Bronx Noir

life?…Please?”

“Let me think about it.”

A few days later he told her he had thought about it. He loved the city. It was a great place to grow up. Didn’t he turn out fine? Think of the good schools and the parks. The museums. And all the friendly people. Besides, he didn’t want to deprive his family of closeness to their new grandchild. So the answer was no.

Linda lost all hope.

Six unhappy months later, she was awakened from her sleep by a sound. Linda turned to Frank’s side of the bed. He wasn’t there; he’d gone out on a house call. It was hard for her to pull herself awake because of the sleeping pills she took every night. She squinted at the alarm clock. It was nearly 2 a.m. It took her a few moments to focus. There was a shadow at the window facing the courtyard. She had forgotten to close the curtains. She stiffened. Someone was there. A nosy neighbor? No, it looked like he was dressed in black. With a pasty white face pressed against the glass.

Linda felt her skin crawl. Covering her head with the blanket, she groped for the phone. With shaking hands, she dialed the operator. Her breath raspy from fatigue and terror, she whispered, “Call the police. A prowler, someone’s in my courtyard.” She gave the operator her address. Moments later, the operator said the police were on their way.

Linda’s heart hammered against her chest as she peered over the blanket. The prowler was gone. She bolted out to the baby’s room. Thank God, she’s asleep! She stared at little Frances in her crib. Her throat tightened, on the verge of sobbing. I’ll never let anyone hurt you. Never.

Why wasn’t her husband here to protect her when she needed him?

Linda had no idea how long she had been standing at the crib when the police arrived. They searched the courtyard, and all around the building, found nothing. They were blase—routine stuff for them. They told her not to worry—probably some passing neighbor or a Peeping Tom—they’re harmless. He was probably miles away by now.

Suddenly she remembered the gun, and suddenly she wanted the police to get out. When they left, she hurried to their bedroom and removed it from Frank’s drawer and held it. She thought of the life insurance policy. Never say never, he’d said. She giggled. And Frank was always right. It’s now or never.

Moving as if in a trance, she took a towel and wrapped her iron in it and opened the kitchen window. She reached outside and smashed in the other side of the window, making sure the glass fell inward.

Linda stood in the kitchen for what seemed like hours. When she heard Frank’s key in the lock, she dialed the police again. “Hurry,” she sobbed, “the prowler’s come back!”

Frank was surprised to see her. “What are you doing up so late?” When Frank moved toward her, she raised the gun and fired.

Frank had been right about Vince’s contacts. The gun was faulty and it exploded, killing Linda as Frank watched in horror.

The family tearfully buried her in a nearby cemetery. All the neighbors came to pay their respects.

Linda had also been right. She knew the Bronx would never let her go. She would be stuck there for all eternity.

PART II

IN THE STILL OF THE NIGHT

RUDE AWAKENING

BY LAWRENCE BLOCK

Riverdale

She woke up abruptly—click! Like that, no warmup, no transition, no ascent into consciousness out of a dream. She was just all at once awake, brain in gear, all of her senses operating but sight. Her eyes were closed, and she let them remain that way for a moment while she picked up what information her other senses could provide.

She felt the cotton sheet under her, smooth. A good hand, a high thread count. Her host, then, wasn’t a pauper, and had the good taste to equip himself with decent bed linen. She didn’t feel a top sheet, felt only the air on her bare skin. Cool, dry air, air-conditioned air.

Whisper-quiet too. Probably central air-conditioning, because she couldn’t hear it. She couldn’t hear much, really. A certain amount of city noise, through windows that were no doubt shut to let the central air do its work. But less of it than she’d have heard in her own Manhattan apartment.

And the energy level here was more muted than you would encounter in Manhattan. Hard to say what sense provided this information, and she supposed it was probably some combination of them all, some unconscious synthesis of taste and touch and smell and hearing that let you know you were in one of the outer boroughs.

Memory filled in the rest. She’d taken the 1 train clear to the end of the line, following Broadway up into the Bronx, and she’d gone to a couple of bars in Riverdale, both of them nice preppy places where the bartenders didn’t look puzzled when you ordered a Dog’s Breakfast or a Sunday Best. And then…

Well, that’s where it got a little fuzzy.

She still had taste and smell to consult. Taste, well, the taste in her mouth was the taste of morning, and all it did was make her want to brush her teeth. Smell was more complicated. There would have been more to smell without airconditioning, more to smell if the humidity were higher, but nevertheless there was a good deal of information available. She noted perspiration, male and female, and sex smells.

He was right there, she realized. In the bed beside her. If she reached out a hand she could touch him.