Zoe Kohler wasn't particularly alarmed that the police investigation was now directed toward finding a female murderer. And she had read that plainclothesmen were now being stationed in hotel cocktail lounges in midtown Manhattan. She thought vaguely that it might be necessary to seek her adventures farther afield.

She had been fortunate so far, mostly because of careful planning. She was exhilarated by the fearful excitement she had caused. More than that, the secret that she alone knew gave her an almost physical pleasure, a self-esteem she had never felt before.

All those newspaper stories, all those television broadcasts and radio bulletins were about her. What she felt came very close to pride and, with her new hairdo and despite her limp, she walked taller, head up, glowing, and felt herself queen of the city.

She paused on Madison Avenue to look in the show windows of a shop specializing in clothing for children, from infants to ten-year-olds. The prices were shockingly high for such small garments, but the little dresses and sweaters, jeans and overalls, were smartly designed.

Zoe stared at the eyelet cotton and bright plaids, the crisp party dresses and pristine nightgowns. All so young, so-so innocent. She remembered well that she had been dressed in clean, unsoiled clothing like that: fabrics fresh against her skin, stiff with starch, rustling with their newness.

'You must be a little lady,' her mother had said. 'And look at these adorable white gloves!'

'You must keep yourself clean and spotless,' her mother had said. 'Never run. Try not to become perspired. Move slowly and gracefully.'

'A little lady always listens,' her mother had said. 'A little lady speaks in a quiet, refined voice, enunciating clearly.'

So Zoe avoided mudpuddles, learned the secrets of the kitchen. She did her homework every night and was awarded good report cards. All her parents' friends remarked on what a paragon she was.

'A real little lady.' That's what the adults said about Zoe Kohler.

Seeing those immaculate garments in a Madison Avenue shop brought it all back: the spotlessness of her home, the unblemished clothing she wore, the purity of her childhood. Youth without taint…

On the evening of June 14th, a Saturday, Zoe had dinner with Ernest Mittle in the dining room of the Hotel Gramercy Park. They were surprised to find they were the youngest patrons in that sedate chamber.

Zoe Kohler, glancing about, saw Ernest and herself in twenty years, and found comfort in it. Well-groomed women and respectable men. Dignity and decorum. Low voices and small gestures. How could some people reject the graces of civilization?

She looked at the man sitting opposite and was content. Courtesy and kindness were not dead.

Ernest was wearing a navy blue suit, white shirt, maroon tie. His fine, flaxen hair was brushed to a gleam. Cheeks and chin were so smooth and fair that they seemed never to have known a razor.

He appeared so slight to Zoe. There was something limpid about him, an untroubled innocence. He buttered a breadstick thoroughly and precisely and crunched it with shining teeth. His hands and feet were small. He was almost a miniature man, painted with a one-hair brush, refined to purity.

After dinner they stopped at the dim bar for a Strega. Here was a more electric ambience. The patrons were younger, noisier, and there were shouts of laughter. Braless women and bearded men.

'What would you like to do, Zoe?' Ernest asked, holding her hand and stroking her fingers lightly. 'A movie? A nightclub? Would you like to go dancing somewhere?'

She considered a moment. 'A disco. Ernie, could we go to a disco? We don't have to dance. Just have a glass of wine and see what's going on.'

'Why not?' he said bravely, and she thought of her gold bracelet.

An hour later they were seated at a minuscule table in a barnlike room on East 58th Street. They were the only customers, although lights were flashing and flickering and music boomed from a dozen speakers in such volume that the walls trembled.

'You wanted to see what's going on?' Ernest shouted, laughing. 'Nothing's going on!'

But they were early. By the time they finished their second round of white wine, the disco was half-filled, the dance floor was filling up, and newcomers were rushing through the entrance, stamping, writhing, whirling before they were shown to tables.

It was a festival! a carnival! What costumes! What disguises! Naked flesh and glittering cloth. A kaleidoscope of eye-aching colors. All those jerking bodies frozen momentarily in stroboscopic light. The driving din! Smell of perfume and sweat. Shuffle of a hundred feet. The thunder!

Zoe Kohler and Ernest Mittle looked at each other. Now they were the oldest in the room, smashed by cacophonous music, assaulted by the wildly sexual gyrations on the floor. It wasn't a younger generation they were watching; it was a new world.

There a woman with breasts swinging free from a low-cut shirt. There a man with genitals delineated beneath skin-tight pants of pink satin. Bare necks, arms, shoulders. Navels. Hot shorts, miniskirts, vinyl boots. Rumps. Tits and cocks.

Grasping hands. Sliding hands. Grinding hips. Opened thighs. Stroking. Gasps and shiny grins. Flickering tongues and wild eyes. A churn of heaving bodies, the room rocking, seeming to tilt.

Everything tilting…

'Let's dance,' Ernest yelled in her ear. 'It's so crowded, no one will notice us.'

On the floor, they were swallowed up, engulfed and hidden. They became part of the slough. Hot flesh poured them together. They were in a fevered flood, swept away.

They tried to move in time to the music, but they were daunted by the flung bodies about them. They huddled close, staggering upright, trying to keep their balance, laughing nervously and holding each other to survive.

For a moment, just a moment, they were one, knees to shoulders, welded tight. Zoe felt his slightness, his soft heat. She did not draw away, but he did. Slowly, with difficulty, he pulled her clear, guided her back to their table.

'Oh wow,' he said, 'what a crush! That's madness!'

'Yes,' she said. 'Could I have another glass of wine, please?'

They didn't try to dance again, but they didn't want to leave.

'They're not so much younger than we are,' Zoe said.

'No,' he agreed, 'not so much.'

They sat at their table, drinking white wine and looking with' amusement, fear, and envy at the frenzied activity around them. The things they saw, flashing lights; the things they heard, pounding rhythm-all stunned them.

They glanced at each other, and their clasped hands tightened. Never had they felt so alone and together.

Still, still, there was an awful fascination. All that nudity. All that sexuality. It lured. They both felt the pull.

Zoe saw one young woman whirling so madly that her long blond hair flared like flame. She wore a narrow strip of shirred elastic across her nipples. Her jeans were so tight that the division between buttocks was obvious… and the mound between her thighs.

She danced wildly, mouth open, lips wet. Her eyes were half-closed; she gasped in a paroxysm of lust. Her body fought for freedom; she offered her flesh.

'I could do that,' Zoe Kohler said suddenly.

'What?' Ernest shouted. 'What did you say? I can't hear you.'

She shook her head. Then they sat and watched. They drank many glasses of wine. They felt the heat of the dancers. What they witnessed excited them and diminished them at once, in a way they could not understand.

Finally, long past 1:00 a.m., they rose dizzily to their feet, infected by sensation. Ernest had just enough money to pay the bill and leave a small tip.

Outside, they stood with arms about each other's waist, weaving slightly. They tasted the cool night air, looked up at stars dimmed by the city's blaze.

'Go home now,' Ernest muttered. 'Don't have enough for a cab. Sorry.'

'Don't worry about it, dear,' she said, taking his arm. 'I have money.'

'A loan,' he insisted.

She led him, lurching, to Park Avenue. When a cab finally stopped, she pushed Ernest into the back seat, then climbed in. She gave the driver her address.

'Little high,' Ernest said solemnly. 'Sorry about that.'

Вы читаете The third Deadly Sin
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