Burke was at WOR at the time and we started dating. I always thought that was kind of romantic, meeting on a murder.
“If he gave me anything, don’t you think I would have turned it over to the cops?” I said. I was thinking about that sheet I hadn’t given the cops, the one that was all blacked out. Once I’d kept it from them, I couldn’t hand it over without making them suspicious, even if it wasn’t relevant. Guilt for this omission was starting to weigh heavily on me.
The page hadn’t seemed important to anyone but me. But was it? Did it contain some clue? I wanted to leave, go home, look at the sheet again, but I was midmeal and Burke was on my case.
“We used to tell each other everything once upon a time,” he said wistfully.
Jeez. This guy just didn’t get it. He cheated on me. He left me for a younger woman. He did all this while I was in the midst of a professional crisis. I was no longer required to like him.
“We used to trust each other once,” I said. “The rules have changed slightly.”
“Let’s not fight.”
“But we’re so good at it,” I said. “It seems like from the moment we got married we fought. We’re such opposites. Given all this, Burke, what made you marry me? Just out of curiosity. I’ve been wondering.”
“What makes a man throw himself on a grenade to save his buddies?”
“That’s funny.”
“How about this then.” He grinned. “What makes a man who is standing at the edge of an abyss looking down want to jump into it?”
“Oh, that’s a much nicer analogy.”
“It’s the thrill of the fall,” he answered for me. “When I was falling in love with you, it was the greatest time of my life. But sooner or later, I had to hit solid ground.”
“You’re doing a great job of getting into my good graces with all this fawning flattery,” I said.
“You know what I mean. When we lived together in that big apartment in your funky neighborhood, I never knew what the next day would bring, and it was exciting in a way.” He averted his eyes. “But I can’t live with you. You wear me out. I want a peaceful home life, a normal wife, and … and children, a house in the burbs, once in a while, maybe, a home-cooked meal. That’s not such a radical concept outside New York. You don’t really want me back anyway, do you?”
“I want somebody,” I said. “But I don’t think it’s you anymore. Good thing, since you’ve found your beauty queen.”
“Well, Amy and I may be very compatible, but she’s no Robin Hudson,” he said.
“Meaning what?”
“Amy … she doesn’t make me laugh like you do. You really made me laugh and I never realized how nice that was until it was gone. Sometimes I really miss you.”
“Nice try,” I said. “But flattery will not get you any information I might have.”
“I wasn’t flattering you … I was opening up to you.” He smiled and flashed that endearing Correspondent’s Squint.
It softened me up. By now I had decided to reduce his sentence to eleven heroic labors.
“You’re one in three billion, Robin,” he said, and signaled the waitress to bring more drinks. “I think we should try to be friends. To be honest, it’s too exhausting fighting you, it’s debilitating being married to you, and friendship seems the only other option you’ll consider.”
“Oh, I can think of another. Of course, it would probably mean life without parole …”
“You’re drunk.”
“No, I’m not.” I reconsidered. “Well, maybe I am. I’ve had a helluva week, and not much sleep, and the News-Journal thinks I’m a menace to society and … Well, anyway, you’re here and you want to be my friend. What kind of friend? The kind of friend who brings chicken soup, Puffs tissues, and French Vogue when you’re sick with a really horrible, contagious disease? Or the kind of friend who sends a belated birthday card every year?”
“The kind of friend who really cares about you but can’t stay married to you.”
“That’s a very narrow category,” I said, and waved for another drink. When the waitress brought it, Burke asked for the check.
I took a big sip and after giving it some impaired thought, said, “Okay. You can be my friend. But only on the third Tuesday of every month.” I was talking too loud and slurring my words. Even I could hear it. “And I still won’t tell you anything about this murder. Even if I knew anything. And I don’t.”
“I think you’ve had enough to drink, Robin.”
“It’s no longer any of your business,” I said. “And it’s a conflict of interest, because you slept with me, and now you’re reporting on a story I’m involved in. Oh wait, things like that don’t matter at Channel 3, do they? Ethics and stuff.”
“You’re drinking too much,” he said. “Maybe you’d better get some air. Come on. I’ll take you up to get a cab.”
He helped me to my feet and supported me as we went up to the street. After hailing a cab for me, he insisted on seeing me home. I was, in fact, pretty drunk. Halfway back to my place I started feeling green.
“Oh, shit,” I said.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not feeling well,” I said, rolling down my window.
“Are you going to barf?” Burke asked with some alarm. Even in my troubled state I could see how the idea of his estranged wife puking in a cab distressed the ever neat and tidy Burke Avery. I exploited his anxiety by hanging my head over his lap.
“Robin, don’t throw up here, please,” Burke beseeched.
“Oh,” said the Egyptian cabbie. “Oh, and I just started my shift.”
“Put your head out the window,” Burke said, and without waiting for me, he shoved my head out for me. I felt like a German shepherd going for a ride with Master, but the cold wind was effective. It washed over my face and calmed the nausea.
“Breathe deeply,” the cabbie implored me. He ran a red light in his haste to deposit me at my destination.
“I’m okay now,” I said, pulling my head back in.
“You’re drinking a lot more than you used to,” Burke said.
“I don’t drink every day and I never drink alone,” I said, which wasn’t really true.
“I’m just saying you should watch it. Just some advice from a friend.”
“Here we are,” said the cab driver and his whole body slumped down in the front seat with visible relief. Burke paid him and helped me out of the cab.
“You’re not walking very steadily. I’d better take you up,” he said.
I protested at first, but then gave in. In the elevator, I continued to lean against Burke, using him as a crutch. The light was out in the hallway—again—making it seem treacherous. For that reason alone I was glad he had seen me to the door.
“Don’t come in,” I said.
“Let me just get you in and get some water and aspirin down you.”
“Is this part of this friend stuff?”
“Yes, sure. Why not?”
“I’d really rather you didn’t …,” I began, but the lock popped and he opened the door before I could finish.
“I see your housekeeping habits haven’t changed much,” he said, dragging me inside and plopping me down on the couch. He surveyed the mess, the clothes and papers and greasy pizza boxes and empty soda cans strewn all over the room. “Christ!”
“Don’t start with me.”
“There are flies in here, Robin. You’re the only person I know who has a fly problem in the middle of winter.”
“I’ve-been-a-little-depressed,” I said.
If you’re a slob, it helps to have a low comfort level. A mess doesn’t really bother me, but Burke grew up in a home kept like a national monument and even a little dust makes him rabid. Bottom line: He was a Felix and I was an Oscar and we couldn’t seem to keep a maid. We were doomed.
Louise Bryant came out of the bedroom, absolutely delighted to see Burke. She started rubbing against him and meowing and if she had been capable of intelligent t
hought and speech, I’m sure she would have begged him to take her away from here. Too bad Amy Penny was allergic or didn’t like cats or whatever it was.
“Hello, Louise,” he said. He leaned over and scratched her head. “Are you hungry?”
“You’d better feed her before she gets combative. Her food’s in the refrigerator in a Corning casserole. It’s already prepared. You can just zap it in the microwave.”
“You first,” he said, handing me a tall glass of water and two aspirin coated with Maalox. “I’m going to make tea.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I was starting to feel more sober. It was strange to have him in the kitchen, our bedroom door open and our marriage bed there in full view.
We drank tea together and talked about the murder until ten, when he tried one more time to get the dope on Griff from me. He was convinced I knew something because someone had convinced him I did, someone belonging to his vast network of cultivated sources.
I wanted him to go so I could look over that page, but he wouldn’t take the hint. Finally, I said, “Look, I’m tired. I’ve got to get some sleep. I have a big date tomorrow.”
“Eric,” he said, in an oddly wounded tone of voice.
“Yeah.”
“He always liked you,” Burke said. He gave me a sad look. “I need to ask you another favor, a personal favor.”
“How awkward for you. What is it?”
“Be nice to Amy.…”
“Oh pulleeze. Why should I be nice to her?”
“Because you’ll feel bad about it later if you don’t.”
“No, I won’t.”
“I know you. You will. Let’s do this again soon,” he said, and kissed my cheek.
As soon as the door slammed, I went to the Webster’s and opened it to where the word “blackmail” was defined, which is where I had hidden the page Griff had given me.
I looked at it up against the light, in case there was invisible writing or something. Remembering how I wrote notes in invisible ink as a child, with sugar and water that caramelized over a flame, I ran a match under the sheet, but nothing turned up.
I replaced the book on the shelf. There was nothing on the page of any interest to anyone else. But I decided not to tell Burke. I kind of liked the idea that he was on a wild goose chase, and I was the wild goose he was chasing. There was a certain justice in it.
This made me feel something like happy and I went to bed and began easily drifting off to sleep, only to awaken with a start just as I was about to abandon consciousness.
Something was wrong with the apartment, I thought, but was too drowsy to make the synaptic leap as to what it was. I rubbed my eyes and went out to look around.
Something about the place jarred me, but thanks to all the lemon vodka I’d had earlier in the evening, I couldn’t think what it was. I felt sure that someone, someone other than me and Burke, that is, had been in my apartment. But I didn’t know why I thought that. My apartment is always so messy it was hard for me to tell if anything was out of place. I went back to bed and fell asleep again.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized what was wrong.
Two days before, Louise Bryant had knocked over a vase of dried flowers on top of a file cabinet and I’d been too harried/ indifferent to deal with it, so I’d left it on its side. But somebody had righted it.
I knew someone had been in my apartment because it was tidier than when I left it.
Chapter Ten
“YOU THINK SOMEONE WAS in your apartment because it seemed tidier?” Detective Tewfik said, as he walked around, surveying the mess. “What is tidier, exactly? And how on earth can you tell? What tipped you off? Is some dust missing?”
It was a pigsty, I won’t kid you, but there was no need to be sarcastic. Since Burke had left, I’d let it go completely, and even in the best of times I’m not much of a housekeeper.
In fact, I am a slob. I admit it. It’s not that I’m a lazy person. I tend to workaholism and when I do clean, I clean compulsively, unable to stop until the place is completely spotless. But housework just seems so insignificant and, as men have always known, there’s always something better to do. I haven’t read Moby Dick yet. I haven’t seen Fellini’s Satyricon. There are dozens of countries in the world about which I know nothing and billions of people I haven’t yet met.
I told Tewfik about the vase but saying it out loud made me realize how stupid it sounded and my voice wavered and lost confidence in the telling. The thing is, I might have righted the vase myself, automatically, without thinking about it. Maybe I was paranoid.
“Did you make this up to get me over here to answer your questions?” he asked, annoyed.
New York homicide detectives are terribly overworked and Manhattan South had a lot on its plate, including a dead stockbroker found in an alley outside a Wall Street strip bar, an artist and his dancer wife dead in an apparent murder-suicide, and a tourist from Gary, Indiana, killed for his wallet in Times Square. Tewfik was understandably a little testy.
“Make it up? That would be dishonest,” I said, in my best Girl Scout voice.
He looked at me, trying to figure out if I was on the level.
“Well,” he said. “We haven’t found the killer in this case so it wouldn’t hurt to be extra security-conscious until we do. Although, you know, there are a lot of burglaries in this neighborhood. There’s no necessary connection to the Griff case.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Wouldn’t you like to live in a place that wouldn’t frighten your mother?” Tewfik went on. “This neighborhood is scary after dark.”
“I know. But I have this theory that a little terror is good for you. Like, fear is the aerobics of the mind,” I said. “Besides, I have never been robbed, knock on wood. And look at the size of this apartment, and the rent I pay.”
“You’re muy macha, I know,” he said.
“My keys,” I said suddenly, thinking out loud. Tewfik looked at me, his heavy, dark eyebrows raised. “I thought I lost my keys yesterday … but maybe someone at work took them.”
This made him pause. “You better take my direct number, just in case,” he said, and wrote it down for me. “And be careful. If you don’t feel safe, go stay with a friend or in a hotel. And if your apartment gets mysteriously cleaner, let me know.”
“Yeah yeah,” I said. “Who do you think hit Griff sixteen or so times with a tire iron—like instrument?”
“It wouldn’t be professional of me to speculate,” he said, smiling now. “Who do you think killed him?”
“Who do you think hired him?”
“Who do you think hired him?”
“You know, officer, sir, lately I’m having a lot of conversations consisting largely of questions with very few answers.”
“It’s an occupational hazard for both of us, isn’t it?” he said, before putting on his hat and coat. Tewfik wore a hat. McGravy wore a hat too. I liked men in hats, it made me think of my childhood.
When Tewfik left, I picked up the phone and started to call Eric, but after three digits I put the phone back in its cradle. It was Saturday and we were supposed to have a date that night at his place, but he hadn’t said at what time. And he hadn’t called me to confirm.
I was going to call him, but then I thought, what if he was just flirting, just kidding around? Will I look like an ass if I call, thinking it’s for real?
Like I said, I was a little rusty on this dating stuff. For years, my radar had been jammed by monogamy and marriage, and now the single signals confused me.
Maybe if I came up with a pretense to call him, I thought, but caught myself. Resorting to feminine wiles, shame on me.
I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hi, you’ve reached 1-900-CONFESS,” his answering machine said. “After the beep, please leave your name, number, the date and time you called, and a salacious tale of personal misconduct. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“It’s Ro
bin, it’s Saturday noon,” I said, thinking to myself, if he calls me back, I’ll cancel the date, I’m not ready. “Today I took the Lord’s name in vain, I had impure thoughts about George Stephanopoulos and …”
The machine clicked off. Eric came on.
“Robin?” he said. “Sorry, I’ve been screening my calls this morning. Greg keeps calling from Grand Rapids.”
“What’s he doing in Grand Rapids?”
“A trade show, meeting sponsors, the usual PR stuff he loves so much. Calling me and annoying me. So. You miss me?”
“No.” My voice sounded strange to me, soft, sexy, roughened. No, I said, in a way a woman usually says yes, trailing the vowel to a fade-out. I hadn’t been speaking this way consciously and was only then aware that this was a different voice for me, that I only used it with Eric.
“Are we still on for tonight?” he asked. “You’re not calling to cancel, are you?”
“No. I was calling to see if I should bring anything.”
“Just your sweet self. Eight o’clock all right? I’ll meet your cab downstairs.”
“Okay.”
“Come unarmed,” he said, before giving me his address.
It was okay, I told myself. It was just a get-together. As long as I didn’t kiss him, I was safe. I had control over this.
Still, when I went to the corner bodega to get milk and newspapers, I hesitated for a moment at the sight of the little condom boxes hanging on hooks behind the counter and considered buying some, just to be safe. I passed on them in the end. Nothing was going to happen. I mean, it was a first date, sort of.
Although a new disaster took the front page (“WATER PIPE EXPLODES AT CAFÉ MARFELES. ELOISE MARFELES BLAMES UNION ‘GOONS’”), the tabloids were full of Jackson’s theory that someone was trying to destroy ANN through its reporters. Various possible villains, ultra-right-wing “watchdog” groups on jihad against the “liberal media,” media competitors, and vague political cabals were suggested. Paul Mangecet’s name was mentioned, as he was believed to control some of the stock, but he vigorously denied any sinister intentions.
There was just one problem with all this: Why would anyone trying to destroy ANN bother with me? Go to all that trouble and expense? I mean, I was not a major player at ANN and I had very little credibility left. Why pick on me?
What's a Girl Gotta Do? Page 12
