Ladyfingers Read online

  I was eating and reading a paper to see if there was anything about the case when I noticed a green dress pause at the edge of my table. I looked up at the well-bred decollete. Her hair was caught at the back with an orange ribbon and it cascaded in a ponytail down her back. Irene couldn't look like her in a million years.

  "I despise raw onions," she said.

  "Despise away," I said amiably.

  "I'm waiting for you to stand up."

  "Would it be bad manners if I didn't?"

  "It's easy to see that you're-"

  "What is it when a lady phones and remains silent?"

  She laughed as she sat down. Then she leaned her chin on her knuckles and stared at me. "My husband has never eaten a hamburger in his life," she said. "He says they're not safe."

  "He's right," I said. "Have a hamburger."

  Her eyes dropped to my hand. They widened.

  "It looks like a hamburger," she said. "What happened, for God's sake?"

  "A difference of opinion," I said. I put it under the table again.

  "You look like a lion," she said. "A sleepy, sullen lion."

  "Yeah. Give the waitress your order." The waitress was a red-cheeked Irish import. The Duchess ordered a hamburger.

  "I suppose you know you fascinate me."

  "Yep," I said, pouring catsup.

  "Aren't you interested?"

  I put down the catsup bottle. This woman was poison and I would have to get rid of her.

  "You're a rich, bored slut," I said. "You'd be happy pushing a baby carriage. But you picked what you wanted. So go lie in it. You get no sympathy from me. I'm not the least bit sorry for you or for your problems. I've seen too many poor people with too many real problems to give a goddamn about you and your husband. So the question boils down to this: Do I want to shack up with you? Yes. Will I? No. Why? Because I like to chase my women. Because I don't like women who amuse themselves by drinking as much as you do. And because your husband is a good friend of the commissioner's. That's three damn good reasons why I won't touch you. All right?"

  I took a bite of the hamburger. That was a mistake.

  She reached across the table and slapped me in the face. It was a good hard wallop and it knocked my mouthful of hamburger right onto the table. My reflexes, of which I had been so proud a few hours before, were on vacation and could not be reached.

  The waitress paled and almost dropped the hamburger she was bringing to our table. Several people turned around. Schrafft's was a quiet place and the slap was good and loud, Besides that, it stung. The Duchess had good back muscles. She probably played a good game of tennis.

  I put down my hamburger, wiped my hands carefully on the napkin, and slapped her face. The next move was up to her.

  She put her hand up to her face and stared at me. She was very calm. She smiled and stood up. Then she walked out. No one moved. Everyone stared at me as if I were a lousy wife-beater. I stared back until they dropped their eyes. I ate my hamburger to the end, even though it now tasted like paper. Maybe her husband was right: one should never eat hamburger. But who the hell served breast-of-guinea-hen sandwiches? Not any joint where I usually ate. My little Irish waitress shrank to the other side of the aisle whenever she passed by me. Up to now she had smiled shyly at me whenever I had dropped in. That romance was now over.

  As I paid my check I was aware of the manager and the hostess frowning at me. The Duchess was well on her way to making me a social leper. I could stand it. The portions were too small there anyway.

  But I suddenly realized that I hadn't found out how she knew about the case. Then I figured she would phone me again soon enough. And the irritating thing was that unlike a private citizen, I just couldn't take the phone off the hook and go to sleep. The joys of detective work meant that I could never have that privilege.

  I gloomily felt that she would be phoning all night.

  16

  I SET THE ALARM FOR 7:00 A.M. AND WENT to bed. Much to my surprise I was sleepy. I fell asleep. The ring woke me up and I fumbled for the alarm. I hit the clock with my bad hand, half-moaned and half-cursed. I picked it up from the floor, shoved in the alarm button. It still kept ringing. It took my dazed brain a few seconds to realize it was the doorbell.

  This time she wore a black dress that flowed over her like water. She wore a big hat and white gloves. She had been drinking.

  "Go away, please," I said.

  She put her hand on the door jamb and said, "You wouldn't slam a door on a lady's hand, would you?"

  "No, ma'am," I said. I took her hand off the jamb and forced it backwards. But she twisted her body and was inside the hall with a half-twist, duck, and weave. Drink or not, she had control over her body. My respect for her went up a notch.

  "Go comb your hair," she said. "You look a mess and so does your apartment." She looked at my bad hand. I was still holding it, under the foolish impression that the pain would go away.

  "You haven't bandaged it yet?" The stitches had opened a little.

  I looked at her sleepily. She went by me, prowled around the bathroom, and came out with iodine, adhesive tape, and several large gauze pads.

  I held out my hand. I winced when she poured the iodine over it lavishly, but she put on the gauze and taped it up decently.

  "Thanks," I growled. I still hadn't moved from the hallway.

  "Call me Androcles," she said. She sat down and crossed her long legs. I looked at them. She watched me look at them. Satisfied, she ran her gloved hand back and forth over the end table. She showed me the dust she had collected.

  "Don't you ever dust?"

  "Once in a while I have a woman clean up," I said. Irene had been useful in other ways.

  I went into the bathroom and combed my hair and came out.

  "I can't throw you out yet," I said. "You bandaged my hand." She had taken off her hat and gloves and was examining the photograph on the mantel.

  "Wife and kiddies?"

  "Sister and nephews."

  "Good," she said. "At least there'll be no adultery on your part. How about some coffee? The look in your face tells me I should sober up." She sat down again, crossed her legs, and swung one long leg back and forth slowly. A shoe worked loose and hung from her toes. I stared at it. It gave her a deliberately provocative air and she knew it.

  "I wonder if he's reached her toes by now," she said. I was on my way to the kitchen to make coffee but that remark brought me up short.

  I came out and looked at her. She had kicked off both shoes and had wandered over to the record player. She had a long waist. She found a wild Arab record. She put it on. She kept her feet together and stationary and began to dance.

  Her hips were swiveling on a universal joint. Her arms drifted up and down. Her eyes were half-closed. There was blue eye shadow on her eyelids. Then she opened them wide and stared at me.

  "What do you mean, he's reached her toes?"

  "Oh, I hear a lot." She closed her eyes. Her stomach was tracing perfect circles. She moved closer. "Why the hell don't you make love to me?"

  "I'm a faggot," I said. I went into the kitchen and put on some water. I stood by the stove while it boiled. It was safer. She kept on dancing. From time to time she ran her palms over her breasts. I asked God for help. I took out two cups full of boiling water and a jar of instant coffee.

  "I don't like that stuff," she said, narrowing her eyes. "I like it freshly ground."

  "Don't drink it and good-bye."

  "Don't you ever get tired of that routine of yours?"

  "Don't you?"

  All this time she hadn't stopped dancing.

  "I don't see why you don't go and look for that poor woman instead of hanging around your apartment feeling sorry for yourself," she said, her eyes closed.

  I looked at my wristwatch. It said 10:30.

  "You know," I said, "that's a very good idea." I went into the bathroom, took off my shirt, and began shaving. I wasn't going to look for anyone. What I was going to do w
as to make her think that I was going out to look for the poor woman. Somewhere along the line she would get the idea and go home. She came halfway in and leaned against the door.

  "I like to watch men shave," she said. "It makes me feel all tender inside."

  She watched me until I finished. I washed the razor, wiped my face, pushed past her, and put on a clean shirt.

  "What's this clean shirt bit?" she demanded.

  "I got a date." She had already forgotten that I was supposed to find a missing lady.

  She knocked the arm off the LP-and almost off the record player-and threw a shoe at me.

  I ducked the shoe without any trouble, but I couldn't save the arm. It costs around thirty bucks to repair one of those, or else the local hi-fi man is shafting me. I opened her pocketbook. She began to punch me in earnest and I pushed her back onto the couch so hard that she bounced. Before she could recover her balance I had picked out three tens from the crumpled mass of bills she had 70 jammed inside her purse. They were all mixed up with tortoise shell hairpins. I didn't think anyone wore those anymore. She had stuck in a heavy bracelet made of gold napoleons and sovereigns and what looked like Egyptian coins as well. She also had a tiny pair of scissors made in the shape of a stork. The long beak halves served as blades. I found the whole contents far more interesting than Irene's pocketbook, which was an awful blend of spilled face powder, hairpins, pennies, and what she referred to as Canal Number Five. She thought the mispronunciation was funny.

  My musings were interrupted by a yell. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  I told her to shut up and put on her shoes. She struggled up to a sitting position and slipped them on. She was sulking. She demanded once more to know what the hell I thought I was doing.

  "You broke the goddamn arm," I said. "It wasn't an accident. So you pay. All right?"

  I thought how nice it would be if I were to strip, soak in the tub, make her give me a good oil rub and then get into my bed, preceded by the Duchess.

  When her husband eventually found out what was happening-for it was bound to happen several times, given the excellent muscle tone of the Duchess and my serious interest in the horizontal waltz-I would be one step ahead. Because I would have my resignation papers all ready and then I would step into a good job with a private detective agency.

  It would all be easy and pleasant. But there was one thing wrong. It was all a daydream and I didn't have a job lined up. I hadn't even approached one. All I had in the bank was $79.84. I ate all my meals out and I paid too much rent.

  I tossed her gloves into her hat, handed her the lot, smelled the fragrance from her body, pushed her out, locked the door, and walked downstairs with her in silence.

  My next-door neighbor leered discreetly as he passed us in the hallway. I glared at him and he averted his eyes. We came out into the street. It was a nice street. There were trees on it and it was quiet at night. No one ever threw empty wine bottles at cops. Moreover, no one ever threw empty wine bottles out into the street to save putting them in garbage cans. We call it airmail. It was a good street and a long way from 103rd Street.

  I hailed a cab and got into it.

  "Is she pretty?" asked the Duchess.

  I nodded. She was holding the door of the cab. "I hope you have a lousy evening," she said with very good diction, better than anyone on 103rd could have said it. Then she slammed the door.

  "That lady sure can slam a door," said the hackie, wincing. I was on the other end of the seat, my hands in front of my face in case the glass shattered.

  "I know damn well she can," I muttered.

  "Where to, Mac?"

  "Seventy-six and Madison."

  "But that's only two blocks up!"

  I told him it certainly was open to that objection. He began to cry he might have picked up a longer haul. I silenced him by pointing out that if he thought the lady slammed a door hard he should wait till I got out. He quieted and took me where I wanted to go. Then I got out, paid him, and started to walk back to my apartment.

  A hippie was standing on the corner outside the Whitney Museum. He was hippie all the way, but expensive hippie. He wore wide bell-bottomed trousers of navy blue, a red uniform jacket with gold braid and brass buttons, love beads-three strands-and high Wellingtons. He was smoking and his hair came down to his shoulders. He wore an Omega wristwatch. He was about seventeen.

  I watched him for a while. He had an arrogant way of demanding money. He even asked two eleven-year-old girls.

  I had really needed money in my life. I had never begged for it. I think if I had, my mother would have whipped the hell out of me. I was going to take a sour view of this kid, and sure enough, when I passed by him he held out a hand and demanded a quarter. The cigarette was still in his mouth. He looked well fed. I understood that he was doing me a favor.

  "Hock the watch, kid," I said, walking on.

  "Hock the watch?" he said, shocked. "Hock the watch!" But I was past him.

  I had rocked the little bastard. Chalk one up for the thirty-pluses.

  I walked home slowly. She was nowhere in sight. Nothing was in sight. Trouble was in sight. I went upstairs and drank two double scotches. I fell into bed. Suddenly all the tension and fatigue caught up. I took my shoes off, reset the alarm, leaned back for a moment, and I fell asleep. I slept beautifully until the alarm rang next morning.

  17

  GOD WAS GOOD. THERE WAS NO ticket on the car.

  I drove downtown to the Academy. I got there half an hour early. I turned on the mike switch and tapped on the mike with my thumbnail. It boomed satisfyingly. I even had one customer. He was sitting in the back row center, smoking.

  I hadn't been on a stage since the night I graduated from night school. My kid sister Olivia had been in the audience. She giggled whenever I looked at her. She made me laugh too and this made me angry. Afterwards she was shy and would not let me kiss her. I suppose the graduation gown and cap scared her. They scared me too; I mean the six dollar rental did. Olivia was five. The next year a garbage truck backed up suddenly when she was playing in the street and killed her.

  That's when my mother began to hate New York. As soon as I started making decent money I sent her back to Puerto Rico. She bought a little property in the rain forest near El Yunque. She managed to rent out a little house that gave her enough income to live on until she died. In emergencies I gave her what was needed. She never came back to New York. Instead I used to fly down twice a year to visit her.

  I stood on the stage wondering what Olivia would be like if she were still alive. The double doors at the back opened and three doctors walked in. They started the flow. In twenty minutes half the auditorium was filled. The flow dwindled down to a trickle. When the trickle ended I stood up and switched on the mike.

  "Gentlemen," I began. "My name is Sanchez. I am a detective first grade. I have been temporarily assigned to what is either a homicide, a possible homicide, or a mutilation case. I don't know which is correct."

  That got their attention.

  "Three days ago the commissioner opened a little box that he had received in the mail. He found a woman's finger inside. An index finger. Nothing else. The next morning another box. This one contained the ring finger with a wedding ring on it. We think-"

  "Is this what you dragged us here for?"

  A tall man had stood up. He was almost shaking with rage.

  "Sir," I began, "we-"

  "I came all the way from New London because I thought it was important. I had an important vasectomy scheduled for this morning. I thought you had something serious to talk about!"

  "Sir-"

  "And what do I find? You've fallen for a typical medical student's practical joke!" He edged his way to the aisle. He walked up to the stage, took out a piece of paper, wrote on it, and tossed it on the stage. "Here's my voucher for the expenses," he said. "I hope to God I'll get it within four months."

  I bent down and picked it up. I said politely, "I'm sorr
y you feel like that, sir. I'll see that the voucher is handled promptly."

  "Stupid incompetence!" He marched out. I silently agreed with him. Several others got up and dropped their vouchers on the stage. I picked them up.

  The rest were willing to stay. I went on with my talk. It was brief. I explained our assumption that the lady was probably alive. I was done in four minutes. I requested that anyone knowing of a relationship between a doctor and a woman that might have resulted in the tattoo and the subsequent dismemberment should phone me at my number. I turned and wrote it on the blackboard.

  "Are there any questions?"

  No, no questions. Most of them didn't bother about vouchers when they left. I shut off the mike switch. I walked to the light panel and shut off the auditorium lights. I sat down at the desk with the little desk lamp still on and began to look through the vouchers. There were about fifty.

  A voice from the rear of the darkened auditorium spoke.

  "I have a question, mister."

  I didn't even look up. Hanrahan.

  "Yes, sir."

  "How you gonna pay for those vouchers?"

  That thought had just occurred to me also. The answer was that I would probably be stuck with them. "The Lord will find a way," I said.

  "Has He got any influence with First National Trust?"

  That was my bank. I let that one pass.

  "If you don't want to answer that question," Hanrahan went on, "I got another one. You went out of line signing my name on that phone list. And you told them here that you had my authority to use the auditorium. That wasn't smart. Not smart at all. But I'm glad you did it. Because you're gettin' desperate, right?"

  I said nothing.

  "So I just want to say thanks. And now I got to pick up that forged list of yours, and get a written statement from upstairs that you lied when you said you had the auditorium with my permission. Right?"