But the best she could do was: “Where are you from?”
“Wisconsin,” he said. “A small town. Trempealeau. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”
She didn’t want to tell him; she wanted him to think her a Manhattan sophisticate. But then her smile flickered, and she said:
“Yes, I’ve heard of it. I’m from Winona.”
He turned to her with the delighted astonishment of a small boy.
“Winona!” he cried. “Neighbor!”
They moved a little closer: explorers caught in a dance of savages.
“Listen,” he said excitedly, “are you here with anyone?”
“Oh no. No.”
“Could we go someplace and have a drink together? Some quieter place? You’re the first person I’ve met in New York who even heard of Trempealeau. I’d really like to talk to you.”
“All right,” she said.
No one noticed them leave.
In the lobby, he stopped her with a light hand on her arm, then jerked it away convulsively.
“Uh,” he said, “I was wondering … Could we have dinner together? I know a little Italian place not far from here. If we’re going to have a glass of wine, we might as well …”
His wispy voice trailed off. She stared at him a moment.
He was no David something in a velvet suit, smelling of pot. He was Ernest Mittle, a dusty young man who would always be an outlander in the metropolis.
There he stood, stooped, eager, as anxious to please as a cocker spaniel. The cheap tweed overcoat was too tight in the shoulders and strained at its buttons. About his neck was a plaid wool muffler. He was hatless, but carried a pair of clumpy, fleece-lined gloves.
He seemed inoffensive and washed-out to Zoe Kohler. Faded eyebrows, blond lashes, eyes of milky blue. His complexion was fair, his haircut an atrocity that left his pink ears naked, isolated by clipper and razor.
But still … His smile was warm and hopeful. His small teeth were even and white. He was as tall as she, and if he straightened up, he would have been taller. But he seemed to crouch inside himself, hiding.
She was ever so careful. He appeared harmless, not pushy in the New York manner, but she knew as well as anyone the dangers that awaited the lone woman in the cruel city. Mugging. Burglary. Rape. Violent death. It was in the newspapers every day. And on TV in color. The chalked outline. The congealing blood.
“Well … all right,” she said finally. “Thank you. But I have to get home early. By nine at the latest. Uh, I’m expecting a phone call.”
“Fine,” he said happily. “Let’s go. It’s not far; we can walk it in a few minutes.”
She knew the restaurant. She had been there twice before, by herself. Each time she had been seated at the same small table near the door to the restrooms. The food was good, but the service had been execrable, although she had left generous tips.
This time, with a man, she was escorted by a smiling maitre d’ to a comfortable corner table. A waiter came bustling to assist in removing her coat. A table candle in a ruby globe was lighted. Glasses of white wine were brought, menus proffered.
They both ordered veal piccata, spaghetti, and salad. They each had two more glasses of wine with their food. Service was prompt and flawless. They agreed the dinner was a success.
And she did enjoy it. Ernest Mittle was well-mannered, solicitous of her wants: “More bread? Butter? Ready for another wine? Dessert? No? Then surely espresso and a brandy? Fine!”
She had an uneasy feeling that he could ill afford this splendid meal, but he seemed delighted to be dining with her. When their brandies were served, she murmured something about paying her share, but he grandly waved the suggestion away and assured her that it was his pleasure. He sounded sincere.
During dinner, their early conversation had been about their childhood in Winona and Trempealeau: the hayrides and sleighrides, skating on the river, hunting and the taste of fried squirrel, illicit applejack, and days so cold that schools were closed and no one dared venture forth from home.
They spoke of college days (he had attended the University of Wisconsin at Madison). He had visited Minneapolis, both had been to Chicago. Once he had gone to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras, and once she had been as far west as Denver. They agreed that one day they would journey to Europe, the West Indies, and perhaps Japan.
She learned more about him:
He was thirty-five, almost two years younger than she. He had never been married, or even engaged. He lived alone in a small studio apartment in the Gramercy Park area. He had a small circle of friends and acquaintances, mostly business associates.
He entertained rarely, went to the movies, theater, and ballet infrequently. He was taking courses at the New School in computer technology. His current job with Harold Kurnitz’s company was in a small section called Inventory Control, and he hoped some day to persuade Mr. Kurnitz to computerize the entire operation.
All this came pouring forth with little prompting from Zoe. Ernest Mittle seemed happy to talk about himself, and it suddenly occurred to her that he might very well be as lonely as she.
When they came out of the restaurant a little before 8:00 P.M., the sky was blotchy. A moldy wind gusted off the East River, and the air smelled rawly of snow.
“We’ll get a cab,” Ernest Mittle said, pulling on his clumsy gloves.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” she said. “I can get a bus right across the street.”
“Where do you live, Zoe?”
She hesitated a moment, then: “East Thirty-ninth Street. Near Lexington.”
“But you’ll have to walk from the bus stop. Alone. I don’t like that. Look, it’s only about ten short blocks. Why don’t we walk? It’s still early, and there are a lot of people around.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll just get on—”
“Come on,” he said exuberantly, taking her arm. “In Minnesota and Wisconsin, this is a nice spring evening!”
So they set off, walking briskly southward. He adjusted his stride to her, assisted her up and down curbs, led her carefully around dog droppings and sidewalk obstructions, including a man slumped in a doorway, his legs extended. He was drinking from a bottle in a brown paper bag.
“That used to upset me,” Ernest said. “When I first came to New York. But you get so you hardly notice it.”
Zoe nodded. “Once I saw a well-dressed man lying on the sidewalk on Fifth Avenue. People were just walking around him.”
“Was he drunk or dead or what?”
“I don’t know,” she confessed. “I just walked around him, too. That happened almost eight years ago, and it still bothers me. I should have done something or tried to do something.”
“You know what New Yorkers say: ‘Don’t get involved.’ ”
“I know,” she said. “Still …”
“Zoe, I’ve been babbling about myself all evening, but you’ve hardly said a word about yourself. Do you work?”
“Oh yes. In the Security Section of the Hotel Granger.”
“That sounds interesting,” he said politely.
“Not really,” she said, and then perhaps it was the wine and brandy, but she began speaking of herself, she who was usually so secret.
She told him she had been married for three years, and was divorced. She told him she now lived alone, and the moment she heard her own words, regretted them. A divorced woman living alone; she knew how men reacted to that.
She told him that she lived a very quiet life, read a lot, watched TV. She admitted that New York frightened her at times. It was so big, so dirty and noisy, so uncaring. But she had no desire to return to the Midwest, ever.
“I know what you mean,” he said. “It’s everything bad you can think of, but it’s—it’s exciting. And fascinating. Things are always happening. Unexpected things. Nothing unexpected happens much in Trempealeau.”
“Or Winona,” she said. “It’s a kind of love-hate relationship. With New York, I mean.”
“Love-hate,” he said wonderingly. “Yes, that’s very true.”
They turned onto her block, and she began to worry. It had been a pleasant evening, better than she had expected—but what now? Would he demand a good-night kiss? Would he insist on seeing her to her apartment door? Would he suddenly turn angry and importunate?
But when she halted outside the lobby entrance, he stopped too, drew off a glove, and proffered a white hand.
“Thank you, Zoe,” he said smiling. “It’s been a fine evening. I really enjoyed it.”
“Thank you,” she said, surprised and shaking his soft hand. “The dinner was wonderful.”
“Can we do it again?” he asked anxiously. “Can I call you?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’d like that. I’m in the book.”
“I’ll call,” he vowed, and she hoped he meant it.
She stopped to get her mail, including, thankfully, her alimony check. At the elevator, she turned to look back to the sidewalk. Ernest Mittle was still standing there. He waved. She waved back, but didn’t feel safe until she was upstairs, inside her own apartment, the door locked, bolted, and chained.
She turned on all the lights and walked cautiously through the rooms, peering into closets and under the bed.
She made certain the Venetian blinds were tightly closed. She was convinced there was a man across the street who stood in a darkened room with binoculars, watching her windows. She had never actually seen him, but his shades were always up and occasionally she had glimpsed flashes of white and moving shadows.
She went directly to her medicine supply in the kitchen, and swallowed a vitamin C pill, a B-complex capsule, and a magnesium tablet. Her premenstrual cramps had become increasingly severe, and she wanted to take a Darvon. But in view of what lay ahead, she settled for a Midol and two Anacin.
Dr. Stark could not understand her monthly cramps. She was on the Pill, and that usually eliminated or alleviated the symptoms. A complete examination had revealed no physiological cause, and Stark had suggested that the cramps might have a psychological origin.
He had offered to recommend a counselor, psychologist, or psychiatrist. Zoe had indignantly rejected his advice.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she said hotly.
“Something is wrong,” he replied, “if what should be a normal, natural, healthy function causes you so much pain.”
“I’ve had bad cramps all my life,” she told him. “Ever since I began to bleed.”
He looked at her queerly.
“It’s your decision,” he said.
She started the tub, then returned to the bedroom to undress. When she was naked, she palpated her breasts tenderly. That morning they had been soft, saggy. Now they seemed enlarged, harder, the nipples semi-erect. But at least she felt no sensation of bloat and could see no indication that her ankles had swollen.
She poured perfumed oil into the tub and eased into water as hot as she could endure. She lay motionless, melted, the back of her neck on the tub rim. She closed her eyes and soaked blissfully. The cramps seemed to diminish.
After a while she roused, and began to lather herself with scented soap that she bought from a Madison Avenue apothecary. It cost $2.75 a cake, and smelled subtly of frangipani. She cleansed herself thoroughly, her ears, vulva, rectum, and between her toes.
She did not masturbate.
Zoe opened the tub drain and stood cautiously. She turned on the shower and rinsed the suds away. She sniffed at her armpits, but smelled only the flowery fragrance of the imported soap. She dried thoroughly and inspected herself for more gray pubic hairs, but found none.
She returned to the bedroom. She turned on the bedside radio, switching from WQXR to a station that featured hard rock. Sitting on the edge of the bed, listening to the driving music, she painted her toenails and fingernails a glossy vermilion. Then she walked about the room, waving her hands in the air to dry the polish and moving her body in time to the music.
Taking care not to smudge her nails, she opened the bottom drawer of her dresser and lifted out stacks of sensible underwear and earth-colored pantyhose. In the back of the drawer were concealed her treasures. Her precious things.
She selected a brief brassiere and a bikini of sheer black nylon with small appliquéd leaves that concealed the nipples and pudendum. The lingerie came on with a whisper, weightless and clinging. She applied Aphrodisia behind her ears, within her armpits, on the inside of her thighs.
In the back of the bedroom closet, behind the rack of practical, everyday clothes, were her secret costumes. They hung in plastic bags from hooks screwed into the wall. There were five gowns, all expensive, all new. The red silk had been worn once. The others had never been used.
She donned a sheath of black crepe. When the side zipper was closed, the dress clung like paint. A second skin. Décolletage revealed the swell of her hardened breasts. Her slender waist was accented, the lyre of her hips. In back, firm buttocks pressed.
Then, seamed black silk hose with rosetted garters. Evening sandals of thin straps with three-inch spike heels, the tallest she could manage. She wore no jewels, but around her left wrist she fastened a fine chain supporting a legend of gold letters. It read: WHY NOT?
She combed her short brown hair quickly. Then went into the living room, to the closet. In the back, concealed, was her trenchcoat and a large patent leather shoulder bag. In the bag, wrapped in tissue, was a black nylon wig and a makeup kit.
She spent a few moments transferring things from her workaday bag: cigarettes, matches, Swiss Army pocket knife, the small can of Chemical Mace, keys, coins, wallet with slightly more than forty dollars. Before she transferred the wallet, she removed all her identification cards and hid them on the top shelf of the closet.
Then she shrugged into the trenchcoat and buttoned it up to her neck. She buckled the belt loosely so the coat hung like a sack. Slinging her shoulder bag, she sallied forth leaving all the lights in the apartment burning.
Bathing and dressing had taken almost an hour. Never once during that time had she looked in a mirror.
The night doorman was behind the desk and tipped his cap to her as she passed. She teetered over to Third Avenue on her high heels. She looked about nervously for Ernest Mittle, but he was long gone.
There were sudden swirls of light, powdery snow, and she had to wait almost five minutes for an uptown cab. She told the driver to take her to Central Park West and 72nd Street.
“The Dakota?” he asked.
“That corner,” she said crisply. “It’s close enough.”
“Whatever you say, lady,” he said, and then drove in silence, for which she was thankful.
She gave him a generous tip when he let her off. She stood on the windswept corner, lighting a cigarette slowly and not moving in any direction until the cab pulled away, and she saw its taillights receding west on 72nd Street.
Then she, too, headed west, walking rapidly, her heels clicking on a sidewalk already dusted with snow. Men passed, but she did not raise her eyes. She bent against the wind, clutching her shoulder bag with both hands. But she was not cold. She glowed.
The Filmore was a residential hotel. Downstairs, one flight from the sidewalk, was a dim restaurant featuring a “continental menu.” The restaurant seemed to be languishing, but the connecting bar, brightly lighted, had several customers, most of them watching a TV set suspended on chains from the ceiling.
Zoe Kohler had been there once before. It suited her needs perfectly.
She sat at the bar in her trenchcoat, holding her bag on her lap. She ordered a glass of white wine and finished it quickly. Very calm. Making certain she looked at none of the single men. The bartender was not the one who had been on duty during her previous visit.
“Where is the ladies’ room, please?” she asked, just as she had before.
“Back there through the hotel entrance,” he said, pointing. “You go up the stairs and through the lobby. It’s to yo
ur right.”
“Thank you,” she said, paid for her wine and left a tip. Not too large a tip, she judged, and not too small. He’d never remember her. No one ever did.
The lavatory was tiled in white with stained fixtures of cracked porcelain. Disinfectant stung the nose. There was a middle-aged woman at one of the sinks, inspecting herself in the streaked mirror, moving her head this way and that. She turned when Zoe came in.
“Hullo, dearie,” she said brightly, smiling.
Zoe nodded and walked down the row of five toilet stalls, glancing under the doors. They all appeared to be unoccupied. She went into the last stall, closed the door and latched it. She waited patiently for two or three minutes, then heard the outside door open and close.
She exited cautiously. The restroom seemed to be empty, but to make certain, she opened the doors of all the stalls and checked. Then she went over to one of the sinks and began working swiftly. Finally, finally, she looked at her image.
She removed the wig from her shoulder bag, shook it out, pulled it on. The nylon was black and glossy, with feathered curls across her brow and thick, rippling waves that fell almost to her shoulders. She smoothed it into place, turning this way and that, just as the middle-aged woman had.
Satisfied, she began applying makeup. She darkened her brows, mascaraed her lashes, brushed on silvery-blue eye shadow, powder, rouge, a deep crimson lipstick with an outer layer of moist gloss.
She worked quickly, and within fifteen minutes the transformation was complete. Even in the dulled mirror she looked vibrant, alive. She was a warm, sensuous woman, eager for joy. Glittering eyes challenged and promised.
She opened her coat to snug the wool crepe dress down over her hips, wiggling slightly to make certain it fit without a wrinkle. She tugged the neckline lower, took a deep breath and, in the mirror, showed her teeth.
Then she wrapped the unbuttoned trenchcoat about her, cinched the belt tight, and turned up the collar in back. Her neck and the top of her bosom were exposed.
Second Deadly Sin Page 45
