Peril

“So, I was wondering. Would you be interested in coming by again?”

“Coming by?”

“I’d like to talk to you about, maybe, developing an act, you know? For the bar, I mean. Would you . . . well . . . would you be interested in that?”

“Yes, I would,” she told him.

“Okay, so, when could you drop by?”

She thought of the brief conversation she’d had with the man the night before. He’d seemed easygoing, a guy who probably never got mad or snapped at anybody. A boss like that was what she needed, she supposed, because she was jumpy, on edge, always looking over her shoulder, felt in every heartbeat a little ache of fear. “Would this afternoon be okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, fine,” the man said. “How about two-thirty?”

“Okay.”

“See you then.”

She put down the phone and felt a little burst of hope. Not much, she admitted, but maybe just enough to get her through the day.

ABE

Okay, so, that’s done, Abe thought as he hung up the phone. He had not intended to do it, but there it was, acting on impulse, one of the many things that had driven Mavis nuts, usually because when he did it, it was a screwup. As this might be a screwup too, Abe thought, this woman he didn’t even know but liked for no good reason except that she sang well and there was something about her that . . . well . . . got to him.

He sat back and glanced around his office, and it seemed to him that everything he saw confirmed that, impulse or not, he’d done the right thing. Going through the motions, that was what his life had become, a daily going through the motions. There were the bills on his desk, the orders in the box, the file cabinet stuffed with forms and catalogs and tax receipts, and God only knew whatever else he’d crammed in there. There were the boxes of whiskey, overflow from the storeroom, stacks of promotional material dropped off by the salesman, a bottle of wine Mrs. Higgins had brought back, claiming it was corked, which it was, and so he’d refunded her money, and now was supposed to contact the distributor for a refund of his own, but never would because . . . well . . . why bother since he’d sold it to her illegally, as a favor, McPherson’s being a bar, not a liquor store, and besides it was only twelve bucks, and his time wasn’t worth it.

But what was his time worth, he asked himself now. What were the days and hours that remained to him actually worth if he lived on as he now lived? Not much, he decided, which was why he’d changed his mind about that singer, gone with that little charge Susanne thought was so funny, but which, he knew, even “old guys” felt, perhaps old guys felt even more sharply than young guys because the horizon was closing in and the next chance you had might well be your last.

So, okay, he thought again, now rising with a curious energy, so, okay, done.

MORTIMER

He followed Stark over to the large antique desk, where the contents of the envelope had been spread out for display.

“You didn’t look at any of this, did you, Mortimer?” Stark asked.

Mortimer knew that he was being instructed to look at the few spare items Stark had assembled on the desk.

“The notes, if you can call them that, are very general,” Stark said. “And the photograph, I don’t even know how recent it is.”

Mortimer had never seen the missing woman before, and he was struck by how kind she looked for a woman who was supposed to be such a raving bitch. In fact, she had the delicate beauty of women he worshipped from afar, and it was hard for him to believe that anyone had been so stupid as to drive her from his life.

“How old is the picture, Mortimer?” Stark asked. “Did the husband tell you?”

“It’s recent,” Mortimer answered, though he had no idea if this was true. But what did it matter now if he lied to Stark again and again? With the first lie, the dam had broken, and he knew that the poisoned water was now destined to leak out until not a drop was left. “She’s in her thirties. That’s all I know.”

“She’s never had a job.” Stark nodded toward the single sheet of notes. “Except years before. A singer. She’s from down south originally. She took none of the husband’s money. She left her car in the driveway. Do you have anything to add to this?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s a problem, Mortimer, because there’s nothing to go on in any of this,” Stark said. He picked up the photograph and the notes and returned them to the envelope. “This friend of yours has to give me more.”

“He won’t,” Mortimer said.

Stark sat down behind the desk and stared Mortimer dead in the eye. “This is a favor I was willing to do for this man,” he said. “But really, I was doing the favor for you.”

“I know.”

“You told him this?”

“Yeah. And that you was doing it on the cheap.”

“He understands that I don’t owe him anything, correct?”

“Right.”

“And that I don’t need his money?”

“He knows that, sure.”

“So where does that leave me, Mortimer?”

“Leave you?”

“Yes, leave me. Because I can’t do what he wants me to do if he doesn’t give me more information.”

“I don’t think he’ll give nothing more,” Mortimer said.

“If that’s the case, then there’s nothing more I can do.” Stark scooped the notes and picture into the envelope and held it out to Mortimer. “You can return all this to your friend with my best regards.”

Mortimer didn’t take the envelope from Stark’s hand. “You can’t do that,” he said, and immediately realized that he’d made a terrible mistake, that Stark would hear the sudden hint of dread in his voice.

“What do you mean, I can’t?” Stark asked.

“You have to go through with it.”

“Why?”

Mortimer labored to make his answer genuine. “Because you agreed to do it, and he’s counting on you.”

“Your friend is counting on me?”

“Yes.”

“But he won’t give me any additional information?”

Mortimer hesitated. He knew he was in a box, that Stark would drop the case if more information were not provided. But he also knew that there’d be no more information. Unless he made it up.

“Well?” Stark demanded.

“I’ll talk to him,” Mortimer said. “I’ll get it out of him. Whatever you need.”

Stark watched him intently. “Does this friend of yours have any idea where his wife might be?”

The cityscape beyond the window provided the only answer Mortimer could think of. “Here,” he said. “He thinks she came to New York.”

“Why does he think that?”

Mortimer shrugged. “He figures that she just wants to disappear, and so she’d come to the city. Disappear into the crowd.” He could tell one part of Stark’s mind was willing to accept the modest logic of this, while the other part labored to peel back his skin, peer into his brain, find the elusive something that Mortimer was holding back.

“All right,” Stark said finally. “I’ll give this friend of yours one more chance to provide something useful. One chance, Mortimer.”

“Okay,” Mortimer said.