“You’re making fun of me,” Jill said.
“One would have to have a heart of stone…” I said.
“I get you in bed; I’d show you something,” Jill said. She got another cigarette and leaned toward me while I lit it, her eyes fixed on me in a look that, I think, was supposed to make my blood race.
“What’s your agent’s name?” I said.
She leaned back and blew smoke out at me in disgust.
“Ken Craig,” she said.
“He in L.A.?”
“Yes.”
“How about relationships? Any that have ended lately?”
“Relationships?”
“Yeah. Marriages, lovers, business arrangements, anybody that you’ve cut loose that might be mad at you?”
Jill was holding the martini glass in both hands and resting it against her lower lip. She gazed at me over it, her eyes closed a little so that she had a smoky look.
“There are things a girl doesn’t talk about to a man,” she said.
“Aren’t you the same woman who expressed an interest in something this long?” I said. I made the measuring gesture with my hands.
Her eyes widened and seemed to get brighter. The rim of her glass was still pressed, against her lower lip; the tip of her tongue appeared above it and darted laterally, back and forth.
“Maybe I did,” she said.
“And now there’s things a girl doesn’t discuss with a man?” I said.
She tilted the martini glass up suddenly and drank the rest of it in a long swallow. She put the glass down with a thump and stood up.
“I’m going to bed,” she said.
The brightness left her eyes and they seemed unfocused now.
“I’m not saying another word to you. I’m going to bed.”
“My loss,” I said. She walked toward the elevator without another sound. I glanced at the bartender. He spread his hands, palms down in a don’t-worry-about-it gesture. I left my beer half drunk and followed her out.
Chapter 9
AT 6:10 the winter morning was as bright as a hooker’s promise and warmer than her heart. The temperature was already in the thirties and by noon the plowed streets would be dark and glistening with snow melt. I was in the lobby of the Charles Hotel, fresh showered, clean shaven, armed to the teeth, and dressed to the nines: sneakers, jeans, a black polo shirt, and a leather jacket. The collar of the polo shirt was turned up inside the collar of the jacket. I took off my Ray-Bans to see if I could catch another glimpse of myself in some lobby glass, but there wasn’t any. I’d have to live on memories till we got to a mirror. I could go outside and look at myself in the smoked glass windows of the Lincoln Town Car parked out there, but the slight curve of the window enlarged things, and when you’re a fifty regular you don’t want enlargement.
At the far end of the lobby a solitary desk clerk shuffled paper behind the counter. A tall guy with rimless glasses was admiring the huge floral display in the middle of the lobby. Faintly, I could smell coffee, as, in the recesses of the building, the kitchen began to crank up for breakfast. Past the floral display, to the left of the wide staircase, an elevator door opened and Jill Joyce came out, along with a bulky black man in a blue blazer. The black man carried a walkie-talkie. He nodded when he saw me and moved away, and she was mine for the day.
Jill was wearing jeans which appeared to have been applied with a spray gun, high emerald boots with three- inch heels, a white blouse unbuttoned to exactly the right depth of cleavage. She had her black mink coat thrown over her shoulders. Until you got very close she looked as if she weren’t wearing any make-up. Close up I could see that she was, and that it was so artfully applied that it gave the illusion of fresh-faced innocence, with a touch of lip gloss. She was carrying an alligator bag that was either a large purse or the carrying case for a small tuba. She handed it to me.
“Good morning, cute buns,” I said.
“I was hoping you’d notice.”
We went out through the revolving door. The tall guy with the rimless glasses went out through the swinging doors to the left of the revolving door and when we reached the sidewalk he said, “Miss Joyce.” Jill shook her head.
“Not now,” she said. “I’ve got a six-fifteen call.”
He moved very smoothly for a geek, and he was in her path and saying, “Miss Joyce, Mr. Rojack wishes to speak with you.”
I moved between Jill and the tall guy. “What is your wish?” I said to Jill.
“I want to go to work,” she said.
“Miss Joyce prefers to go to work,” I said to the tall guy.
The tall guy’s voice flattened out like a piece of hammered tin.
“Buzz off,” he said.
