And then I never would have seen that the man had a beard, or that he carried a little dog wrapped in a plaid wool muffler in the crook of his arm. And I wouldn’t have come to the frightening realization that-even though I had successfully kept my name a secret from him-Jimmy Birmingham now knew exactly where I lived.
So then I might have gotten into bed and gone to sleep like a normal person, instead of pacing around my apartment for the rest of the night, from the kitchen to the living room and back, again and again, drinking a jillion Dr. Peppers out of the bottle and filling every ashtray I owned to the brim with squashed cigarette stubs.
WHEN I CAME OUT OF MY SUGAR- AND smoke-induced stupor it was nine-thirty in the morning, and I was flopped out in a crumpled heap on my living room daybed (a weird but very modern-looking contraption I made myself from an old wooden door, a set of six wooden screw-on legs, and a single-bed mattress tucked into an orange madras bedspread. Poverty is the mother of invention!). I was still dressed in my black skirt, black scoop-neck sweater, and black stockings, and my eyelids were spackled shut with several thick, crumbling layers of black mascara.
When I finally pried them open and took a look at the clock on the table next to the phone, I saw that I was an hour late for work.
Groaning loudly and pulling myself to a seated position, I fell back against the couch cushions (or, rather, the pillows I keep piled against the wall to make the daybed look like a couch), wondering what evil stroke of fate had determined that I should have to work like a slave for a living, and still live like a slave in the process. Madly searching my addled brain for a good excuse for being late, I finally picked up the phone and dialed the office, hoping against hope that Mr. Crockett was in a forgiving mood.
When Lenny answered, I was so relieved I almost kissed the mouthpiece.
“Zimmerman!” I said, exhaling loudly. “Thank God it’s you. I’m so late it isn’t funny. I just woke up and I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll tell you what to do,” he sputtered, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Stop working on whatever ghoulish story you’ve gotten yourself involved in, and start paying attention to your real job. Otherwise, you’re gonna lose it.” His critical tone reminded me of the way my mother used to sound, when I would come home way past my curfew, or forget to clean up my room.
“Is Mr. Crockett upset? Did he say anything to you?” I wasn’t worried about Brandon Pomeroy because I knew he wouldn’t be in for another two hours at least.
“Crockett hasn’t come in yet. There was some kind of emergency at the typesetter.”
“Really?” I cried, stifling a loud wahoooo! “I don’t believe it! How lucky can a girl get?”
“Not very,” Lenny said, dropping his voice even lower, cupping his hand over his mouth and around the receiver (at least that’s what it sounded like he was doing). “Mike and Mario arrived right on time this morning, and they’ve been having unholy seizures because the mail isn’t sorted and the coffee isn’t made. Mario’s so furious he said he was going to call Mr. Crockett at the typesetter and tell him you didn’t show up.”
“What an unspeakable creep he is!” I said, wiping chunks of mascara out of my eyes and nervously lighting up another cigarette. It made me gag, so I put it out right away. “You’ve got to cover for me, Lenny,” I pleaded. “Tell them I was trampled by an elephant or something.”
“You mean you’re not coming in?”
“No,” I said, suddenly deciding to take the whole day off. “It’ll be better if I don’t show my face at all. That way you can tell them I called in sick, and they’ll all just have to accept it. This will be only the second sick day I’ve taken in all the time I’ve worked for Daring Detective, so I think I deserve a little leeway. I’ve earned it, right?”
Lenny was audibly exasperated. “Pull your fat head out of the sand, Paige!” he scolded. “Pomeroy won’t give you any rope, and you know it.”
“Maybe that’s just as well,” I said, trying to smile. “The way things have been going for me lately, I’d probably just hang myself with it.”
A SHOWER AND CLEAN CLOTHES LIFTED my spirits a bit. Terry Catcher’s mood, on the other hand, was sunk in a hangover of oceanic proportions.
“I should have been killed instead of Judy,” he moaned, rubbing his pale, handsome face with both hands, then raking his long, shaky fingers through his thick white hair with a vengeance. “I’m a coward, and a drunk, and no use to anybody on earth.” Terry was sitting, slumped over, on Abby’s little red couch, in the same spot and position he’d been in several minutes before, when I’d ventured next door to see how he and Abby were doing.
“Listen up, pretty boy,” Abby called from the kitchen. She was toasting bagels and stirring Tabasco into the three large Bloody Marys sitting on the counter. “You can forget that ‘no use to anybody’ crap right now. I’ve got a use for you, you dig? And you’re gonna love being used by me. I guarantee it.”
I laughed and sat down next to Terry on the couch. It felt good to be among friends. “And I’m really glad you’re still here, Terry,” I said, patting his poor, hunched-over back.
“Now you can tell me more about Judy and help me figure out the truth about what happened to her. I’ve made some headway in my investigation, but I still feel as though I’ve been locked in a windowless basement without a flashlight.”
“Well, I feel like I’m dying,” he croaked, slowly turning his head and looking at me-for the first time since I’d entered the apartment. His bright blue eyes were thoroughly outshone by the bright red rims of his lids. “What is a Mai Tai anyway?” he asked. “A mixture of arsenic and chloroform?”
I laughed again. “Abby’s known all over the Village for her dynamic cocktails. It’s rumored she laces them with gunpowder. ”
“I can assure you the only explosive I use is booze,” Abby said, walking over to the couch with a Bloody Mary in each hand, “and in this case it’s just a dinky little spritz of vodka.” She handed the drinks to us. “Bottoms up, kids! You’ll both feel better in no time. And when you’re able to walk, come on over to the table for bagels and coffee.” She turned and whisked back into the kitchen area.
Terry eyed his drink suspiciously. “Coffee sounds good,” he said, forcing himself-with a loud groan-to his feet, then wobbling-glass in hand-toward the kitchen. I took two big gulps of my firewater (Abby uses a lot of Tabasco), and followed him to the table.
FINALLY, AFTER THE BLOODY MARYS, bagels, and coffee had been consumed, we got around to discussing the murder. I told Terry and Abby about all my investigative excursions thus far: my little tea party with Elsie Londergan; my talk with Vicki Lee Bumstead at Macy’s and my follow-up phone conversation with her, when she told me about Gregory Smythe and said she’d try to get his address and phone number for me; my midnight jaunt to the Village Vanguard, where I’d met the cat with the dog and learned that his name was Jimmy Birmingham. I didn’t tell them that Jimmy had followed me home and, therefore, knew where I lived, because I didn’t want them to flip out and start worrying about me. (Okay, I also didn’t want them to know how incredibly stupid I’d been to allow-all right, cause-the whole thing to happen the way it did.)
“I can’t believe how much you’ve accomplished so far,” Terry said, lighting a Pall Mall and taking a drag. Some color had returned to his lean, narrow face and his hands weren’t shaking anymore. “I’m so grateful to you, Paige. I just wish I could talk to Bob, tell him how swell you’ve been and how much you’re helping me.”