They asked me if they should call the subway authorities, or a lawyer, or the police. Did I want to report the incident, or file some kind of claim? I told them no; that nobody was to blame but me; that the accident was entirely my own fault since I had been standing too close to the platform’s edge.
I was lying, of course. I knew I had been pushed. I also knew that the monster who’d pushed me had-for some utterly unfathomable reason-stolen Lenny’s lunchbox.
AS SHAKEN AND BRUISED AND BLOODIED AS I was, I insisted on boarding the next uptown train, which pulled into the station a few minutes later. (If you fall off a horse, blah, blah, blah…) Elijah Peeps and my other new friends and protectors got in the same car with me. We all had to get to work (except for Elijah, who was on his way home from work), and we were glad to go together. I was the gladdest of all, to be sure. The comforting presence of my band of kindly caretakers kept me from having a nervous breakdown when the train lurched forward-or passing out when the shrill whistle blew.
Two members of our group got off the train before I did-one at 14th Street, the other at 23rd. Two others got off with me at Times Square. As soon as we had squeezed our way out of the crowded car, I turned and peered back through the train window, fastening my eyes on Elijah Peeps’s bashful brown face.
I smiled and waved at him; he smiled and waved back. I folded my hands in a prayerful gesture in front of my heart for a second, then blew him a soulful kiss. He gave me another shy smile and then bowed his head in embarrassment (certain unwritten racial restrictions prohibited him from blowing me a kiss). I waved again and so did he. And several highly emotional eons later-long after the train had whisked away, spiriting my incomparable hero totally out of sight-I was still waving.
Chapter 19
THE SECOND PART OF MY MORNING WENT a bit more smoothly than the first. (All evidence to the contrary, I am not completely incapable of understatement.) I got to work on time (it’s astonishing how brief a full-blown brush with death can be!), so I was able to clean up my knees and shins, as well as all the coffee cups, before Harvey Crockett stomped in.
“Glad you could make it,” he scoffed, hanging his hat and coat on the tree. He didn’t ask how I was feeling or anything, which was just as well, since-not knowing what ailment Lenny had used for my sickday excuse-I wouldn’t have known how to respond. “Coffee ready?” he asked.
I could hardly believe my ears. It was a polite (for Crockett) inquiry instead of a gruff demand.
“Yes, sir,” I said, wondering what had caused this odd outbreak of civility.
“Then bring me some, please,” he said, stomping away toward his private office.
Please? Did the man actually utter the word please? Either Crockett had suddenly been struck with the holiday spirit, or he had really, really missed me (his morning coffee, that is).
After I’d taken the boss his newspapers and caffeine and returned to my desk, Lenny stumbled in. He hooked his hat and coat on the rack and-lunch sack in hand-hurried right over to me, still red-faced and out of breath from his nine-flight climb.
“All right, out with it, Paige!” he said between loud intakes of oxygen. “You can’t keep me in the dark forever. I want to know what you’re up to, and I want to know right now. ”
“Good morning to you, too,” I said, pretending to be insulted by his discourteous greeting.
“Yeah, okay, good morning. Now tell me what’s going on. Where were you yesterday? I called your apartment at least three times. You’ve gotten yourself in deep trouble again, right? I can tell by your shifty eyes.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I said, stalling, still pretending to be miffed. “I never had a shifty eye in my life!” It wasn’t that I didn’t want Lenny to know about Judy’s murder and my efforts to find out who killed her. It was just that it was all so complicated and would take me so darn long to explain. And then, afterward-after I’d rehashed all the ugly details till I was blue in the face-I’d still have to listen to all of Lenny’s dreadful death warnings, not to mention his dire predictions that I was going to lose my job. Ugh. I simply didn’t have the time (or the stomach) to deal with Lenny’s anxieties. I could barely handle my own. “Look, Lenny, you really can’t…”
I was interrupted (okay, saved) by the office entry bell. And for once in my life, I was really glad to see Mike and Mario.
“Hello, boys!” I said, flirting, doing my best Jayne Mansfield (which meant I probably looked and sounded just like Francis the Talking Mule). “How’s tricks?” I was trying to engage them in a bout of spicy banter, so that Lenny would get embarrassed and sulk away and stop badgering me.
A glint of suspicion flashed in Mario’s eye. He knew I was faking, not really making a pass. But for once in his life, he didn’t try to one-up me. He hung his hat and coat on the rack and turned toward his desk in the rear without making a single nasty crack about my name or sex. All he said (in a very sarcastic tone) was, “Nice of you to join us today, Paige. There’s a great deal of work to be done. And you can bring me some coffee now, if you’re not too busy.”
Mike didn’t make any jokes either. He merely aped Mario’s moves at the coat rack, then sat down at his desk and lit up a Lucky. “I’ll have some coffee, too, please,” he mumbled.
What was that word? Did I just hear another please? What the hell’s wrong with everybody today?
I gave Lenny a questioning look, but he just raised his eyebrows and shrugged, signaling that he didn’t understand our coworkers’ weird behavior either. Then-knowing full well I’d never say a word about my new story investigation while Mike and Mario were in the same room-Lenny shot me a fierce you-damn-well-better-tell-me-everything-soon look and marched off down the aisle toward his desk in the back corner, slapping his sandwich bag impatiently against his thigh.
BY THE TIME THE LUNCH HOUR ROLLED around, I had all the office work under control. And since Pomeroy hadn’t come in yet, I was free to leave at the stroke of noon. I grabbed all my stuff-plus the shopping list for the Christmas party and the petty cash Crockett had given me to pay for everything-and made a mad dash for the elevators, praying I wouldn’t run into Pomeroy on my way out.
When I reached the lobby, I actually hid behind the big Christmas tree for a minute, peering through the glass wall and revolving glass doors of the entryway, until I was certain the coast was clear-that Pomeroy wasn’t approaching or about to enter the building. Then I wrapped my muffler around my face, pushed through the circling door, and scrambled back to the subway.
Even if you haven’t believed a word I’ve written up to now, you should believe this: I really hated going down into the subway again. After what had happened to me that morning, the gloomy sights, metallic smells, and hideous skreaking sounds reverberating in that cold cement dungeon made me sick to my stomach. But I had to get across town fast-so the 42nd Street shuttle was the only way to go.
As you might imagine, I stood way, way, way back from the edge of the platform while I was waiting for the train. And when I changed trains at Times Square, taking the BMT up to 57th Street, I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure no murderers were behind me (which was a big fat waste of energy since I still didn’t have a clue who killed Judy-or even a teeny-weeny little inkling who had tried to kill me).
Exiting the subway, I heaved a big whoosh of relief, and then sucked up my stamina again for the next stage of my lunch hour operation-the foray to Gregory Smythe’s office.