this was her way of, uh, you know, getting back at me. But I swear I never thought she'd pull anything like this. I mean, it was all friendly; we didn't fight or anything like that. No screaming. I never thought she'd…'
His voice trailed away.
'Maybe now you'll get back together again,' Zoe said hopefully.
But he didn't answer, and after a while she left him and went in search of Maddie.
She found a young doctor scribbling on a clipboard outside the Intensive Care Unit. She asked him if she could see Mrs. Kurnitz.
'I'm Zoe Kohler,' she said. 'I'm her best friend. You can ask her husband. He's right down the hall.'
He looked at her blankly.
'Why not?' he said finally, and again she thought of her gold bracelet. 'She's not so bad. Puked up most of the stuff. She'll be dancing the fandango tomorrow night. But make it short.'
Maddie was in a bed surrounded by white screens. She looked drained, waxen. Her eyes were closed. Zoe bent over her, took up a cool, limp hand. Maddie's eyes opened slowly. She stared at Zoe.
'Shit,' she said in a wispy voice. 'I fucked it up, didn't I? I can't do anything right.'
'Oh, Maddie,' Zoe Kohler said sorrowfully.
'I got the fucking pills down and then I figured I'd make sure by finishing the booze. But they tell me I upchucked.'
'But you're alive,' Zoe said.
'Hip, hip, hooray,' Maddie said, turning her head to one side. 'Is Harry still around?'
'He's right outside. Do you want to see him, Maddie?'
'What the hell for?'
'He's taking it hard. He's all broken up.'
Maddie's mouth stretched in a grimace that wasn't mirth.
'He thinks it was because of him,' she said, a statement, not a question. 'The male ego. I couldn't care less.'
'Then why…?'
Maddie turned her head back to glare at Zoe.
'Because I just didn't want to wake up,' she said. 'Another day. Another stupid, empty, fucking day. Harry's got nothing to do with it. It's me.'
'Maddie, I… Maddie, I don't understand.'
'What's the point?' she demanded. 'Just what is the big, fucking point? Will you tell me that?'
Zoe was silent.
'Ah, shit,' Maddie said. 'What a downer it all is. Just being alive. Who needs it?'
'Maddie, you don't really feel like-'
'Don't tell me what I feel like, kiddo. You haven't a clue, not a clue. Oh, Christ, I'm sorry,' she added immediately, her hand tightening on Zoe's. 'You got your problems too, I know.'
'But I thought you were-'
'All fun and games?' Maddie said, her mouth twisted. 'A million laughs? You've got to be young for that, luv. When the tits begin to sag, it's time to take stock. I just figured I had the best of it and I didn't have the guts for what comes next. I'm a sprinter, sweetie, not a long distance runner.'
'Do you really think you and Harry…?'
'No way. It's finished. Kaput. He had a toss in the hay with his tootsie tonight, and then came home and found me gasping my last. Big tragedy. Instant guilt. So he's all busted up. By tomorrow night he'll be sore at me for spoiling his sleep. Oh hell, I'm not blaming him. But it's all over. He knows it and I know it.'
'What will you do now, Maddie?'
'Do?' she said with a bright smile. 'I'll tell you what I'll do. The worst. Go on living.'
Out in the corridor, Zoe Kohler leaned a moment against the wall, her eyes closed.
If Maddie, if a woman like Maddie, couldn't win, no one could win. She didn't want to believe that, but there it was.
Dr. Oscar Stark called her at the office.
'Just checking on my favorite patient,' he said cheerfully. 'How are we feeling these days, Zoe?'
'I feel fine, doctor.'
'Uh-huh. Taking your medication regularly?'
'Oh yes.'
'No craving for salt?'
'No.'
'What about tiredness? Feel weary at times? All washed out?'
'Oh no,' she lied glibly, 'nothing like that.'
'Sleeping all right? Without pills?'
'I sleep well.'
He sighed. 'Not under any stress, are you, Zoe? Not necessarily physical stress, but any, uh, personal or emotional strains?'
'No.'
'You're wearing that bracelet, aren't you? The medical identification bracelet? And carrying the kit?'
'Oh yes. Every day.'
He was silent a moment, then said heartily, 'Good! Well, I'll see you on-let me look it up-on the first of July, a Tuesday. Right?'
'Yes, doctor. That's correct.'
'If any change occurs-any weakness, nausea, unusual weight loss, abdominal pains-you'll phone me, won't you?'
'Of course, doctor. Thank you for calling.'
She thought it out carefully…
Newspapers had described the Hotel Ripper as being 'flashily dressed.' So she would have to forget her skin- tight skirts and revealing necklines. Also, it was now too warm to wear a coat of any kind to cover such a costume.
So, to avoid notice by the doorman of her apartment house and by police officers stationed in hotel cocktail lounges, she would dress conservatively. She would wear no wig. She would use only her usual minimal makeup.
That meant there was no reason for that pre-adventure trip up to the Filmore on West 72nd Street to effect a transformation. She could sally forth boldly, dressed conventionally, and take a cab to anywhere she wished.
She could not wear the why not? bracelet, of course, and her entire approach would have to be revised. She could not come on as 'sexually available.' Her clothes, manner, speech, appearance-all would have to be totally different from the published description of the Hotel Ripper.
Innocence! That was the answer! She knew how some men were excited by virginity. (Hadn't Kenneth been?) She would try to act as virginal as a woman of her age could. Why, some men even had a letch for cheerleaders and nubile girls in middies. She knew all that, and it would be fun to play the part.
There was a store on 40th Street, just east of Lexington Avenue, that sold women's clothing imported from Latin America. Blouses from Ecuador, skirts from Guatemala, bikinis from Brazil, huaraches, mantillas, lacy camisoles-and Mexican wedding gowns.
These last were white or cream-colored dresses of batiste or crinkled cotton, light as gossamer. They had full skirts that fell to the ankle, with modest necklines of embroidery or eyelet. The bell sleeves came below the elbow, and the entire loose dress swung, drifted, ballooned-fragile and chaste.
'A marvelous summer party dress,' the salesclerk said. 'Comfortable, airy-and so different.'
'I'll take it,' Zoe Kohler said.
She read the weekly hotel trade magazine avidly. There was a motor inn on 49th Street, west of Tenth Avenue: the Tribunal. It would be hosting a convention of college and university comptrollers during June 29th to July 2nd.
When Zoe Kohler looked up the Tribunal in the hotel directory, she found it was a relatively modest hostelry, only 180 rooms and suites, with coffee shop, dining room, a bar. And an outdoor cocktail lounge that overlooked a
