Staten Island Noir

by Patricia Smith

  It was, to be sure, a familiar sensation. Men had always looked at her. Since adolescence, since her body had begun the transformation from girl to woman? No, longer than that. Even in childhood, some men had looked at her, gazing with admiration and, often, with something beyond admiration.

  In Hawley, Minnesota, thirty miles east of the North Dakota line, they'd looked at her like that. The glances followed her to Red Cloud and Minneapolis, and now she was in New York, and, no surprise, men still looked at her.

  She lifted her glass, sipped, and a male voice said, "Excuse me, but is that a Rob Roy?"

  He was standing to her left, a tall man, slender, well turned out in a navy blazer and gray trousers. His shirt was a button-down, his tie diagonally striped. His face, attractive but not handsome, was youthful at first glance, but she could see he'd lived some lines into it. And his dark hair was lightly infiltrated with gray.

  "A dry Rob Roy," she said. "Why?"

  "In a world where everyone orders Cosmopolitans," he said, "there's something very pleasingly old-fashioned about a girl who drinks a Rob Roy. A woman, I should say."

  She lowered her eyes to see what he was drinking.

  "I haven't ordered yet," he said. "Just got here. I'd have one of those, but old habits die hard." And when the barman moved in front of him, he ordered Jameson on the rocks. "Irish whiskey," he told her. "Of course, this neighborhood used to be mostly Irish. And tough. It was a pretty dangerous place a few years ago. A young woman like yourself wouldn't feel comfortable walking into a bar unaccompanied, not in this part of town. Even accompanied, it was no place for a lady."

  "I guess it's changed a lot," she said.

  "It's even changed its name," he said. His drink arrived, and he picked up his glass and held it to the light, admiring the amber color. "They call it Clinton now. That's for DeWitt Clinton, not Bill. DeWitt was the governor awhile back, he dug the Erie Canal. Not personally, but he got it done. And there was George Clinton, he was the governor, too, for seven terms starting before the adoption of the Constitution. And then he had a term as vice president. But all that was before your time."

  "By a few years," she allowed.

  "It was even before mine," he said. "But I grew up here, just a few blocks away, and I can tell you nobody called it Clinton then. You probably know what they called it."

  "Hell's Kitchen," she said. "They still call it that, when they're not calling it Clinton."

  "Well, it's more colorful. It was the real estate interests who plumped for Clinton, because they figured nobody would want to move to something called Hell's Kitchen. And that may have been true then, when people remembered what a bad neighborhood this was, but now it's spruced up and gentrified and yuppified to within an inch of its life, and the old name gives it a little added cachet. A touch of gangster chic, if you know what I mean."

  "If you can't stand the heat—"

  "Stay out of the Kitchen," he supplied. "When I was growing up here, the Westies pretty much ran the place. They weren't terribly efficient like the Italian mob, but they were colorful and bloodthirsty enough to make up for it. There was a man two doors down the street from me who disappeared, and they never did find the body. Except one of his hands turned up in somebody's freezer on 53rd Street and Eleventh Avenue. They wanted to be able to put his fingerprints on things long after he was dead and gone."

  "Would that work?"

  "With luck," he said, "we'll never know. The Westies are mostly gone now, and the tenement apartments they lived in are all tarted up, with stockbrokers and lawyers renting them. Which are you?"

  "Me?"

  "A stockbroker or a lawyer?"

  She grinned. "Neither one, I'm afraid. I'm an actress."

  "Even better."

  "Which means I take a class twice a week," she said, "and run around to open casting calls and auditions."

  "And wait tables?"

  "I did some of that in the Cities. I suppose I'll have to do it again here, when I start to run out of money."

  "The Cities?"

  "The Twin Cities. Minneapolis and St. Paul."

  They talked about where she was from, and along the way he told her his name was Jim. She was Jennifer, she told him. He related another story about the neighborhood—he was really a pretty good storyteller—and by then her Rob Roy was gone and so was his Jameson. "Let me get us another round," he said, "and then why don't we take our drinks to a table? We'll be more comfortable, and it'll be quieter."

  * * *

  He was talking about the neighborhood.

  "Irish, of course," he said, "but that was only part of it. You had blocks that were pretty much solid Italian, and there were Poles and other Eastern Europeans. A lot of French, too, working at the restaurants in the theater district. You had everything, really. The UN's across town on the East River, but you had your own General Assembly here in the Kitchen. Fifty-seventh Street was a dividing line; north of that was San Juan Hill, and you had a lot of blacks living there. It was an interesting place to grow up, if you got to grow up, but no sweet young thing from Minnesota would want to move here."

  She raised her eyebrows at sweet young thing, and he grinned at her. Then his eyes turned serious and he said, "I have a confession to make."

  "Oh?"

  "I followed you in here."

  "You mean you noticed me even before I ordered a Rob Roy?"

  "I saw you on the street. And for a moment I thought . . ."

  "What?"

  "Well, that you were on the street."

  "I guess I was, if that's where you saw me. I don't . . . Oh, you thought—"

  "That you were a working girl. I wasn't going to mention this, and I don't want you to take it the wrong way . . ."

  What, she wondered, was the right way?

  " . . . because it's not as though you looked the part, or were dressed like the girls you see out there. See, the neighborhood may be tarted up, but that doesn't mean the tarts have disappeared."

  "I've noticed."

  "It was more the way you were walking," he went on. "Not swinging your hips, not your walk, per se, but a feeling I got that you weren't in a hurry to get anywhere, or even all that sure where you were going."

  "I was thinking about stopping for a drink," she said, "and not sure if I wanted to, or if I should go straight home."

  "That would fit."

  "And I've never been in here before, and wondered if it was decent."

  "Well, it's decent enough now. A few years ago it wouldn't have been. And even now, a woman alone—"

  "I see." She sipped her drink. "So you thought I might be a hooker, and that's what brought you in here. Well, I hate to disappoint you—"

  "What brought me in here," he said, "was the thought that you might be, and the hope that you weren't."

  "I'm not."

  "I know."

  "I'm an actress."

  "And a good one, I'll bet."

  "I guess time will tell."

  "It generally does," he said. "Can I get you another one of those?"

  She shook her head. "Oh, I don't think so," she said. "I was only going to come in for one drink, and I wasn't even sure I wanted to do that. And I've had two, and that's really plenty."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm afraid so. It's not just the alcohol, it's the time. I have to get home."

  "I'll walk you."

  "Oh, that's not necessary."

  "Yes, it is. Whether it's Hell's Kitchen or Clinton, it's still necessary."

  "Well . . ."

  "I insist. It's safer around here than it used to be, but it's a long way from Minnesota. And I suppose you get some unsavory characters in Minnesota, as far as that goes."

  "Well, you're right about that." At the door she added, "I just don't want you to think you have to walk me home because I'm a lady."

  "I'm not walking you home because you're a lady," he said. "I'm walking you home because I'm a gentleman."

  * * *

&nbs
p; The walk to her door was interesting. He had stories to tell about half the buildings they passed. There'd been a murder in this one, a notorious drunk in the next. And though some of the stories were unsettling, she felt completely secure walking at his side.

  At her door he said, "Any chance I could come up for a cup of coffee?"

  "I wish," she said.

  "I see."

  "I've got this roommate," she said. "It's impossible, it really is. My idea of success isn't starring on Broadway, it's making enough money to have a place of my own. There's just no privacy when she's home, and the damn girl is always home."

  "That's a shame."

  She drew a breath. "Jim? Do you have a roommate?"

  * * *

  He didn't, and if he had, the place would still have been spacious enough to afford privacy. A large living room, a big bedroom, a good-sized kitchen. Rent-controlled, he told her, or he could never have afforded it. He showed her all through the apartment before he took her in his arms and kissed her.

  "Maybe," she said, when the embrace ended, "maybe we should have one more drink after all."

  * * *

  She was dreaming, something confused and confusing, and then her eyes snapped open. For a moment she did not know where she was, and then she realized she was in New York, and realized the dream had been a recollection or reinvention of her childhood in Hawley.

  In New York, and in Jim's apartment.

  And in his bed. She turned, saw him lying motionless beside her, and slipped out of bed, moving with instinctive caution. She walked quietly out of the bedroom, found the bathroom. She used the toilet, peeked behind the shower curtain. The tub was surprisingly clean for a bachelor's apartment and looked inviting. She didn't feel soiled, not exactly that, but something close. Stale, she decided. Stale, and very much in need of freshening.

  She ran the shower, adjusted the temperature, stepped under the spray.

  She hadn't intended to stay over, had fallen asleep in spite of her intentions. Rohypnol, she thought. Roofies, the date-rape drug. Puts you to sleep, or the closest thing to it, and leaves you with no memory of what happened to you.

  Maybe that was it. Maybe she'd gotten a contact high.

  She stepped out of the tub, toweled herself dry, and returned to the bedroom for her clothes. He hadn't moved in her absence and lay on his back beneath the covers.

  She got dressed, checked herself in the mirror, found her purse, put on lipstick but no other makeup, and was satisfied with the results. Then, after another reflexive glance at the bed, she began searching the apartment.

  His wallet, in the gray slacks he'd tossed over the back of a chair, held almost three hundred dollars in cash. She took that but left the credit cards and everything else. She found just over a thousand dollars in his sock drawer, and took it, but left the mayonnaise jar full of loose change. She checked the refrigerator, and the set of brushed-aluminum containers on the kitchen counter, but the fridge held only food and drink, and one container held tea bags while the other two were empty.

  That was probably it, she decided. She could search more thoroughly, but she'd only be wasting her time.

  And she really ought to get out of here.

  But first she had to go back to the bedroom. Had to stand at the side of the bed and look down at him. Jim, he'd called himself. James John O'Rourke, according to the cards in his wallet. Forty-seven years old. Old enough to be her father, in point of fact, although the man in Hawley who'd sired her was his senior by eight or nine years.

  He hadn't moved.

  Rohypnol, she thought. The love pill.

  "Maybe," she had said, "we should have one more drink after all."

  I'll have what you're having, she'd told him, and it was child's play to add the drug to her own drink, then switch glasses with him. Her only concern after that had been that he might pass out before he got his clothes off, but no, they kissed and petted and found their way to his bed, and got out of their clothes and into each other's arms, and it was all very nice, actually, until he yawned and his muscles went slack and he lay limp in her arms.

  She arranged him on his back and watched him sleep. Then she touched and stroked him, eliciting a response without waking the sleeping giant. Rohypnol, the wonder drug, facilitating date rape for either sex. She took him in her mouth, she mounted him, she rode him. Her orgasm was intense, and it was hers alone. He didn't share it, and when she dismounted his penis softened and lay upon his thigh.

  * * *

  In Hawley her father took to coming into her room at night. "Jenny? Are you sleeping?" If she answered, he'd kiss her on the forehead and tell her to go back to sleep.

  Then half an hour later he'd come back. If she was asleep, if she didn't hear him call her name, he'd slip into the bed with her. And touch her, and kiss her, and not on her forehead this time.

  She would wake up when this happened, but somehow knew to feign sleep. And he would do what he did.

  Before long she pretended to be asleep whenever he came into the room. She'd hear him ask if she was asleep, and she'd lie there silent and still, and he'd come into her bed. She liked it, she didn't like it. She loved him, she hated him.

  Eventually they dropped the pretense. Eventually he taught her how to touch him, and how to use her mouth on him. Eventually, eventually, there was very little they didn't do.

  * * *

  It took some work, but she got Jim hard again and made him come. He moaned audibly at the very end, then subsided into deep sleep almost immediately. She was exhausted, she felt as if she'd taken a drug herself, but she forced herself to go to the bathroom and look for some Listerine. She couldn't find any, and wound up gargling with a mouthful of his Irish whiskey.

  She stopped in the kitchen, then returned to the bedroom. When she'd done what she needed to do, she decided it wouldn't hurt to lie down beside him and close her eyes. Just for a minute . . .

  * * *

  And now it was morning, time for her to get out of there. She stood looking down at him, and for an instant she seemed to see his chest rise and fall with his slow even breathing, but that was just her mind playing a trick, because his chest was in fact quite motionless, and he wasn't breathing at all. His breathing had stopped forever when she slid the kitchen knife between two of his ribs and into his heart.

  He'd died without a sound. La petite mort, the French called an orgasm. The little death. Well, the little death had drawn a moan from him, but the real thing turned out to be soundless. His breathing stopped, and never resumed.

  She laid a hand on his upper arm, and the coolness of his flesh struck her as a sign that he was at peace now. She thought, almost wistfully, how very serene he had become.

  In a sense, there'd been no need to kill the man. She could have robbed him just as effectively while he slept, and the drug would ensure that he wouldn't wake up before she was out the door. She'd used the knife in response to an inner need, and the need had been an urgent one; satisfying it had shuttled her right off to sleep.

  She had never used a knife, or anything else, in Hawley. She'd considered it, and more than once. But in the end all she did was leave. No final scene, no note, nothing. Out the door and on the first Trailways bus out of there, and that was that.

  Maybe everything else would have been different if she'd left her father as peaceful as she was leaving James John O'Rourke. But had that ever been an option? Could she have done it, really?

  Probably not.

  * * *

  She let herself out of the apartment, drew the door shut, and made sure it locked behind her. The building was a walk-up, four apartments to the floor, and she walked down three flights and out the door without encountering anyone.

  Time to think about moving.

  Not that she'd established a pattern. The man last week, in the posh loft near the Javits Center, she had smothered to death. He'd been huge, and built like a wrestler, but the drug rendered him helpless, and all she'd had to do was hold t
he pillow over his face. He didn't come close enough to consciousness to struggle. And the man before that, the advertising executive, had shown her why he'd feel safe in any neighborhood, gentrification or no. He kept a loaded handgun in the drawer of the bedside table, and if any burglar was unlucky enough to drop into his place, well—

  When she was through with him, she'd retrieved the gun, wrapped his hand around it, put the barrel in his mouth, and squeezed off a shot. They could call it a suicide, just as they could call the wrestler a heart attack, if they didn't look too closely. Or they could call all three of them murders, without ever suspecting they were all the work of the same person.

  Still, it wouldn't hurt her to move. Find another place to live before people started to notice her on the streets and in the bars. She liked it here, in Clinton, or Hell's Kitchen, whatever you wanted to call it. It was a nice place to live, whatever it may have been in years past. But, as she and Jim had agreed, the whole of Manhattan was a nice place to live. There weren't any bad neighborhoods left, not really.

  Wherever she went, she was pretty sure she'd feel safe.

  End of Excerpt

  More about Manhattan Noir

  The Manhattan Noir e-book (eisbn 9781936070374) is available from Amazon Kindle, Barnes & Noble Nook, the iTunes store, Kobo, the Sony eReader store, Google Play, and from the websites of participating independent bookstores. The print edition ($15.95, ISBN-13:9781888451955) is availabe on our website and in online and brick & mortar bookstores everywhere.

  Mystery writing titan Lawrence Block takes a bite into Manhattan crime.