I awoke first in the morning. For a moment something was wrong. The ghost of a dream was flickering somewhere behind my closed eyelids and I wanted to catch hold of it and ask it its name. But it was gone, out of reach. I lay still for a moment, taking deep breaths. Then I turned on my side and she was there beside me and for this I was grateful. At first I did nothing but look at her and listen to the even rhythm of her breathing. Then I thought of other things to do, and then I did them.

Eventually we got out of bed, took our turns in the bathroom, and put on the clothes we’d thrown off hastily the night before. She made the coffee and burned the toast and we sat down in silence and had breakfast.

There was something wrong with this particular silence. Ray Kirschmann’s young partner Loren would have slapped his battered nightstick against his palm and said something inarticulate about vibrations, and maybe that would have been as good an explanation as any. Perhaps I read something in the tilt of her head, the set of her chin. I didn’t know exactly what it was but something was not at all right.

I said, “What’s the matter, Ruth?”

“Ruth,” she said.

“Huh?”

“Dear Ruth. That’s a play.”

“Baby Ruth,” I said. “That’s a candy bar.”

“Ruth Ruth Ruth. You said that last night. And this morning, too. At the very end.”

“You said ‘Sweet fucking shit I’m coming,’ but I hadn’t planned on throwing it in your face for breakfast. If you don’t like your name why don’t you change it?”

“I like my name fine.”

“Then what’s the trouble?”

“Shit. Look, Bernie, if you keep calling me Ruth I’m going to start calling you Roger.”

“Huh?”

“As in Armitage.”

“Oh,” I said. Then my eyes widened a bit and my jaw slackened and I said Oh again, but with a little more conviction, and she gave a slow nod.

“Your name isn’t Ruth Hightower.”

“Too true.” She averted her eyes. “Well, you were calling yourself Roger and I knew that wasn’t your name and I thought we ought to start on an equal footing. And then we got it straightened out who you were and it just seemed easier for me to go on being Ruth. There was never a convenient time to tell you.”

“Until now.”

“If you’re going to murmur a name into my ear at intimate moments I’d just as soon you got the name right.”

“I guess I can understand that. Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, what’s your name? Take plenty of time, kid. Make sure you come up with one that’ll sound nice in a husky whisper.”

“That’s not nice.”

“Not nice! Here I am feeling like an utter zip, cooing some alias into your pink shell-like ear, and you tell me I’m not nice?” I turned her face so that I could see her eyes. There were tears welling up in their corners. “Hey,” I said. “Hey, come on now.”

She blinked furiously but the tears did not go away. She blinked some more, then erased the tears with the back of her hand. “I’m all right,” she said.

“Of course you are.”

“My name’s Ellie.”

“For Eleanor?”

“For Elaine, but Ellie’ll do just fine.”

“Ellie what? Not Hightower, I don’t suppose.”

“Ellie Christopher.”

“Pretty name.”

“Thank you.”

“I think it suits you. But then I thought Ruth Hightower suited you pretty well, so who am I to say? What do I know? Is Christopher your married name?”

“No. I took my maiden name back after the divorce.”

“What was your husband’s name?”

“What’s the difference?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you angry with me, Bernie?”

“Why should I be angry?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

I went on not answering it and finished my coffee, then got to my feet. “We’ve both got things to do,” I said. “I want to go to my apartment.”

“I don’t know if that’s safe.”

I didn’t either but I didn’t feel like talking about it. I couldn’t believe the cops would have my place staked out, not at this point, and a phone call would let me know if there was anyone on the premises at the moment. And I really wanted clean clothes, and I had the feeling it would be nice to have my case money on hand. Things were almost ready to come to a head and the five grand I’d tucked away at my place might turn out to be useful.

“Things to do,” I said. “You want to go back to your place and change your clothes, freshen up, that sort of thing. And feed your cats.”

“I suppose so.”

“And empty the catbox and put out fresh kitty litter, all those things. Take the garbage out to the incinerator. The little day-to-day chores that eat up so much of a person’s time.”

“Bernie-”

“Do you really have cats? Abyssinians? And are their names really Esther and Ahasuerus?”

“Esther and Mordecai.”

“There’s a lot I don’t know about you, isn’t there?”

“Not so very damned much. I don’t see what you’re so thoroughly pissed about.”

I didn’t either, exactly. But I glared at her anyway.

“Give me a little room, huh? I’m just a neighborhood kid who wandered in one morning to water the plants.”

“Well, you don’t owe me anything, that’s for sure.”

“Bernie-”

“I’ll meet you at the Childs on Eighth Avenue and Fifty-eighth Street,” I said. “That’ll be a few doors from his hotel. Do you still want to come along?”

“Of course. And I’ll dress up like we said last night? Nothing’s changed, Bernie.”

I let that pass and looked at my watch. “It’s a quarter after ten,” I said. “Figure two hours to do everything we have to do plus a margin for error, so that makes what? I’ll meet you at the restaurant at twelve-thirty. How does that sound?”

“It sounds fine.”

I got the wig and cap and she came around and helped me with the bobby pins. I wanted to do it myself but I forced myself to stand still while she poked around there. “If I’m not there by one o’clock,” I said, “you can assume I got arrested.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Lots of things aren’t. Don’t forget to lock up. The streets are full of burglars.”

“Bernie-”

“I mean it. It’s a jungle out there.”

“Bernie-”

“What?”

“Just be careful.”

“Oh, I’m always careful,” I said, and let myself out.

Chapter Eleven

In the taxi heading uptown I thought about Ellie (whom I found myself still thinking of as Ruth) and wondered why I’d gotten so steamed with her. She told me a lie or three, but so what? On balance she’d placed herself in jeopardy to help a total stranger who looked to be a murderer in the bargain. On the strength of her vaunted intuition she’d put herself on the line for me. So what if she kept her name to herself? That seemed like no more than a sensible precaution-if I got nailed by the long arm of the law, I wouldn’t be able to drag her into it. Not so long as I didn’t know who she was.

And then, when the old animal passions began to churn, she felt bad about the deception. So she told me her name, and everything was right out in the open where it belonged.

So what was my problem?

Well, for openers, I’d been honest with her. And that was a new experience for me. In all my previous relationships with women, a central fact was always kept secret. Whatever else women learned about me-what I ate for breakfast, what I wore to bed, how I like to make love, whether I preferred the smooth or the crunchy peanut butter-they never got to find out what I did for a living. I would explain that I was between positions or that I had a private income or was in investments. Occasionally, if we were not likely to be more to each other than two ships passing in the night, I would equip myself with an interesting business or profession for the duration. At one time or another I had been a magazine illustrator, a neurosurgeon, a composer of modern classical music, a physical education instructor, a stockbroker, and an Arizona land developer.