Single White Female

by John Lutz

  She watched the beggar veer toward a well-dressed couple waiting to cross the intersection. Trying to muster pity but feeling only fear, she said, “It must be a bitch, having to exist like that, struggling to survive through each day.”

  Graham said, “It is, but he asked the wrong people for money. You’re out of work, and I’ve only been paid the first half of the advance on my play.”

  “We don’t have to justify not giving a beggar money,” Allie said, a bit surprised at the vehemence in her voice.

  “Yes, I’m afraid we do.”

  At a newspaper and magazine kiosk, Allie paused to buy a Village Voice. She enjoyed reading the weekly paper, and it also contained help-wanted ads, maybe for computer programmers.

  She abruptly yanked the Voice out from beneath the rock that was weighting it down on the stack of papers, and handed over a dollar bill for the paper to the grizzled old woman inside the kiosk, but after taking a step and starting to shove her wallet back into her purse, she stopped, realizing something was wrong.

  She squeezed the wallet with probing fingers.

  Opening it, she checked the plastic card and photo holders. She pried apart the leather compartments, her movements quicker and less controlled.

  “They’re gone!” she cried.

  Graham was staring at her, puzzled. “What’s gone?”

  “My Visa and MasterCard.”

  “You sure?”

  She examined the wallet again, more slowly and carefully. “Positive. And something else is missing. My expired Illinois driver’s license.”

  “Expired, is it? Good. Somebody might be surprised if they try to use it to cash a check. You sure this stuff was in your wallet at the restaurant?”

  “Not absolutely sure. It might have been gone and I didn’t notice. The wallet felt different to me just now, not as bulky. I haven’t charged anything in over a week. Shit! The cards might have been gone for days!”

  “Don’t panic, Allie, you can only be held responsible for fifty dollars on each card, even if the thief uses them to travel to Europe. It’s a law.”

  “I know. Still . . .”

  “And they’ve probably only been gone a short time, or you’d have missed them earlier.”

  Allie didn’t answer, trying to remember how the wallet had felt in Goya’s when she’d gotten out money to pay for dinner. She hadn’t actually taken the wallet out of her purse, letting it rest inside so it and the folding money would stay out of sight below table level. Couldn’t be too careful.

  “Better get on the phone,” Graham said, “and report the cards missing. They’ll cut credit on them and issue you some new plastic with different numbers.”

  “I don’t understand how I lost them.”

  “You probably didn’t lose them. Credit cards are stolen every day.”

  Every day. Like obscene phone calls to single women. “But no one’s had the opportunity.”

  “Haven’t they? Thieves can be damned clever. And no woman guards her purse every minute she’s out.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Maybe the creep who stole your credit cards and driver’s license is the same guy who phoned you. Maybe that’s how he settled on you to pester. If so, it’ll lose its thrill after a while and he’ll stop.”

  “You sound sure of that.”

  “I told you, I’m a student of human nature. But if it’ll make you feel better, maybe you should go to the police. Report the obscene calls and the stolen cards and license. Might not help, but it can’t hurt.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Allie said. “Meanwhile, I’d better notify somebody about the missing cards. Whoever stole them might be off on a shopping spree right now. Buying one of everything at Bloomingdale’s.”

  “I’ve gotta admit, that sounds like fun.”

  She responded with morose silence.

  “Maybe they’re only lost, not stolen,” Graham said to comfort her. “That wouldn’t be so bad.”

  Allie thought inanely that nothing could be worse than being lost; she’d been lost for a while and knew.

  She tucked the folded Voice under her arm, clutched her purse tightly, and she and Graham began walking at a fast pace back toward West 74th. Their heels clopped out a relentless rhythm on the hard concrete.

  The night no longer seemed friendly.

  16

  When Allie reached the Cody Arms she happened to glance up as she crossed West 74th and saw a shadow flit across the drawn shade in Hedra’s bedroom window. Again. It was moving rapidly, arms flailing. Allie suddenly realized someone was dancing madly in Hedra’s room, whirling, shaking her head, hair flying.

  She went upstairs and let herself into the apartment. As she walked silently down the hall to her bedroom, she heard the floor creaking in Hedra’s room and saw darkness pass across the lighted crack beneath the closed door. Allie moved nearer and put her ear close to the door. There was no music inside the room, only the swish swish scuff scuff of Hedra frantically dancing.

  Allie knocked on the door. “Hedra? You okay?”

  The noise on the other side of the door ceased abruptly. Then Hedra’s voice said, “Sure, Allie. I was practicing a new dance step, that’s all.”

  Allie hadn’t even known Hedra danced. She stood there awhile longer, but Hedra said nothing more. The light washing from beneath her door suddenly disappeared.

  As long as she’s all right, Allie figured, what she does in her own room is her business. That was part of the understanding when they’d become roommates. Still, there was something about the absence of music and the uncontrolled wildness of the dance that gave Allie the creeps. On the other hand, a backlighted figure moving in silhouette could be deceptive.

  Apparently Allie’s roommate had danced enough that night and had gone to bed. Allie decided that was a sound idea. She turned away from the blank face of the door and went to her bedroom.

  Allie woke the next morning to the sound of a sanitation truck grinding away at garbage that had been piled high at the curb. Loud metallic clanking, then high-pitched whining and rending was followed by the coughing roar of the truck engine, then the squeal and hiss of air brakes. Now and then one of the workers handling Manhattan’s throwaways would shout frantically or bark loud laughter. It was an adventure, picking up trash.

  She opened one gritty eye and studied the dust motes swirling in a sunbeam bisecting her bedroom, then slowly shifted her gaze to the red digital numbers on the clock by the bed. Eight-thirty. Still early.

  Then she realized, late, early, it made no difference. She had no appointments. Nowhere to go.

  No work and no immediate income.

  She heard tap water run for a moment in the kitchen, then Hedra stride across the apartment and open and close the hall door, leaving for whatever job she was working.

  Allie remembered last night’s discovery that her I.D. and credit cards were missing from her wallet. She would look up the card numbers on her monthly statements, then she’d call the credit companies and inform them of the missing cards. Their numbers would soon be listed among those stolen, among hundreds and perhaps thousands listed on the hot sheets for salesclerks and cashiers to scan while infuriated customers waited in checkout lines.

  New plastic would be sent, but Allie would be left without much cash and with no credit until her replacement cards arrived. She realized, with an edge of subtle panic, that getting new charge cards might take a while. It was almost as if an integral piece of her were missing; plastic had become essential in her life.

  She rolled over to lie on her back and gazed listlessly at the ceiling, listening as the metallic mayhem of the trash pickup moved down the street like a raucous carnival. Finally the noise drifted faint and echoing from the next block.

  As she ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, she realized she was parched and thirsty. She’d lain in bed for a long time last night before falling asleep, and she hadn’t drunk anything since dinner at Goya’s.


  Still, she was more tired than thirsty. She watched a tiny insect on the ceiling make its gradual, indirect way to the corner near the window. It stopped, started, slowly detouring around cracks in the plaster, moving through life with the care necessary for survival. Finally it disappeared in deep, angled shadow. Into safety? Or danger?

  Allie sighed, stood up, and plodded barefoot from the bedroom. The floor was hard and unyielding beneath her soles. She could feel the individual cracks between strips of wood. She returned to the bedroom to get her slippers, but she couldn’t find them. Hedra had been wearing them last night; maybe they were in her room.

  But the slippers were nowhere in sight in Hedra’s bedroom. Allie peeked beneath the bed. Nothing there. Not even dust. She walked to the closet to see if compulsively neat Hedra had placed the slippers in there.

  A moment after she opened the closet door she stepped back in surprise. The clothes. Hedra’s clothes. They looked so much like . . . they were Allie’s own clothes.

  Allie turned and hurried to her own room. She flung open the closet doors.

  Her clothes were there, as they’d always been.

  She sat down on the edge of the mattress, gazing at the rows of dresses, blouses, and slacks on hangers. There were a few variations in color and material from Hedra’s closet, but not many.

  Wherever possible, Hedra had bought exact duplicates of Allie’s clothes.

  Allie sat very still on the edge of the bed, wondering what it meant.

  Later that day she phoned Sam and told him about it. He seemed more amused than alarmed. “What the girl wears is her business,” he said, “and you know how she idolizes you.”

  “She does idolize me,” Allie said. “More than I find comfortable.”

  Sam laughed. “You deserve it. Have I ever told you that?”

  Allie had to smile, remembering. “Yeah, you’ve told me.”

  “Meant it, too.”

  “Seeing Hedra’s clothes this morning, after losing my credit cards last night, is what’s got me rattled, I guess.”

  “You lost your credit cards? As in Master and Visa?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know how.”

  “Get the cards back?”

  “No, they might have been stolen.”

  “Better phone in the numbers.”

  “I already have. I notified the police, too.”

  “Well, your liability’s limited when you lose credit cards, and maybe they’ll turn up.”

  “I can’t use them if they do; I have to wait for replacements. That’ll take a while.”

  “By the way, Allie, I’ve got some bad news.”

  Her heart took a dive. “Bad news? Dammit, Sam, that’s not what I need this morning.”

  “Christ, not that bad.” He laughed. “I only meant I have to be away for a couple of weeks. A conference in Milwaukee, then a junk-bond seminar in Los Angeles. Can you live without me?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, I can’t live without you. Not for more than a few weeks. I’ll phone you.”

  “You’d better,” she said.

  “Try not to worry so much, okay, lover?”

  “Sure. That’s probably good advice.”

  Loudly, only half-jokingly, he blew a kiss into the receiver.

  When she hung up on Sam, the phone rang almost immediately. She thought it might be Sam, calling her back to say something he’d forgotten.

  But as soon as she picked up the phone she knew it wasn’t Sam.

  No voice on the other end of the connection, only heavy, uneven breathing.

  Then, “Allie, baby? Sweet Buns? I know it’s you. Soon we’re gonna—”

  She slammed the receiver into its cradle.

  17

  Disgusting habit, Detective Sergeant Will Kennedy thought. And I’m disgusting for indulging.

  He snubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, knowing even then that he’d soon light another despite his doctor’s advice to stop smoking. Sitting at his desk in the squad room, he peered through the noxious haze hovering above the ashtray. A woman was standing at the wooden restraining rail that ran parallel to the booking desk. She leaned forward, her pelvis against the rail, and spoke earnestly and rapidly, as if she wanted to get her story out in a hurry.

  Kennedy watched Sergeant Morrow listen to her in his patient, speculative way, then say something and point in Kennedy’s direction. The woman smiled at Morrow, and walked purposefully toward Kennedy.

  Davis, who was working undercover in Narcotics and looked like a street punk, blatantly leered at her. It didn’t matter, Kennedy figured, she’d think he was a suspect and not a cop. The other detectives and a couple of uniforms contented themselves with sly glances in her direction. This was a busy precinct, but there was always time to appreciate beauty in the midst of police work. For the contrast.

  As she got closer, Kennedy pretended to notice her for the first time and glanced up, smiling warmly. She was in her early thirties, average height and build, short blond hair, good eyes, firm, squarish jaw, and a mouth that looked as if it had smiled plenty but which now was a grim red slash. She was wearing a lightweight raincoat, powder blue with a white collar and oversized white buttons. High heels, good ankles. Not a stunner, but an attractive woman up close as well as viewed from across the room.

  She stood in front of his gray metal desk, leaning forward as she had against the railing. “Sergeant Kennedy?”

  “Me,” he told her.

  “The desk sergeant said I should see you about my . . . complaint.” She was obviously nervous, not used to being in places like this. A respectable citizen in a bind.

  He nodded and motioned for her to sit in the chair alongside the desk. Kennedy was a large, shambling man of middle age who knew he presented an avuncular, soothing image to women. He was six feet tall and close to two hundred and fifty pounds, with bushy, raggedy gray hair and sleepy blue eyes. Well into his fifties. Not a handsome man or a sexual threat. A slow and amiable old bear, that was Kennedy. If he hurt anyone, it would be accidental. He fostered that impression and capitalized on it. Being underestimated could be a great advantage.

  The precinct house was warm and felt uncomfortably humid because of the rain that fell silently on thick windows reinforced with steel mesh. It even smelled damp. Fetid as a swamp. Though the ceiling didn’t quite leak, there were ancient water stains on it that always appeared wet. The air was so thick and sticky it seemed to deaden sound and coat bare flesh like oil.

  When the woman had unbuttoned her coat and settled down in the straight-backed chair, Kennedy said, “Get you a cup of coffee? Maybe a soda or glass of water?”

  She seemed surprised by his hospitality. “No. No, thank you.”

  “You mentioned a complaint, Miss . . . ?”

  “My name is Allison Jones, and I live at One Seventy-two West Seventy-fourth Street.”

  He smiled. “And you sound like a very nice and well-prepared twelve-year-old reciting in front of the class. Relax, Miss Jones. Like the PR ads say, your police department cares. This old cop does, anyway.”

  “Not so old,” she said, smiling back as the tension loosened its grip on her. The set of her shoulders changed beneath the blue coat, became less squared and then slumped wearily. But the rigid cast of her jaw and mouth remained grim. She was wrapped tight and ticking, this one.

  “Thank you, Allison Jones. Could be there’s some good years left in me at that.” He picked up a ballpoint pen and idly rotated it between sausage-like powerful fingers, wishing he could smoke the damned thing. Despite his huge, rough hands, he had beautifully manicured nails. He wore a plain gold wedding ring, though Jeanie had been dead almost ten years. Ah, Jeanie! He said, “Now, dear, what seems to be troubling you?”

  “Well, phone calls, among other things.”

  “Oh? Of an obscene nature, do you mean?”

  “Yes. Very obscene.”

  “In what way?”

  “The man—if it was the same man—talk
ed about doing things to me.”

  Kennedy cautioned himself. Gently now. “What sorts of things, Miss Jones? What I mean is, could you be more specific?”

  “Tying me up, gagging me, whipping me. Making me . . . do things I never would do.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Bondage, it’s called,” she said flatly.

  “Yes, I know.” He stared sadly for a moment at the ballpoint pen almost lost in his big hand.

  “You get a lot of complaints like mine?”

  “Oh, yes. We see everything on this job. Soon lose the capacity to be shocked, I’m afraid.”

  “He talked as if I’d enjoy sadomasochism.”

  “He might well have believed that. The sick sort of man who’d make such a call generally has some very twisted ideas about the fair sex.”

  “Not just twisted,” Allison Jones said, “positively kinky.”

  Without a change of expression, Kennedy studied her more closely. Was she enjoying this? Getting her kicks by reporting phone calls that never occurred? It happened. All sorts of people wandered into precinct houses and reported all sorts of crimes, real or imagined. And for reasons only the psychiatrists ventured to guess, most often wrongly. This woman certainly didn’t seem that type, but Kennedy knew better than to classify by appearance and mannerism. He remembered an apparently typical young mother who’d murdered her two children as casually as one might destroy unwanted kittens.

  Allison Jones seemed suddenly aware that he was assessing her. She frowned and stirred in her chair. Crossed her legs the other way. He heard taut nylon swish.

  “This sort of thing’s been happening,” Kennedy said quickly. “Keeping us poor civil servants busy.” As if she were the twentieth woman that day to complain of obscene phone calls, and not the fifth or sixth.

  “It doesn’t usually happen to me,” she said sharply. He decided she was probably telling him straight.

  “The caller might never have laid eyes on you,” he told her. “He could’ve punched out your number at random. That’s how most of these characters operate. The odds are greatly against it being your number, so you assume he knows you personally in some way and you lose sleep over it. Just what anonymous callers want; they feed on fear.”