http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00U0JKMH2
Noir
By
Al Lamanda
Copyright by Al Lamanda
One
I woke up to a good day.
Mostly because I hadn't killed
anybody.
Yet.
But, the day was still young and
anything was possible.
The clock radio that woke me said it
was sixty-three degrees with a promise of seventy-eight by late afternoon. A
few pigeons were sunning on the telephone wire that stretched from the pole on
the street to the rooftop of my building.
Pigeons don’t sing. They coo. And
generally make a mess of anything below them. I smoked a cigarette and sipped
coffee from a mug while I watched the pigeons from the kitchen window of my
fourth floor apartment.
Cat, a massive Maine Coon Cat that
set me back eight hundred dollars when I picked him up at a breeder five years
ago joined me at the window where he managed to sit on the ledge and watch the
pigeons through the screen.
As a kitten, I mulled over a name
that would suit him as an adult male, couldn't decide on one and took to
calling him Cat. By the time he was six months old he was so used to being
called Cat we both stuck with it.
One of the pigeons flew off and Cat
followed its path with his eyes. I stroked his ears and he purred loudly at my
touch.
There was a soft knock on my
apartment door. I left Cat on the ledge, walked across the kitchen, unlocked
the deadbolts and opened the door. A kid of about twelve handed me a sealed
white envelop. I handed the kid a five spot and closed the door.
I tossed the envelop on the table,
refilled my mug and lit a fresh cigarette. Then I sat, opened the envelop and
removed the folded sheet of cream-colored writing paper. One sentence was
written in black ink.
Seven-thirty tonight.
J.F.
J.F. is Johnny Fureal, owner of the
pub across the street from my building. Seven years ago when I purchased the
four-story building on Ninth
Avenue
I’m a decent cook, but I will avoid
that task whenever possible. The Pub serves lunch and dinner. I had my first
dinner there the day I moved in and had my first encounter with Johnny Fureal
when he joined me uninvited while I was having dessert and coffee.
Carrying a bottle of Wild Turkey and
two shot glasses, Johnny came around from the bar leaving it unattended and
took a seat at my table. From the corner of my eye I saw the waitress quietly
walk around the bar to take his place.
“I’m John Fureal, owner of this
establishment,” Johnny said as he slid out a chair and took a seat. “I make it
a policy to buy a drink for a customer I’ve never seen before.”
I took a sip of coffee and made a
quick study of Johnny Fureal. He was a hard-edged guy with dark, slick hair, a
pencil thin mustache and coal black eyes. His face was hard angles that gave
me nothing in the way of his age. He could have been fifty-five or sixty-five;
there was no way to tell by looking.
“I don’t drink,” I said.
“Ever?”
“The last fifteen years.”
“Are you in AA?”
I sipped my coffee.
“Do you care?”
Johnny filled a shot glass and tossed
it back like lemonade. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”
“You didn't come over here to buy me
a drink,” I said.
“No, I didn't.” Johnny refilled the
shot glass and tossed back another. I’ve since learned that he can absorb more
alcohol into his body than any human being I’ve ever met and never even hint at
being drunk.
“In my establishment I know every
regular by first and last name, where they live and work and the names of their
wives and children,” Johnny said. “Even who they fuck on the side. I make it my
business to know everything that happens in my neighborhood.”
I sipped and nodded. “I just
purchased the four-story building across the street at a city auction,” I said.
“I plan to live there on the top floor. I dislike cooking and plan to be a
regular here so long as your food doesn't kill me or you ban me for not
drinking. Anything else?”
Johnny tossed back a third shot.
“What do you do for work?”
“I don’t.”
Johnny smiled at me and the lines and
creases around his eyes were a roadmap of a life hard fought. “If there
anything you need?” he said. “A welcome to the neighborhood gift you could
use.”
“Would you happen to know a very
high-class call girl, blonde with blue or green eyes and with meat on her
bones?” I said. “Nothing skinny and clean, no drugs.”
Johnny Fureal tossed back another
shot and smiled at me. “They say music is the true international language, but
I don’t believe that. What’s between a woman’s legs is the only real language
spoken everywhere.”
Since that time I’ve learned that
Johnny Fureal is the Godfather of the neighborhood. He associates with known
members of the mafia and councilmen to the mayor alike. He’s given advice and
help to both. What he gets in return is anybody’s guess and none of my
business.
What I've learned above all else
about Johnny Fureal is that he is nobody to fuck with on any level.
I stood up from the table and took
the note and envelop to the sink where I set fire to both and watched them burn
in the stainless steel basin.
At the window I heard Cat make his
guttural noise he uses for something interesting and I went to see what it was.
The pigeons were gone from the wire.
Blue Jays had taken their place and
Cat found them much more interesting to watch. I didn't and returned to the
table where I lit another smoke and thought for a bit about the seven-thirty
meeting with Johnny.
It could be about something important
or nothing at all. Either way I would wait until the agreed upon time to find
out.
Behind me on the wall is an old
fashioned phone with a twenty foot long cord. It was maybe fifteen years old
when I moved in and works fine except that I removed the ringer. Since I would
never give the number out to anybody the only calls would come from wrong
numbers or people selling things and worse, political consultants conducting
polls and pandering for donations.
I don’t trust cell phones or
computers and have neither.
That’s why Johnny sent a kid from the
neighborhood with his note. Each time it’s a different kid and who knew where
he found them?
I trust cable television about as
much as I trust cell phones so my seven year old, twenty-one inch flat screen
gets the big four and some local stations. For the amount that I watch I really didn't care. It’s all just noise to me.
I had time to kill, about eight hours
to be exact. I grabbed a yogurt from the fridge, ate it at the window with Cat,
then smoked another cigarette and downed another mug of coffee.
Then I slipped into comfortable sweat
pants, tee shirt and sneakers.
“Do you want to go or stay?” I asked
Cat.
He made his guttural noise at the
Blue Jays on the wire.
I took that as a stay.
I locked up and took the stairs down
to the basement rather than take the eighty year old elevator that was slower
than a snail on its back.
The basement was divided into two
sections. One was for storage. The other was a laundry room with six washing
machines and driers. I converted the eight hundred square foot storage room
into a gym. I had the only key.
I entered, clicked on the lights and
locked the door.
To my right was the area reserved for
jumping rope. I had ropes for speed work and weighted ropes for power jumping.
Just beyond that were three push-up stations. One for regular, incline and
decline, all with swivel handles. Past that were two pull-up stations mounted
to the wall, one for narrow grip, the other for wide. A chin-up bar was mounted
to the left of the wide.
On the adjacent wall were two speed
bag platforms, one for a large bag and the other for a smaller, faster bag.
Near the center of the room hung two heavy bags, each on a steel tripod. The
smaller bag weighed in at eighty pounds, the larger at one twenty.
Centered directly in the room was a
stair climber. Suspended from the ceiling was a thirteen inch television. On
the floor beside the climber was a CD player with a stack of CD’s.
I worked out four times per week for
about two hours at a clip. I switched things out every few weeks to keep from
getting stale.
I grabbed the lightweight rope and
warmed up with ten minutes of smooth jumping, then I switched out for the
weighted rope and did another ten. Once I had a thin layer of sweat on my body,
I stretched for a few minutes and moved on to the push-up stations. I did three
sets of fifty reps on each of the three stations, starting with flat, switching
to decline and ending with incline. By the ninth set, my chest, arms and
shoulders ached and burned.
I rested a few minutes, got a bottle
of water from the small fridge in the corner and then tackled the wall mounted
pull up/chin up bars. I hit the narrow grip first and did three sets of
18/16/14 reps with one minute of rest between sets. Wide grip was next and I
did the same number of reps and sets. I finished off with three sets of
18/16/14 reps on the chin up bar and barely made the final rep my arms and back
burned so much.
I rested a few minutes, sipped some
water, looked at the wall clock and then reached for the speed bag gloves on
the floor below the speed bag platform. Using the wall clock as a timer I
cranked out fifteen minutes on the small speed bag. By the final thirty seconds
my shoulders ached and burned as if on fire.
A few more sips of water and then I
rested while I wrapped my hands tightly and slipped into the heavy bag gloves.
I glanced at the clock and then
pounded the eighty pound heavy bag for fifteen minutes, switched to the one
twenty pound bag and went for thirty minutes more.
I was on fire.
My lungs were hot.
I unwrapped my hands and finished off
the water bottle. Then I turned on the TV, grabbed another water from the
fridge, stepped onto the climber and set it for low.
After ten minutes of easy stepping, I
reset the climber for medium and watched the news for twenty minutes.
After the news, a game show came on
and I set the level to high and thirty minutes later when an obese female
contestant walked away with a pot of cash and a new car, I shut it down and
flopped onto the blue mat beside the climber.
I was soaked to the skin, even my
socks, but I forced my body into a plank position and held it for a count of
one hundred and eighty. Around ninety or so, sweat dripped into my eyes and
stung and I finished the final thirty seconds with my arms shaking like Jell-O.
Then I sat up for a minute and
finally stood and grabbed a towel from the shelf above the fridge to wipe off a
bit on the way out. As I walked toward the elevator I could hear a washing
machine in the laundry room on spin cycle. I glanced into the room as I passed
by. Whoever was washing clothes wasn't about.
I pushed the elevator button and
waited with the towel wrapped around my neck. It must have already been on the
way down because the door opened seconds later and Mrs. Birmbaum stepped out.
“One washer and drier is out of
order,” Mrs. Birmbaum said.
“Ask Luis to fix it,” I said.
“I already did. He went out to buy
parts.”
The evening of the day I moved into
my apartment, Mrs. Birmbaum knocked on my door. She said she represented the
other tenants in the building. The first floor housed two apartments, the
second and third floor had four and the fourth floor contained three. Mrs.
Birmbaum had the apartment next to mine.
“When we learned there was a new
buyer for the building we had a meeting,” Mrs. Birmbaum said that night. “The
biggest concern is will you be raising the rent and also will you be making
necessary repairs?”
“I won’t be raising the rent,” I
said. “In fact I won’t be charging rent at all. From now on you are the
building manager. Get all the tenants to kick in monthly dues and fix whatever
you want. Is there a vacant apartment?”
“One on the first floor.”
“Hire a handyman and let him live
there,” I said. “Pay him a salary out of the dues.”
“You’re a kind man,” Mrs. Birmbaum
said.
“No, I just can’t be bothered
collecting rents and dealing with all that other bullshit,” I said.
“I’ll call a meeting and tell
everybody,” Mrs. Birmbaum said.
“You do that,” I told her. “And make
sure you tell them that you’re in charge and to please leave me alone.”
I stepped into the elevator and Mrs.
Birmbaum held the door. At seventy-nine, she was a spry old woman with all her wits
and strength.
“I made a lovely pot roast,” she
said. “My daughter and her loser husband were supposed to come for a visit, but
something came up. It always does. Would you like to join me?”
“I have a meeting,” I said. “I probably
won’t be free until nine.”
“I’ll keep it warm.”
While I was gone Cat decided to take
a nap on my bed.
I decided that was a good idea and
joined him.
Two
Exercising your 2nd
Amendments Rights inside the city limits is close to impossible. City officials
got together and thought it a good idea to ban said Amendment while cramming a
few million people into a tiny living space after removing the middle-class and
leaving the poor and the rich to mingle together in a boiling stew of hostility
and resentment.
The result of this genius is that
rapists, murderers and muggers parade around armed to the teeth while honest
citizens cower in fear while walking home from work after dark. City officials
claim the police can protect the public, but last year seven hundred of the murdered
public doesn't think so. This year will be closer to eight hundred and counting.
Soda containers shrink while the body
count mounts.
It cost me ten thousand in bribe
money to obtain a private investigator’s license that cost three hundred
dollars in most states. Except to carry the license around in my wallet I've never used it for anything. It cost me another fifteen thousand in bribe money
to obtain a concealment firearm’s permit that in most states cost thirty-five
dollars.
And they call Wall Street brokers
crooks.
I napped for about three hours, left
Cat on the bed and set a pot of coffee to brew while I took a shower. I dressed
in jeans and a dark gray tee shirt and New Balance walking shoes.
In my closet I unlocked the gun safe
and removed a Smith and Wesson .357 hammerless Magnum revolver. Hammerless is
ideal for pocket carrying because there’s no hammer to get caught on anything.
A .357 Magnum load is ideal for any situation because it will bring down
anything short of an elephant. I swung out the wheel, checked the loads and
grabbed a speed loader for the you never
know security of having it.
Cat was curled into a tight ball on
the bed when I left the bedroom and poured a mug of coffee in the kitchen. I
lit a cigarette and went to the window and watched the Pub. Although it was a
few minutes past seven in the evening there was a good two hours of daylight
left and I could see clearly any and all who entered and left the Pub.
I recognized some of the regulars
coming and going by sight if not by name. I broke away for a refill and fresh
smoke and around seven twenty a man and woman with arms linked entered the Pub.
I didn’t make their faces, but as I didn’t keep track of Johnny’s customers
that didn’t mean much.
At seven thirty I set the mug in the
sink, slipped on a lightweight sports jacket, put the .357 in the right pocket,
the speed loader in the left and headed out.
I lit a cigarette and killed a few
minutes by crossing the street and walking around the block before entering the
Pub at seven forty-five.
It was a busy night. Most of the
tables were full and all of the seats at the bar were occupied. Johnny stood
watch behind the bar, his waitress Stacey Wells, a perky blonde worked the
tables.
As I walked toward the bar, Johnny
came around and Stacey went to take his place. Neither of them so much as
glanced my way. I followed Johnny down the hallway where the bathrooms and
kitchen were located to his office. He entered and I came in behind him.
A man and a woman were seated in
chairs facing Johnny’s desk. They stood as Johnny came around the desk and
looked at me as I came up on the man’s left.
The man and woman turned and looked
at me.
“Doctor Kevin Felton and his wife
Jessica,” Johnny said to me. “Doctor, this is your man,” Johnny said to Felton.
“Are you the man Mr. Fureal called
LT?” Felton said.
He was about forty, maybe a year or
two older, an inch or so over six feet, lean with sandy hair and blue eyes,
clean shaven. His cream colored shirt was tailor made as were the charcoal grey
slacks.
Jessica, a few years Felton’s junior was
a knockout of a woman with black, shoulder length hair and hazel eyes. She wore
a sleeveless sundress that showed off her lean, muscular arms and very fit
figure. I took her for a jogger.
I took the third chair facing
Johnny’s desk without answering Felton’s question.
Felton exchanged a quick glance with
his wife and then they both sat.
“Doctor Felton and his wife have a
problem,” Johnny said. “Doctor, why don’t you tell him about it.”
“I’d like to ask Mr. LT a few
questions first,” Felton said and looked at me.
Behind the desk, Johnny sighed.
“You don’t ask questions,” I said.
“You answer them. That’s how this works. If you don’t like it, go away.”
Felton opened his mouth, thought for
a few moments, closed his mouth and nodded.
I dug out my cigarettes and didn’t
ask permission to light one up. “What are you a doctor of,” I said as I blew
smoke.
“Neurology,” Felton said. “I’m a
surgeon. I work out of Manhattan General and Saint Bartholomew in Queens . My private office is on Park Avenue South
I took in smoke, nodded and looked at
Stacey Felton. “What do you do?”
“I was a nurse at Manhattan General,”
Jessica said. “After we were married I went to work as Kevin’s private nurse
and office manager at the office.”
“And what do you need from me?” I
said.
“Help,” Felton said.
“With?”
Felton looked at Johnny. “Mr. Fureal,
you didn’t tell him about our problem?”
Johnny opened a desk drawer and
removed a bottle of bourbon and a glass. “Talk to him,” Johnny said as he
poured a shot. “That’s why he’s here.”
Felton looked at me. “We need help
with…”
“From the very beginning,” I said.
“Start with why and not with.”
“I can’t have children,” Jessica said.
“I’m thirty-nine-years-old and after ten years of trying I was diagnosed as
barren. We want a family. The waiting list for adoption is long, years and
years. I don’t want to be sixty five when he or she graduates high school and
have the other kids think I’m the grandmother.”
“Understandable,” I said.
“We … agreed to find a suitable
surrogate mother to give birth to Kevin’s child,” Jessica said. “Six months ago
she delivered a beautiful boy. She, the mother I mean, is holding the baby for
a higher payment than agreed.”
“What did you agree on?” I said.
“Seventy five thousand, plus all
medical expenses,” Felton said. “We paid twenty five thousand up front.”
“What does the mother want now?” I
said.
Felton sighed. “One million.”
“Do you have it?” I said.
“I do now,” Felton said. “I make a
very good living, but I don’t keep a million dollars under the bed. I had to
liquidate stocks, investments, sell the summer home in Maine
“For a baby you’ve never seen?” I
said.
“For a baby that comes from my loins,”
Felton said. “That Jesse and I want to love and raise as if she had given birth
herself.”
“You have the money, what do you need
me for?” I said.
“We don’t trust them,” Felton said.
“Them?” I said.
“The mother’s boyfriend,” Felton
said.
“Did you know about him going in?” I
said.
“No.”
“When did he show up?”
“About two weeks after the baby was
born,” Felton said. “That was our prearranged time to pick up the baby and pay
the fifty thousand balance. Instead of the baby we…”
“Back up,” I said. “How did you find
this woman, where does she live and what’s her name?”
“My attorney found her,” Felton said.
“Her name is Fancy Waggener and she lives or did live in a mobile home in Rhode Island
“Is that her real name, Fancy?” I
said.
“Yes,” Jessica said. “When we met I
thought her name very unusual and asked her about it. She told me her mother
named her after a country song by Reba.”
“The boyfriend?”
“Don’t know,” Felton said. “He’s
never identified himself.”
“You said lived in a mobile home,” I
said.
“Yes,” Felton said. “My attorney made
the arrangements for us to meet at her mobile home. We drove there and had
lunch. We agreed upon the terms and I gave her a third the fee plus fifteen
thousand in expense money because she didn’t have a job and I didn’t want her
to work during the final three months. We, Jesse and I that is, met three more
times after that until she became pregnant.”
“How is that done?” I said.
“Medically speaking.”
“What do you mean?” Felton said.
“How does your sperm get into her?” I
said.
“It’s done with a…there’s a…” Felton
said.
“Oh for drying out loud,” Jessica
said. “I jerked my husband off into a tube called a form cat and stuck it into
her. It took three attempts. It’s really that simple.”
I glanced at Johnny and he grinned
slightly before tossing back a shot of bourbon.
“So there’s no emotional attachment
involved?” I said.
“Only if you enjoy having plastic
tubes shoved up your snatch,” Jessica said. “What are you getting at here?”
“Know what the Lazarus Syndrome is?”
I said.
“The patient falls in love with the
doctor who saved her,” Jessica said. “Or him. I don’t think this qualifies. Are
you implying my husband had some kind of affair with this woman? Or is there
something else on your mind?”
“Mrs. Felton, are you generally
always such a fucking bitch or is tonight a special occasion?” I said.
Jessica Felton’s jaw all but hit the
floor.
Johnny tossed back another shot of
bourbon.
I stubbed my cigarette out in an
ashtray on the desk.
Jessica turned to look at her
husband. “Are you going to let him speak to me like that?” she hissed through a
clenched jaw.
“What would you have me do, punch him
in the nose?” Felton said.
“I wouldn’t advise that,” Johnny
said.
“The man just insulted my wife,”
Felton said. “What would you do?”
“I’d wait until his back was turned
and shoot him in the head,” Johnny said. “I’ve seen him take on five men and
not crack a sweat and none of them were doctors.”
“Back to she lived in the mobile
home,” I said.
“When we went to pick up the baby the
mobile home was empty,” Felton said. “We asked the park manager but she left no
forwarding address.”
“Then?” I said.
“Naturally we were crushed,” Felton
said. “Our first thought was that she changed her mind after taking care of the
baby for a few weeks and decided to keep it. Our attorney knew no different.
Then the first phone call came. She said she thought it over and wanted more
money for the child. A quarter of a million dollars. We agreed. She said she
would call back in one week with instructions for delivery. One week later the
boyfriend called with new demands. A half million. Two more calls and the
demand was now one million dollars or no baby.”
“And you agreed to the new amount?” I
said.
“Isn’t that why we’re here?” Felton
said.
“I’m here because Johnny asked me to
be here,” I said. “I still don’t know why you’re here.”
“This is getting us nowhere,” Jessica
said. “This man’s a fool. Let’s go, Kevin.”
“Mrs. Felton, believe me when I say I
have no problem hitting a woman, especially one with as big a mouth as yours,”
I said. “Now shut the fuck up or I will shut you up. Which?”
“Jesse, please,” Felton said.
“Please, what?” Jessica snapped.
“He’s insulted me twice, are you going to let him get away with that?”
“Yes,” Felton said. “If it helps get
our child home, then yes.”
I looked at Johnny. He grinned,
raised his glass and downed another shot.
“If they want a million and you have
a million, what’s the problem,” I said.
“I told you, I don’t trust the
boyfriend,” Felton said.
“Have you met him?”
“No.”
“Has he threatened you or your wife
with bodily harm?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t you trust him?” I
said. “Specifically.”
Felton and Jessica exchanged a quick
glance. “For one thing, since the first phone call by Fancy it’s always been
him calling with additional demands. For another, he said if we didn’t raise
the million he would sell the baby in Mexico
“Do you believe him?” I said.
Felton nodded. “Yes.”
“Has it occurred to you that way back
when they sold the baby for maybe twice the original price, realized their
mistake and are simply blackmailing you for the money and when the time comes
they’ll rip you off?” I said.
“Yes, it has,” Felton said. “We
thought about going to the police, but our attorney said with what? Legally the
baby is hers. To lay claim in court could take years and exceed the million
demanded in court and attorney fees. Plus, it could take years to even find
them.”
“And you’re willing to take the
chance they still have the baby and that it’s yours?” I said.
“Yes,” Felton said. “And a simple DNA
test will prove if it’s mine.”
“After the fact,” I said. “You can’t
test until the baby is in your possession and if it’s not yours what then?”
“We’ll keep it no matter what,”
Jessica said.
I nodded. “So what is it you need
from me?” I said. “You said you don’t trust the boyfriend so I’m guessing you
want me to go with you when you make the switch?”
“Yes,” Felton said.
“In case there is no baby and they
try to rob you?”
“Yes.”
“And if that’s the case?” I said.
“I don’t…what do you mean?” Felton
said.
“If they try to rob you what do you
expect me to do about it?” I said.
“Stop it of course,” Felton said.
“Isn’t that why we’re hiring you?”
“I don’t know why you’re hiring me,”
I said. “You haven’t told me yet.”
“Protection,” Felton said. “Mr.
Fureal said you’re the best in the business.”
“Back up again,” I said. “How did you
find Johnny?”
“My attorney,” Felton said.
“What’s his name this attorney?”
“Xavier Martin,” Felton said. “Why do
you ask?”
“I’m very difficult to locate,” I
said. “Johnny even more so. He must be well connected this Martin.”
“I suppose,” Felton said. “Look, are
you going to help us or not? We need to know if we’re to proceed with this.”
“How much are you offering me?” I
said. “For my services.”
Felton and Jessica did another
exchange of eye contact. Then Felton said, “Fifty thousand okay?”
“As a down payment,” I said.
“For a night’s work?” Jessica said.
“Don’t you think that’s a bit extreme?”
“My fee is not what you say it is,
it’s what I say it is based upon the circumstances,” I said. “In this case
you’re asking me to protect you from an unknown blackmailer who may be armed
and violent. There may be more than one armed man waiting in the wings. I may
have to kill or be killed. I don’t negotiate what my life is worth.”
Felton nodded.
“One hundred thousand if things go
smoothly,” I said. “A bonus of fifty thousand if they don’t. That’s my fee.
Take it or leave it. I don’t care which.”
Again, Felton nodded.
“When is this exchange going to
happen?” I said.
“I don’t know yet,” Felton said.
“He’s supposed to call in five days with a set of instructions.”
“What time?”
“Eight in the evening.”
“I’ll be there when you take the
call,” I said. “You can give me the deposit then. Where do you live?”
“The Charter Arms on 81st
and Central Park West,” Felton said.
“Very nice,” I said. “I’ll see you in
five days then.”
“If something happens before then,
how do we contact you?” Felton said.
“Through Johnny,” I said.
Felton nodded, something he seemed to
do a great deal of “Goodnight then,” he said.
“One last thing,” I said. “Let me see
your driver’s license.”
“What for?” Felton said.
“Mr. LT or whatever the hell his name
is doesn’t trust us,” Jessica said.
“That’s not entirely true,” I said.
“I trust no one that hasn’t earned it. You haven’t earned it. Yet.”
“Aren’t you the arrogant prick,”
Jessica said. “Let’s go, Kevin.”
Felton dug his wallet out of a jacket
pocket, flipped it open and held up the driver’s license for me to read.
“Okay,” I said.
Felton and Jessica stood and walked
to the door. As they left, Jessica looked back and gave me a look of disgust.
After the door closed, Johnny poured
another shot and tossed it back, then said, “What do you think?”
“I think I’m going to be late for
dinner,” I said.
“Mrs. Birmbaum?”
“She made a pot roast.”
When I entered my apartment, Cat was
perched on the window ledge bird watching.
“Feel like some of Mrs. Birmbaum’s
pot roast?” I said.
Cat jumped down from the ledge and
followed me out to the hallway to Mrs. Birmbaum’s apartment. I knocked on the
door, it opened and Mrs. Birmbaum looked at Cat as he paraded past her.
“I’ll set a third plate,” she said.
