Chapter 7

STRETCHING FROM EIGHTH AVENUE ON THE west side to the Bowery on the east, Bleecker Street cut a narrow, busy, smile-shaped path through the hub of Greenwich Village. Abby Moskowitz and I lived on Bleecker between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, in the very heart of the hub, in a tiny, rundown three-story building that had probably been built before the turn of the century (which one, I couldn’t say).

There were two apartments in our building, each perched above a small ground-level storefront. Abby’s pad sat atop Angelo’s fruit and vegetable store, and my humble abode was planted over Luigi’s fish market. Due to the particular placement of our respective apartments-or, rather, the distinct aromas rising from the two shops underneath-Abby and I usually got together at her place instead of mine. Even rotten fruit smelled better than fish.

“Well, look who’s here!” Abby chirped, sticking her head out into the hall and watching me climb the creaky flight of stairs from the street to the landing between our front doors. “It’s the illustrious Paige Turner, and she looks thirsty.”

Abby wasn’t clairvoyant, you should know. I arrived home around this time most evenings, and I was always thirsty. Luckily for me, Abby was both a cheerful hostess and a very accommodating bartender. (I think she invented the term “happy hour.”)

“What have you got?” I begged, staggering into her apartment, tossing my beret and jacket on a chair, and plopping myself down at the round oak kitchen table just inside the door. “Vodka? Gin? Bourbon? Cat pee? Whatever you’re serving, I’ll take two.”

Abby didn’t skip a beat. “A double Scotch and soda comin’ right up!” She pulled her thick, waist-length black ponytail over one shoulder and stepped across the linoleum to the kitchen counter. Cracking open a fresh tray of ice, she plunked a pile of cubes in a tumbler and covered them with J &B. A twist of lemon and a splash of club soda completed the concoction.

“Bottoms up,” she said, handing the drink to me. Her gorgeous Ava Gardner face was glowing. Next to painting sexy pictures (Abby was one of the best men’s magazine illustrators in the city) and eagerly indulging in the forbidden practice of free love, Abby’s most passionate pastime was the preparation and distribution of intoxicating beverages. She believed all the world’s problems could be solved by a healthy combination of booze and sex.

“Cheers,” I replied, throwing my head back and pouring half the highball down my throat.

“Hey, take it easy!” Abby cried, startled by my hasty alcohol intake. “ ‘Bottoms up’ is just an expression, you dig? I didn’t mean it literally! That’s almost straight Scotch in your glass, kiddo. You gotta take it slow. Keep on slugging, and you’ll knock yourself out.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I said, taking another sip (okay, gulp).

Abby cocked her head and studied my face for a second or two. Then she frowned, smoothed out the sleeves of her tight black turtleneck, and sat down at the table. “Okay, what gives, Paige? What’s with the heavy chugalug action? Are you feeling all right? You look really meshuga to me… like a Beat the Clock contestant who has four seconds to balance a vat of hot grease on her nose.”

“That’s one way to describe it,” I said, scouting the tabletop for a pack of Pall Malls, Abby’s favorite brand. I found one behind the sugar bowl. “Can I bum a cigarette?” I asked, snatching one out of the open pack and lighting up before she could answer. “I’m all out. Out of money, too, so I couldn’t buy any on the way home. All I had was a dime for the subway.”

“Take the whole pack. I’ve got a carton upstairs.” She swept a stray lock of ebony hair off her cheek and twisted her uncommonly beautiful features into another worried frown. “So what’s the dope, Hope?” (Abby liked to end a sentence with a rhyming name, whether it fit the person she was talking to or not.) “Why are you so wigged-out? No, wait! Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’re hot on the trail of a vile, bloodthirsty murderer, and you’re setting yourself up to be his next victim.”

She wasn’t being clairvoyant now, either. Abby knew me- and all the morbid milestones of my hazardous crime-writing career-like a book. She had helped me investigate a few murder stories in the past, and she’d been a witness to more than one of my almost fatal run-ins with homicidal maniacs. (Did I say witness? Ha! You can strike that gutless, passive word right now. Abby had been a fearless participant in some of my most dangerous escapades, and she’d nearly been killed herself. Twice.)

“Am I right?” she barreled on. “Are you working on another story?” She was breathless with excitement. Her big brown eyes were dancing a jig, and her glossy red smile was stretched to the limit. Abby liked solving mysteries (and sticking it to the bad guys) as much as I did.

“Nope,” I said, telling the God’s honest truth, but feeling deceitful just the same. I wasn’t working on a story, but I was about to plunge into another dangerous murder investigation, and I knew Abby would want to hear all the dirty details.

“Oh, come on, Paige!” she wailed, angrily flipping her long ponytail over the opposite shoulder. “You’re not leveling with me. Something’s up, Buttercup, and you’d better tell me what it is!”

I took another big swig of Scotch. “Okeydokey,” I said, grinning like an idiot and surrendering on the spot. My resolve to keep Sabrina’s secrets had disappeared faster than the liquor in my glass.

(Don’t look at me that way! Yes, I had made numerous cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die promises to Sabrina, but keeping the truth from my best friend, Abby, had not been one of them! And besides, the booze had suddenly kicked in, and knocked me for a loop, and-like every lonely drunk at every corner bar-I was desperate to tell my troubles to somebody.)

“I’m not working on a story,” I began, pausing to take another drink, “but I am on assignment. And you know what, Ab? It has nothing to do with Daring Detective! The assignment, I mean, not the story-which I’m not going to write, and which has plenty to do with Daring Detective since the owner is- hic!-one of Sabrina’s clients, and could turn out to be the slimy creep who killed Mirginia. Oops! I mean Velody. Either him or the district attorney. Our big fine Daddy-O DA! Can you believe that? Or maybe Corona the crooner, who has no earthly reason to hire a hooker, and if you ask me-”

“Hold it right there!” Abby cried, jumping to her feet and pushing her palm out like a traffic cop. “You’re not making any sense, Spence! You drank too much too fast.” She snatched my near-empty glass off the table and put it on the kitchen counter, out of my reach. “You’ve got to pull yourself together now, you dig? Slow down before you fall down.”

“Whaddaya mean? I am too making spence!”

“Not to me,” she said, propping both hands on her hips and raising one eyebrow to a peak. “I don’t know who or what you’re talking about!”

“Then you must be drunk or somethin’. It’s perfeckly clear that-”

“No, Paige, it’s not clear. You’re babbling like a goddamn brook. Everything you said is just a crazy muddle to me.”

“Muddle, muddle, deep mud puddle.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“Inky dinky parlay vooooo!”

“Okay, that’s enough. You’re bombed. I’m taking you home now.” She extracted the burned-out cigarette stub from my tightly clenched fingers and tossed it in the ashtray. “C’mon. Stand up. I’ll help you walk across the hall.”

“Don’t wanna go home! Wanna talk about the lavender list and-”

“I don’t have time now, Paige. It’s getting late and I’ve got a hot date. We’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re sober.” She took hold of my hands and pulled me to my feet.

“Late, late, for a very important date…”