb. He'd proved himself a gentle but decisive lover, sometimes letting her take the dominant position, then reasserting himself. He was quite experienced, she was sure. He knew how to turn her in on herself, string her out, tease her, make her wait, and then surprise her.
Why do the erasers look unused? Does he never make a mistake?
'You had supper?' he asked, jolting her out of her thoughts.
'Forgot all about it,' Pearl said, realizing she was hungry. 'Been kinda busy.'
'Wanna go out or do room service?'
Pearl didn't like the idea of a bellhop coming into the room. 'Coffee shop downstairs any good when it comes to dinner?'
'Good enough that I eat there almost every night,' Jeb said. 'Not to mention cheap enough.'
He swiveled his body and sat up on his side of the bed, his bare feet on the floor. Pearl studied the lean musculature of his back. He had to be a journalist who worked out regularly.
'Let's take a shower,' he said.
'Together?'
'Has to be that way. There's only one cake of soap.'
'Can't argue with that,' Pearl said, and stretched her arms and legs before getting up out of the warm, perspiration damp bed. The air was cool on her bare buttocks and legs.
Jeb sauntered into the bathroom ahead of her and turned on the shower.
Pearl wasn't surprised that he'd gotten the temperature just right.
Half an hour later they sat in a booth in the Waverton coffee shop, showered, dressed, reasonably unrumpled, and not so obviously lovers.
Pearl had followed Jeb's recommendation and ordered chicken pot pie. They were both having draft Budweisers in frosted glasses. Pearl enjoyed her cold beer while looking across the table at Jeb and waiting hungrily for her food. She thought life was pretty good. Rare for her.
A broad-hipped waitress with a name badge that said she was Maize arrived with their food on a large round tray and began placing plates on the table. 'You must like the pot pie,' she said to Jeb.
'Or maybe it's you,' he said with a grin.
Maize shook her head and looked at Pearl. 'He ordered the same thing for supper last night.'
'You were working then, too,' Jeb said, still flirting but in no way meaningful.
Maize grinned with crooked teeth. 'Yet I don't think we have anything going together except as tipper and tipee.'
Jeb aimed his grin at Pearl. 'Maize serves humor with the food.'
Maize kept a straight face. 'But only if its yesterday's special. It's a distraction.' She placed the last dish on the table. 'Getcha anything else?'
'We've got it all,' Jeb said, smiling at Pearl.
Knowing when to be silent, Maize returned to behind the counter.
'You had this same dish here last night?' Pearl asked.
Jeb nodded and poked his fork into browned pot pie crust, causing a faint curl of steam to rise. 'I told you, I eat here most of the time. You'll see why. It's delicious.'
Careful not to burn her tongue, Pearl dug into her pot pie and found she agreed. Maybe it was because she'd worked up such an appetite in Jeb's room. Or maybe it was because Maize had just supplied her new lover with an alibi for last night, when Anna Bragg was murdered.
Of course it was always possible Jeb had convinced Maize to lie for him. They were tipper and tipee.
Pearl told herself not to be so cynical and sipped her beer.
33
Celandra left the audition thinking she didn't have a chance, but also telling herself that sometimes those were the roles you got. This business was full of surprises. But if you halfway expected them, they weren't really surprises. But if she understood that, then she must think there was a chance.
The hell with it, she thought. It was all too complicated. All she knew was that she'd waited her turn on stage and read the lines of the mad housewife. Mad as in insane. In the six years she'd been pursuing an acting career in New York, she'd landed several off-off Broadway roles, and a few juicy Off Broadways, but she hadn't experienced what she'd define as success. And here she was almost thirty. She was a handsome rather than pretty woman, with a pale, somber face and tall, athletic build. She'd gone heavy on the eye makeup for this audition, so that her large brown eyes appeared darker and sunken, and she'd made her shoulder-length brown hair suitably mussed.
When she left the theater through a stage door alongside the marquee, she found that the heat had built to an uncomfortable level, and the humidity lay like damp felt on her bare arms. She hailed a cab rather than ride the smelly, stifling subway to get to her apartment in the West Nineties. The last time she'd ridden the subway, coming home from buying a knockoff Prada purse on Canal Street, some goon had rubbed himself against her, and as she was getting off pinched her left buttock hard enough to leave a bruise. When she'd turned to confront him, she was looking at the mass of people eager to get out through the sliding doors before the train pulled away for its next stop. Apparently her assailant had faded into the crowded car and left by one of the other doors. Or maybe the creep was still on the train, hunched in a seat and hiding behind a newspaper or magazine.
Celandra didn't have the time or opportunity to find him. People glared at her, or looked right through her, as they streamed from the train, forcing her to exit along with them. On the way out, she was buffeted by people boarding the train. New York, the city that got you coming and going.
When she'd arrived home and examined the bruise developing low on her ass, she vowed never to ride the subway again, knowing she would someday break that vow, so maybe it wasn't really a vow. But if she was going to break whatever it was, today wouldn't be the day. She was still in a quandary after her audition, and there was the cab right in front of the theater, like a consolation prize from the city.
She told herself not to be an idiot; the city wasn't God, maintaining a celestial equality, answering prayers or handing out damnation on a whim. Though sometimes it seemed that way.
She settled back in the soft upholstery while the cab rocked and jerked about as the driver fought his way into heavier traffic on West Forty-fourth. Horns blasted. From somewhere came an angry shout. Away from the curb
