Roscoe let out a horsey laugh. I was speaking a language he understood. “Then you’ve come to the right place, toots,” he said, snorting and winking suggestively. “The last renter of this apartment felt exactly the same way you do and was very satisfied with the accommodations.”

“You mean the single gal who just moved out?”

“No,” he said.” Wink, wink. Snort, snort. “I mean the married guy who was paying the rent for the single gal who just moved out.”

“Aha,” I replied, lifting one eyebrow to a peak-letting Roscoe know, with a salty smile, I had gotten his message.

“And how did the neighbors react to this scandalous situation?” I asked. “Did they cause the illicit lovebirds any trouble?”

His scrawny chest puffed out with pride. “I never had one complaint from any of the other tenants.”

“That’s nice,” I said, “but what about the lovebirds themselves? Did any of the residents ever bother them? Were they ever hissed at, or spat on, or bombarded with rotten tomatoes?”

Roscoe laughed again. “I don’t know where you been livin’, sister, but here in Chelsea, we don’t do things like that.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” I said, trying to turn on the charm again-i.e., look alluring and bat my lashes. “But you know what would really help me make up my mind about this apartment, Roscoe?”

“What?” he said, jutting both his chin and his pelvis in my direction.

“If I could just talk to one of the lovebirds-either the guy or the gal-and ask a few questions, find out what it’s like to live here. I’m sure everything you’ve told me about the apartment and the area is true, but I’d still like to get a firsthand report. Nothing speaks like experience.” I paused and gave him a flirty smile. “And I don’t mind telling you,” I added, flapping my eyelids like a vapid fool, “if I get the good review I expect to get, then you’ve got yourself a brand new occupant!”

I was hoping he’d clap his hands and jump for joy, and then whip out pen and paper to write down Gregory Smythe’s unlisted phone number for me. But he didn’t. What he did was stiffen his puny spine, cock his lizardlike head to one side, narrow his steely eyes to the thinnest of slits, and start breathing fire through his nostrils again.

“Forget it, sister,” he growled, his swarthy, pockmarked skin turning a puky shade of puce. “You’re not getting any goddamn names or numbers from me! My other renters-even the ones who don’t live here anymore-happen to like their privacy just as much as you do.” He didn’t punch me in the face or kick me in the shin or anything like that, but he looked like he wanted to.

“Easy, Roscoe,” I soothed, keeping my voice steady and low, striving for a smooth recovery. “I didn’t mean to upset you. And I didn’t really want anybody’s phone number, either. To tell the truth, I was just testing you-trying to find out if you were the kind of landlord who would give out information about your tenants. I really couldn’t live with that. But I see I shouldn’t have worried about you! You passed the test with flying colors!” (Okay, I admit it. If Roscoe and I had been vying for the top chameleon crown, I’d have won it hands down.)

He was mollified but not convinced. He thrust out his jaw, crossed both arms over his chest, and studied me suspiciously. “Look, sister, do you want the damn apartment or not? I got other people comin’ to look at it.”

“I don’t know yet,” I demurred. “Can I think about it and call you later?”

“It’s a free country,” he said, glowering. Then he turned on his heels and stomped toward the door, treading over the scarce remains of Judy’s plasma in the process. “But don’t think I’m gonna hold it for you,” he grumbled over his shoulder. “Somebody else wants it, it’s gone.”

“I understand,” I said, holding back for a moment, taking one last mournful look around the unbearably sad apartment where my dear late husband’s best friend’s little sister had lived and died, and laughed and cried, and dreamed her girlish dreams, and loved her pitiful little heart out. And as I slowly trailed Roscoe to the door and followed him out into the hall, I realized I was praying.

Chapter 16

WHEN ROSCOE AND I REACHED THE STREET and parted company-thereby ending the threat that Elsie might bump into us and blurt out my real name-I said another silent prayer (of thanks, this time). Then I walked back to Seventh Avenue and headed south, away from the Chelsea Realty office, looking for a coffee shop or a candy store or any kind of store where I could slip inside, get warm, and make a phone call. Though I hadn’t wanted to see Elsie before, I needed to talk to her now-to find out when and where she wanted to meet for dinner.

The first shop I came to was Henry’s Hardware, and I was so cold I went right in. The short, balding man standing behind the waist-high counter in the middle of the store was wearing a red flannel shirt and an enormous I’m-so-glad-to-see-a-customer smile. “Well, hello there!” he said, propping his elbows on the counter and craning his plump round face in my direction. “What can I help you with today? I’m having a big sale on electric fans.” He let out a hearty laugh to show that he was joking.

I smiled and walked up to the counter. “I’m not shopping for anything specific,” I told him, “but I’d like to look around a bit, if that’s okay. And do you have a public phone I can use?”

“I’ve got a phone, but it’s not public.”

“I’d be happy to pay for the call.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that!” he said, pulling a battered old black telephone up from behind the counter and placing it down right in front of me. “It’ll be a frosty day in Hawaii before Henry Thaddeus Hancock makes a nice young lady like you pay for one lousy phone call. It will be just one call, won’t it? A local?”

“That’s right,” I said, smiling. “Just one local call.”

“Then go right ahead, young lady,” he said, sliding the phone even closer. “Be my guest. I’ll go price some items over in the housewares section so you can have some privacy. ”

“Thank you, Henry,” I said, touched by his kindness and generosity. After my dealings with with Jimmy Birmingham and Roscoe Swift, Henry Thaddeus Hancock seemed like the world’s most considerate man. Not wanting to tie up his line any longer than I had to, I snatched Elsie Londergan’s number out of the zippered side pocket of my purse and dialed it quickly. She answered on the third ring.

“Hi, Elsie!” I said. “This is Paige Turner, and I…”

“Hi, yourself,” she interrupted. “I was wondering if you would call. And I’m sure glad you did. I’ve got a real han kerin’ for a hamburger and a beer right about now.” (I hadn’t noticed it before, but even her vocabulary was similar to John Wayne’s.)

“Good,” I said, “because I’m in the neighborhood and I’m hungry. Just name the place and tell the time.”

“There’s a pub on 23rd between Sixth and Seventh called the Green Monkey. I’ll meet you there at five-thirty.”

“Great. See you then.”

I hung up and went looking for Henry. He was in the rear of the store, squatting down next to a cardboard carton full of plastic ice cube trays-the new twist-and-pop kind- removing them one at a time and stamping each with a price of forty-five cents.

“I’m off the phone now, Henry. Thanks so much!”

“Don’t mention it, young lady.” He gave out a grunt and stood up like a true gentleman, his plump round face pink with exertion. “Glad to be of service to you!”

“I have a few minutes to kill before I meet my friend for dinner,” I said. “Mind if I browse around?”

“Please do! I know you’ll find something you need. Everybody always does!”

I wasn’t intending to buy anything, but I didn’t tell him that. He looked so proud and hopeful I didn’t have the heart to admit that all I wanted was to soak up some more heat before I hit the frigid streets for the Green Monkey.