It may come your way

By twist or turn

A case of free samples to all.

Bedlam’s brethren all swallow in the greed!

If you want to get beat,

Hang around Sucker Street.

That dank drunky poet’s D.T.’s

Gives me the doomer…

Mops and brooms together

Make me swoon.

Hot fires and cold night tomorrows

New beats to the jive

Further to oblivion.

Whew! I said to myself, as soon as it was over, that was mercifully short. And not as painful as I thought it would be. Is Jimmy getting better, or am I just getting soft in the head?

“Oh, baby!” Abby said, rising from her chair and joining Jimmy in the spotlight. She grabbed him by the sideburns, kissed him on both cheeks, and pronounced that “The Doomer” was, indeed, a masterpiece. “It’s powerful and it’s perfect,” she declared, laying stress on the last word. “It’s atomic! It’s going to shoot you into the stratosphere.”

But Abby didn’t fool me. I knew what she was doing. She was praising Jimmy’s poem to the hilt because if she didn’t, he’d go back to his apartment and write another one. And then another one. And maybe another one after that. And Abby thought all of that time would be much better spent in her bedroom.

“You really mean it, Ab?” Jimmy asked, looking more like a bashful little boy than the bearded twenty-two-year-old grown-up he really was. Well, sort of was.

“Of course I mean it, you kook! It’s the most! I really dig it.” Abby led Jimmy back over to the table and put his martini in his hand. Then, still standing, she picked up her own glass and raised it high in the air. “I propose a toast,” she said, “to Jimmy Birmingham, a brave and brilliant new artist whose understanding of the human condition is beyond compare!”

She could say that again (except for the brilliant part).

“I’ll toast to that!” Jimmy said, lifting his glass and clinking it against hers.

“Me, too,” I mumbled, raising my martini in the air for a second, then taking a drink. (Well, I couldn’t stand up! Otto was still sleeping in my lap.)

“Hey, thanks a lot, ladies,” Jimmy said, plunking his glass down on the table. He squeezed one arm around Abby’s neck, planted another sloppy kiss on her lips, then released her like a hot potato. “Wake up, Otto,” he commanded, snapping his fingers and strutting over to retrieve his peacoat off the back of the loveseat. “Let’s make like a tree and leave.”

Otto popped to attention, jumped off my lap and skittered over to stand at Jimmy’s feet.

“Where do you think you’re going?!” Abby cried. (Now she was the one who was whining.) “I thought you’d want to stay for a while! Aren’t you even going to finish your drink?” (Translation: Aren’t you going to take me upstairs and ravish me?)

“Don’t have time,” Jimmy said. “I’m meeting some cats down at the Houston Street pool hall. We’ve got a hot bet going.” He put on his peacoat and scooped Otto up in his arms. “I might swing by the San Remo later. Wanna come?”

“No, thanks,” Abby replied, in a huff. “I think I’ll go to bed early-with a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets. They really turn me on.”

If Jimmy felt the sting of her snide remark, he didn’t let it show. Hugging Otto tight under one elbow, he swaggered over to the open door, bade us both a good-natured good night, then scrambled down the stairs to the street.

Chapter 16

ABBY WAS FUMING, BUT I WAS TICKLED PINK. “Thank God Jimmy’s gone!” I blurted, unable to disguise my delight. “I have so much to tell you, Ab, I’m bursting at the seams.”

“Oh, yeah?” she said, pacing around the kitchen, cartoon steam coming out of her ears. “Well, I’m bursting, too, but for a different reason. Do you believe the nerve of that putz? How could he run out on me that way?” (Abby was so gorgeous and sexy and desirable to men, she wasn’t used to being rejected- by Jimmy Birmingham or any other putz.) “We listened to his stupid damn poem, didn’t we?” she shrieked. “I even praised the silly thing and raised a toast to Jimmy’s brilliance! Would it have been so hard for him to show me a little respect in return?” (Translation: shtup me before he left?)

My reply wasn’t very sympathetic, but I simply couldn’t resist: “If you want to get beat,” I quoted, “hang around Sucker Street.”

“Oh, shut up!” She pulled her wild black hair into a ponytail and tied it with the blue silk scarf she yanked out of a kitchen drawer. Then, shoving up the sleeves of her tight, black scoop-neck sweater, she grabbed the martini pitcher off the kitchen counter and refilled our glasses. “So, what did you want to tell me?” she said sulkily, plopping down at the table and lighting up a cigarette. “This better be good, or I’m gonna hit the sack with Shakespeare.”

“Oh, it’s good, all right. It’s top, top secret, and incredibly shocking, and I couldn’t breathe a word of it in front of Jimmy. Or anybody else, for that matter.”

“So, how do I rate, Kate?” She was getting interested in spite of herself. (Abby’s sense of curiosity is as well developed- okay, overly developed-as my own.)

“You’re my best friend,” I said, “and I need somebody to talk to. And you’re the only one I can trust to keep all the secrets.”

“All the secrets?” She was growing perkier by the second. “How many are there?”

“Too many to count. But I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“Then start blabbing, babe!” she urged, eyes sparkling with excitement. “And don’t leave anything out. I’ve got all night!”

“Okay, but hold on just a second.” I jumped to my feet and quickly gathered all my things together. “I’m gonna drop this stuff off in my apartment and pick up something I want to show you. And I want to leave my door open so I can hear the phone if Dan calls.”

Abby shot me a dirty look. “Well, you’d better make it quick, Slick. I haven’t got all night, you know!” If she had any notion that she’d just contradicted herself, she didn’t let on. Fretfully tapping one foot on the floor, she took a drag on her cigarette and blew an irritable whoosh of smoke in my direction.

Not wanting to lose Abby’s attention (she has the patience of a gnat), I darted next door, let myself in, tossed all my stuff on the living room chair, kicked off my high heels, snatched Sabrina’s list from its hiding place in the bookcase (inside my beat-up paperback copy of Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon), and scooted back to Abby’s in a flash.

“You are not going to believe everything that’s happened to me in the last two days,” I blustered, out of breath. “I don’t believe it myself.” Sitting down at the table, I put the lavender list on my lap and took a big gulp of my martini. “I’m working on a new assignment, Ab, and it’s the most atrocious, sinister, and scandalous murder case I’ve ever been involved in.”

She flipped her ponytail over one shoulder and-trying to look bored even though she clearly wasn’t-took another puff on her ciggie. “Is this the assignment that has nothing to do with Daring Detective-the story you’re not going to write?”

“Well, yes, but how did you-?”

“And does it have something to do with a woman named Sabrina?”

“Er, yeah, but-”

“And are Oliver Rice Harrington, Sam Hogarth, and Tony Corona somehow connected?”

“Jeez, Abby!” I screeched. “How the hell-?”

“And what about the three girls who each have two names? Lemme see now… there’s Jocelyn/Candy, Ethel/Brigitte, and Virginia/Melody. I’m figuring they’re either models, actresses, strippers, or whores. Am I right?”

I groaned out loud and downed the rest of my drink, including the gin-soaked olive. “I get it,” I said, annoyed. “I spilled the beans when I was drunk last night, and then you read my notes after I passed out. I wondered how they got out of my purse and onto the table. Very tricky. But now, since you know the whole story already,” I added, deciding to play the game her way, “I might as well go home. I’ll catch up on my sleep and let you catch up on your Shakespeare.” I rose to my feet, held the folded lavender list high overhead, and-guiding it through the air like a paper airplane-headed for the door.