Coke. He felt like a junk-food pig, his plate loaded with chips and two salami-and-ham sandwiches, mustard oozing over the sides, a cold Amstel close to his hand.
“You want to see that movie tonight—
She was delighted and again he marveled at the simple joyousness his suggestion brought her. He wanted to tell her it was just a movie, nothing more, but her obvious pleasure kept him silent.
Having been a cop, Taylor found the movie unbelievable, downright silly in places, but nevertheless he enjoyed himself. Eden was finally relaxing with him. They came out, he looking about methodically at the crowd of people pressing near them, at people’s hands mainly, and she talking a blue streak about the male lead and how he couldn’t be blamed for believing his brother had betrayed him to the drug lords, how he had really been working undercover for the DEA.
Yeah, right, Taylor thought. He made appropriate noises, keeping her close, keeping her to the inside, his place always slightly ahead of hers. If she was aware of his actions, she gave no sign of it.
It took a while to get a taxi and it made him nervous. It would have been brighter not to have brought her out tonight. But no one followed, he was certain, and he breathed easier. When they got to her apartment, Taylor checked every room thoroughly, gave her both his cell phone number and his apartment phone number, and said as he was turning to leave, “Thanks for a fun evening, Eden. I enjoyed it, job or not. Remember everything I told you.”
After he’d gone, after she had herself double-checked all her locks, Lindsay made herself a cup of tea and adjourned to her living room. She nestled in among her cushions on the sofa. She wasn’t at all tired. In fact, she felt wired, restless, bedeviled by a fit of nerves, as her grandmother was wont to say. She picked up a historical romance but couldn’t get herself settled into the novel. She prowled a bit, frowning at herself. Some ten minutes later, as she was showering for bed, she realized what was wrong. It wasn’t the threat; it was Taylor. She could see him so clearly, right now, in her mind, smiling at her. She liked him. She’d been sorry to see him leave tonight. She hadn’t wanted him to go. A man, and she actually liked him. More than that, she trusted him. At least she trusted him to keep her safe.
On Sunday night, after a day spent watching professional football games on TV, Taylor left, repeating his same instructions, his same admonitions. Lindsay showered and put on her nightgown, then straightened the devastation in her living room, listening with only half an ear to the ten-o’clock news. She dropped the bowl that had held a gallon of popcorn during the second half of the game between the 49ers and the Giants. She whirled around and stared at the TV. The director of the commercial shot on Friday morning in Central Park, George Hudson, age thirty-six, had been badly beaten and locked in the trunk of his car in a long-term parking lot near the Lincoln Tunnel. He was alive but in guarded condition at St. Vincent’s Hospital. He suffered broken ribs, injuries to his spleen and liver. His face had been severely beaten. He had a concussion. Police were, for the moment, calling it a vicious mugging or a gang attack, although they couldn’t explain why muggers or a gang would leave over two hundred dollars in Hudson’s wallet. Drug dealing was speculated upon. But that sounded farfetched. There were as yet no clues, no suspects. Hudson had been able to tell police just moments ago that he’d been attacked in the parking lot some three hours earlier by two masked assailants. He knew nothing more. They hadn’t said anything, just beaten him senseless.
The moment the newscaster moved on, Lindsay’s phone rang. She lurched up to answer it, then remembered. She waited, her hand out, for the answering machine to kick in. It did, and she heard Taylor’s voice. She picked up the phone immediately. Before she could say a word, he said very calmly, his voice pitched low, “I know. I just saw it. Stay put. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t move, Eden.”
He arrived in eight minutes. Taylor looked at her white face and very slowly put out his arms. Very slowly he drew her against him. “It’s all right. It’s all right. You’re safe.”
The phone rang shrilly.
Taylor motioned her to a chair, noticing for the first time that she was wearing a voluminous white nightgown that covered her from throat to toes, and answered the phone himself. It was Demos and he was terrified and babbling.
“My God! Is that you, Taylor? Did you hear? Oh, my God! You can’t say anything, Taylor, you can’t. You got that? Keep your mouth shut. Oh, my God.”
Taylor let the man’s shock and fear run itself out. He said finally, “I have to talk to the cops, Demos. I have no choice, surely you realize that. I would suggest you pay off these thugs and keep clean after this.”
“Yes, yes, I swear I will, but don’t tell the cops, you can’t!”
Taylor stared at the phone. “Why not?”
“You fool, they’ll kill me, that’s why not! If you tell the cops, they’ll be on my doorstep in no time at all. What the hell would I tell them? Give them names and addresses? Are you out of your fucking skull? God, the moment I spit out one single name, I’m history! I’m dead meat. These guys don’t know I hired you, Taylor—and they still don’t, because they weren’t ever after Eden. They believe it’s just me who knows. You can’t call the cops!”
Taylor sighed. Demos was right. He didn’t want the man killed, no matter how much of an ass he was. “Do you promise me you’ll pay them off?”
“Sweet Jesus, yes, yes!”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes!”
“And you’ll break your own neck before you ever get yourself into a mess like this again?”
There was a brief hesitation. “I mean it, Demos. Damn your eyes, I don’t want Eden in any more danger. If they threatened you, that would be different, but not Eden, not any more innocent people, you got that?”
“Yeah, I got it. I swear, Taylor, I swear. You can trust me.”
Very doubtful, Taylor thought. “Good. Don’t forget, Demos, that I know. If ever you screw up again, I’ll go to the cops and your hide will be on the line. Another thing, if George Hudson dies, it’s a new ball game. No covering up. I have to go to the cops then.”
“He won’t die. Don’t tell the cops. I’ll do anything, I swear.”
“Yeah, right.” Taylor hung up, turned slowly, and said to Lindsay, “It’s over. Demos has promised to pay his debt.”
“That’s good,” she said, her voice as blank as a sheet of paper.
“I hope Hudson hangs on.”
“I do too. I’ll visit him tomorrow. Make sure he’ll be okay.”
He smiled at her. She was getting her balance back. “Good idea. You know something? I still think you need protection. Anyone who prowls in front of the TV biting her nails over an intercepted pass and howling whenever a penalty is called, definitely needs a guard. What it comes down to is this: I want to see you again. A date this time, not a job. How about it, Eden?”
She’d met him two days before. It seemed much longer. He was smiling but she saw the tension in him. He really wanted to see her again. It surprised her and pleased her and made her only mildly wary.
“Yes,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “Yes, I’d like that.”
The following Tuesday, the temperature plummeted to the mid-twenties. It had rained during the night and stopped early Tuesday morning, leaving frozen streets and sidewalks. Traffic was a god-awful mess, taxi drivers screaming and cursing, tempers short and foul, and pedestrians extra careful when crossing the streets even with the light. Lindsay was bundled up to her eyebrows. She was walking toward the library on the Columbia campus to search out articles for Gayle on the dangers of gymnastics for preadolescent children. “The most recent articles only,” Gayle had said. She listed out the articles she’d downloaded off the Internet so she wouldn’t duplicate them, and she needed more. “You’re wonderful, Lindsay. I love you and I owe you. Call it my Christmas present. Now you don’t have to spend a dime on me.”
It was so bloody cold that Lindsay had quickly forgotten how wonderful she was. She looked up, but the library still seemed a goodly distance away. She thought of George Hudson and the horror she’d felt when she’d visited him the day before. His face was a battered mess, his nose broken, stitches on his jaw and over his left eye. The bruises made him look a nightmare. He’d been very surprised to see her, but pleased in his way. He was going to live and he would heal. He just didn’t understand why anyone would beat him up. It was a mystery. She felt such guilt she’d left as soon as politely possible. She stopped off and ordered flowers sent to him.
Finally, the Columbia library loomed up, its pale brick facade looking as cold and damp and uninviting as it
