Twilight at Mac's Place

Granville Haynes, propped up in bed on pillows and wearing only Jockey shorts, looked up from a New York Times feature about Hollywood agents to watch a nude Erika McCorkle stroll out of the bathroom, cross to the wheeled room-service table and pop a cold French-fried potato into her mouth. From there she went to the closet to slip on a long white terry-cloth robe that the Willard Hotel gently warned guests they would be billed for if they stole it.

While tying the robe’s belt, she said, “That was the best seventeen-dollar-plus-tip cheeseburger I ever ate.”

A mildly bawdy response occurred to Haynes but before he could utter it the phone rang. He picked it up, said hello and heard a pleasant baritone voice ask, “Mr. Haynes?”

“Yes.”

“I’m replacing Gilbert Undean.”

“Not in the morgue, I trust.”

There was a hesitation, not quite long enough to be considered a pause, before the baritone said, “Then you’ve heard?”

“I’ve heard.”

“On the radio?”

“I haven’t listened to a radio recently.”

“Perhaps from Mr. Padillo then? Or even from Mr. Mott, who, I understand, is now representing Tinker Burns.”

“Since you’re dropping names, why not drop yours?”

“Not over the phone,” the baritone said. “I was hoping you’d come down to the lobby and join me for a drink.”

“We can drink up here.”

“You’re asking me up?”

“I’m not asking you to do anything, Ace. But if we talk, we talk up here in front of a witness.”

“Out of the question.”

“Too bad,” Haynes said and hung up.

Erika McCorkle said, “Who the hell was that?”

Haynes shook his head and held up a warning hand. The telephone rang a moment later. He answered it with, “Well?”

“Who’s your witness?” the baritone asked.

“Think of her as my fiancee,” Haynes said, causing Erika McCorkle to chuckle.

“Her name?”

“Introductions aren’t necessary. You know who I am but I don’t know who you are. That gives you the advantage.”

“A very slight one.”

“Take what you can get.”

There was another hesitation that this time lasted long enough to qualify as a pause. “Five minutes?”

“Make it ten,” Haynes said and broke the connection.

Erika McCorkle returned to the room-service table, picked up another French fry, bit off half of it, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed and asked, “Who were you on the phone just then?”

“Hardcase Haynes of Homicide.”

“A bit overdone, wasn’t it?”

Haynes smiled. “Think so?”

She frowned. “Unless that wasn’t acting.”

A silence grew as she waited for his response. When he made none she untied the robe’s belt and said, “I’ll get dressed.”

“Don’t,” Haynes said as he rose from the bed, picked up his shirt and began putting it on.

Erika McCorkle slowly retied the robe’s belt as she watched him button the shirt and pull on his pants. When he sat down and reached for a sock, she said, “You’re setting the scene, right? The remains of a room-service meal. The half-drunk drinks. The rumpled bed. And the unmistakable reek of sex on a Sunday afternoon.”

“I want an edge,” Haynes said.

“And where do you want me—recumbent on the bed, showing a little thigh, a glimpse of tit?”

Haynes now had one sock on, changed his mind, stripped it off and stuck both bare feet into his loafers. “I want you on the bed, well wrapped in the robe and doing the Times Sunday crossword puzzle. With a ballpoint.”

Her grim expression vanished, replaced by her sunshine smile. “Blase and bored, right?”

“Exactly,” Haynes said, rose, found the crossword puzzle and handed it to her along with a ballpoint pen. She rearranged the pillows, settled cross-legged onto the bed, tucked the robe carefully around her, glanced at the