The Eighth Commandment (36 page)

“Good,” I said. “Not great, but good. Champagne and super food. I’m a wee bit disoriented.”

“A wee bit disoriented,” he repeated, laughing. “You mean you’re dead drunk.”

“I am not dead drunk,” I said indignantly. “And I resent the—What do I resent?”

“The accusation? The implication?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding at the phone, “I resent the implication. Is your invitation still open?”

“Of course. Do you want me to come get you?”

“I am quite capable,” I said loftily, “of navigating by myself.”

“Of course you are,” he said. “Promise to take a cab?”

“I promise.”

“Promise not to talk to the driver?”

“Can I say ‘Good evening’ when I get in, and ‘Good night’ when I get out?”

“Only that,” Jack said, “and nothing more. Promise?”

“Go to hell,” I said, giggling, and hung up.

In my foggy state I still remembered that, as my dear mother had taught me, I must seek out the hostess and thank her for a lovely evening. But it was such a madhouse in the apartment—people sitting on the floor and gobbling from their buffet plates, a few passed-out drunks, two couples dancing to no music that I could hear—I decided to steal away like a mouse and write Vanessa a thank-you note the next day.

At the doorway, I turned and looked back, towering over the
walpurgisnacht.
In a corner behind the bar I noticed Vanessa, Roberta Minchen, and Carlo huddling together, thick as thieves. They were speaking seriously, not chattering, not smiling, and I suddenly had a sinking feeling that I had talked too much that night to Carlo, the demon lover.

Following Jack’s instructions, I cabbed down to his loft in silence, sobered and thoughtful.

“I
WANT A QUART
of ice water,” I told Jack. “Immediately.”

“Water?” he said. “Cheap date.”

But he brought me a pewter tankard of ice cubes and a glass pitcher of water. He filled the mug, waited while I gulped it down, then filled it again.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“I drank too much, ate too much, talked too much.”

“Welcome to the club,” he said. “Who threw this shindig?”

“Vanessa Havistock,” I told him.

“Oh-ho,” he said. “And I wasn’t invited? I better change my deodorant. Learn anything?”

“Yes,” I said. “I learned that Luther Havistock is a dingdong, right on the edge. May I take off my shoes?”

“Whatever turns you on,” Jack said.

He was wearing sandals on bare feet, flannel bags, and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the tails hanging outside. What a casually handsome man! He made Carlo look like a mannequin. I mean Jack moved like a premier danseur. He could pick his nose and it would be a work of art.

“I know what you need,” he said.

“Don’t be so sure of yourself,” I said.

“Do what Daddy tells you. Have exactly one ounce of cognac. Sip it very, very slowly. In twenty minutes you’ll be a new woman, ready to run the four-forty. Trust me.”

“Never,” I said, “but I’ll try the cognac.”

He was right. The first sip burned, but after that it lulled, soothed, smoothed, and I began to get back to what I laughingly call normal.

“How was Vanessa acting tonight?” Jack asked. “Coming on to every guy in sight?”

“She was doing all right. If I was a man, I’d be interested.”

He shook his head. “A barracuda,” he said. “She scares me. I think I talked to her twice, and each time, after I left, I patted my hip to make sure my wallet was still there.”

I laughed. “Don’t tell me the great Romeo is frightened of a poor little old female?”

“Who said she’s a female? Not a human female. She’s an animal, and this Romeo never learned to work with a chair and a whip. Anything else happen at the party?”

I knew he was pumping me, but I felt so mellow I didn’t care.

“The Minchens were there,” I said. “Which surprised me. I went to lunch with Vanessa and Roberta, and it was a shouting match. I thought they were sworn enemies, but tonight was like old home week. Maybe they all starred in the same video porn flick.”

He stared at me. “Dunk,” he said, “what are you talking about?”

“I thought I told you,” I said confusedly. “Or maybe I told Al Georgio. He just laughed. You might as well know about it.”

So I related the story of my evening at the Minchens’, and their efforts to recruit me into their circle of videocassette stunt men and women.

“And the Minchens were in them?” Jack said. “This wasn’t commercial stuff you saw?”

“They were in them,” I assured him. “It was homemade.”

“Son of a bitch,” Jack said thoughtfully. “Who would believe it? They look like Mr. and Mrs. Square. I’ve got a VCR, but I don’t have any porn tapes. I never think of sex as a spectator sport. Want to watch
The Sound of Music
?”

“No, thanks.”

“Good. I haven’t got it. How about the original
King Kong
?”

“I never think of sex as a spectator sport. Jack, why are we wasting time talking about videocassettes?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” he said. “I guess I was trying to be a gentleman.”

“That’ll be the day,” I said.

He was
such
a lover. He turned me upside down and inside out. After he kissed my breasts, I said, “Now you must marry me.” He laughed. A hollow laugh, I thought.

“Hey,” he said, “you’re free, white, and twenty-one.”

“At least,” I told him. “What comes next?”

“Probably me,” he said, groaning and going back to work.

What a frolic that was! The tap dancer was so loving and funny and knowing. He knew just which switches to flick and buttons to press. I didn’t want to think of how he had learned all that.

He was all over me. A wicked tongue. And absolutely no inhibitions. Which made me respond in kind, of course. When you’re in a foreign country, you try to adopt the customs of the natives, do you not? But he had some nerve calling Vanessa an animal; this kid was a tiger.

Later, when it was over, my heartbeat and respiration slowing, I was reasonably certain I wouldn’t have to be admitted to Intensive Care. Jack was clever enough to hold me in a nice, warm, horizontal hug. He didn’t miss a trick.

“So tell me,” he said, “what do you think of the International Monetary Fund?”

I laughed and punched his arm. “I wish I could hate you,” I told him, “but I can’t.”

“Why would you want to hate me?”

“Because you’re no damned good.”

“That’s true,” he acknowledged, “but then I never claimed to be a Boy Scout, did I? You know what I’m going to do now?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Have a beer,” he said. “Be right back.”

When he returned, he put the cold can of Pabst on my stomach.

“You bastard!” I gasped.

“Dunk, you said Luther Havistock was right on the edge. What did you mean by that?”

Just like Al Georgio. Neither of them could forget the job.

“I think there’s a potential for violence there,” I said. “He was somewhat smashed, but
in vino Veritas.
He was talking wildly. About suicide, amongst other things. Including some disagreeable stuff about his wife. Not exactly what I’d call a healthy situation.”

“He’s hurting,” Jack said. “Moneywise, I mean. You think that’s why he’s boozing?”

“That may be part of it. But there’s more to it than that. Vanessa is leading him a merry chase and he just can’t keep up.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, “that’s my take, too. You think he swiped the Demaretion?”

“No. I don’t think the poor man’s capable of deciding what he wants for lunch, let alone engineering a clever caper. Jack, the guy is falling apart.”

He looked at me strangely. “Bright lady,” he said. “Dunk, I’ve got to apologize. When I first met you, I thought you were just another pretty face. I know differently now. You’ve got a brain.”

“Is that why you lured me onto these crazy futons?”

“No,” he said, laughing, “that had nothing to do with your brain. It was your belly button.”

“My
what
?”

“It’s an outsy,” he explained. “Haven’t seen one in years.”

“You’re a stinker,” I said. “An A-Number One, dyed-in-the-wool stinker. May I have a sip of your beer?”

“A little one,” he said, holding the opened can up to my lips. I got a small swallow. Then he carefully poured a few drops over my boobs and licked them off.

“Yum-yum,” he said.

“Talking about brains,” I said, “if you had one, you’d be dangerous.”

“I happen to be a closet intellectual,” he told me. “But there is a time and place for everything. Dunk, I hate to make this shameful confession, but I think you’re nice people.”

“I can endure you, too,” I said. “Jack, do me a favor?”

“If I can.”

“I forget whether it was you or Al who told me, but one of you said Ross Minchen has been making some hefty withdrawals from his bank account over the past few years. Could you find out where it’s going?”

“Oh, boy,” he said, “that’s a tough one. If he wrote a check to someone, maybe I could trace it. If he took it in cash, it’ll be practically impossible. I’ll see what I can do. Why do you ask?”

“Money,” I said. “That seems to be the thread running through everything: the theft of the coin and the murders of Vanwinkle and LeBaron. Admittedly some very heavy human passions were involved, but money looks like the motive.”

“Speaking of heavy human passions…” he said, looking at me.

“Yes?”

“I have a heavy human passion.”

“What a coincidence!” I cried.

It was bliss. He taught me so much. And in all modesty, I think I can say I improvised a little on my own. It was all so mindless and delightful. Fun and games, I suppose you’d call it, but it seemed to me there was more to it than that. There was a kind of wild, joyous, childish primitivism. Instead of a high-tech loft in SoHo, we could have been in a jungle or on a desert island. I mean we behaved like we were the last people on earth.

I lost all sense of time. I do remember that at one point, early in the morning, Jack roused long enough to say, “No way am I going to get up and drive you home.”

“No way am I going to go,” I said drowsily.

“See you at breakfast,” he said, and we went back to sleep on the futons.

In the morning we showered together—and that was a giggle. Then Jack donned a terry robe, and I pulled on his white dress shirt with the rolled-up sleeves. He thawed some frozen croissants and we had those with lime marmalade. And lots of strong, black coffee—not instant or decaf. We didn’t talk much. Mostly we just looked at each other and grinned.

It was almost eight o’clock before we shook off our dopey lassitude and were able to get dressed. Then Jack drove me uptown in his Jaguar. He double-parked outside my building.

“What can I say after I say I’m sorry?”

“Sorry about what?” I demanded.

He put a palm to my cheek, kissed me on the lips.

“Not a goddamned thing,” he said.

“I concur in your opinion,” I said, got out of the car, then turned back. “Jack, you’ll check on Ross Minchen’s bank withdrawals?”

“Sure.”

“You’re a darling.”

“I’d be the last to deny it,” he said, winking at me, then pulling away with a squeal of the Jag’s tires.

I had two locks on my apartment door (plus an interior chain latch). The lower lock had a spring tang and the upper was a dead bolt. I never, but
never
, left the apartment without locking the bolt and double-locking the spring latch. It was a habit, and I always locked up, even before running down to the corner to mail a letter, to be gone for no longer than a minute.

Now, when I inserted my keys, I discovered the dead bolt was already unlocked and the spring latch not double-locked. I stood staring at the faceplates, unable to believe I had been so careless. I leaned closer to inspect locks and door. No nicks, scars, or gouges. I remembered what Al Georgio had said of the Vanwinkle and LeBaron homicides: “No signs of forced entry.”

I knew very well what I should do; the police had issued enough warnings. If you suspected there was an intruder in your home,
do not enter.
Call the cops or, at the very least, summon a burly neighbor to escort you inside. Every single woman living alone in New York knew that.

But, fearing the open locks were merely the result of my own stupidity, I opened the door a few inches and called, “Hello?” How’s that for the acme of silliness? If there was a crook inside, did I expect him to carol back, “Hi, there!” But there was no answer. Just silence.

I cautiously ventured inside, then turned and locked, bolted, and chained the door behind me. Another idiotic mistake. If there was a thief on the premises, what good would locking the door have done? I should have left it wide open in case I had to beat a screaming and hysterical retreat. I just wasn’t thinking clearly.

I moved slowly through the apartment, checking every room. Nothing. Then I tried the back door to my minuscule garden. It was still locked and chained, and, looking through the window, I could see no one lurking outside.

I went back to open closet doors, peer under the bed, and draw back the shower curtain. All clear. But, standing in the middle of the living room, hands on hips, looking around, I had a definite feeling that someone
had
been there. The door of the cabinet in my little sideboard was slightly ajar. I always made sure it was tightly latched to help keep out dust.

And other things weren’t precisely in the position I had left them. The cushion on my armchair, for instance, had been flopped over; I could have sworn to that. And there was just something in the air of the place: a faint, strange scent signaling an alien presence.

The television set was still there. My two radios, my poor little jewel box, almost a hundred dollars in cash in the drawer of the bedside table—all untouched. Then I smacked my forehead with a palm, gave a groan of dismay, and went galloping into the kitchen to search the cabinet above the sink.

Dolly LeBaron’s package was still there. Thank God!

I went back into the living room, flopped on the couch, and tried to make sense of it all. I knew, absolutely, that I was not being paranoid; someone
had
been in my apartment—but for what reason? Sighing, I gave up trying to figure it out, and decided to take my mind off the puzzle by entering all the things I had learned the previous evening in my spiral notebook.