Suddenly feeling as weak and aimless as a sedated baby, I turned off the downstairs lights and dragged my tired, cold self upstairs. Lacking energy for even the simplest efforts, I skipped the hot bath and crawled into bed with my clothes on (minus the skirt and snowboots). Hugging my wounded knees up close to my chest and pulling the blanket up over my head, I fell asleep in an instant. I didn’t have one single dream. I know that for a fact. How could my troubled subconscious concoct any capricious dreams when it was trapped in a continuous nightmare?
Chapter 23
MAYBE IT WAS THE BRIGHT STREAK OF winter sun shooting through the edge of my bedroom window shade. Or maybe it was the sickening smell of mackerel wafting up from the fish store downstairs (Luigi’s refrigerators had probably gone on the blink again). Most likely it was the fact that somebody was banging on my front door with a baseball bat. (At least that’s what it sounded like.) But whatever the cause, I woke up with a jolt and leapt out of bed like a startled grasshopper. Then I hurdled into the hall and dashed down the stairs in my stocking feet to see who was at the door.
(Yes, I was still wearing my stockings. My garter belt, too. And my bra and my slip and my sweater set and the red chiffon scarf around my neck.)
“Paige!” Bang bang. “Paige! Are you there?” Bang bang. “Open up!”
It was Abby and she sounded hysterical.
I unlocked the door and pulled it wide open. “What’s the matter?” I cried. “Are you okay? Did something happen to Terry? Or the diamonds?” The way she was banging and shouting, I figured all hell had broken loose.
“No way, Doris Day!” she said, sauntering into my apartment with a satisfied smile on her composed and made-up face. “Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to wake you up. It’s late, and if we don’t get our tushies on track, we’ll fall behind in our schedule.”
I wanted to strangle her. Any more wake-up calls like that, and I’d die of a heart attack before the killer ever got near me again.
“But hey bobba ree bop!” Abby chirped, studying my appearance with surprise. “I see I shouldn’t have worried. You’re almost dressed already! All you need are shoes and a skirt. You’d better spend some time on your face, though, and do something about your hair. It looks like a chicken roost.”
That did it. “Some detective you are,” I growled. “If you had been paying attention, you’d know these are the same clothes I was wearing yesterday. And if you took more than a cursory look at my face and hair, you’d realize that-up until just a few moments ago-both of these cranial appendages were buried in my pillow.”
“Well, it’s good I woke you up then,” she said with a sniff. “The later we get there, the less chance we have of finding the Ham at home.”
“Ham? What ham?”
“ Birmingham, you nitwit. As in Jimmy. As in the poet with the dog. As in Judy’s fickle ex-boyfriend. As in the possible murderer who’s been stalking you.”
“Oh, yeah,” I mumbled. The crime-busting plans we had made for the day came crawling back into my consciousness. “What time is it?”
“Almost eleven.”
“Jeez! It really is late. Where’s Terry?”
“He left already. Went to see Judy’s old roommates. Up on 19th Street. Do you remember that part of the plan at least?”
“Yes, of course I do,” I said, ignoring her raised eyebrow and sarcastic tone. “So, uh… well… I guess I’d better get a move on. Take a shower and get dressed.”
“Slick scheme, Sherlock,” she said, smiling, backing out of my apartment and turning into her own. “Come over as soon as you’re finished. There’s still some coffee in the pot.”
I went back upstairs and took off all my clothes-except for the stockings, which were stuck to my knees and shins as if glued with epoxy. I had to take a shower with my nylons on before I could (carefully!) peel them off. Then I slathered my wounds with various tinctures and ointments and bandaged them with gauze. Hiding the bandages under a pair of navy blue wool slacks, I put on a baby blue sweater and a white dickey, and zipped on my snowboots. A bit of lipstick, mascara, and rouge, followed by a fierce hair brushing, and I was ready-actually raring-to go.
Hurrying down the stairs, however, I caught sight of my flimsily patched, taped-up back door and almost lost my nerve. What the hell did I think I was doing? Who the hell did I think I was? Joe Friday? Mike Hammer? Sky King? Ozzie Nelson was more like it! I was begging for trouble, and I knew I was going to get even more of it. The killer had broken into my apartment once and now there was nothing but a Duz detergent box to stop him from doing it again.
He could have let himself in last night while I was sleeping, I screamed to myself, and smothered me with a pillow! Or strangled me with my own neckerchief! He could come back today while I’m out and destroy everything that I own! He could set fire to my books! He could smash up my typewriter! He could… he could… he could… the possibilities were endless.
But my capacity for self-torture wasn’t. I finally gave myself a mental slap in the face, hoisted myself up by the bootstraps (okay, snowbootstraps), and swaggered down the rest of the steps to the kitchen. I scrunched up the Tiffany bag with Dan’s present in it and stuck it down between the cleaning products in the cabinet under the sink, setting the bottle of bleach in front, within easy reach. Then I grabbed my purse and gloves and coat off the kitchen chair and skedaddled over to Abby’s.
THE SUN WAS STRONG, BUT THE COLD WAS much stronger. None of the snow was melting. The sidewalks were dry in places, icy in others, and the air was as clear and sharp and brittle as glass. Making our way toward Jimmy Birmingham’s address on East 8th Street, Abby and I kept our noses buried in our mufflers, walked as fast as we could, and did very little talking for fear our teeth would freeze. Entering Washington Square Park from the south, we cut through the very center of the paved arena, heading straight for the triumphal Washington Arch-the gateway to lower Fifth Avenue.
If it had been summertime, the huge fountain in the middle of the park would have been flowing, and the raised circumference of the fountain basin would have been lined with poets and singers and musicians giving free performances for anybody who would stop and listen. The cement tables on the outskirts of the fountain area would’ve been crowded with old Italian men playing chess, and the double-barred iron railing near the trees-the stretch of fence everybody referred to as the “meat rack”-would’ve been strung with promiscuous young men looking for partners with whom to play other, more physical, kinds of games.
But it was the middle of winter, and-except for a handful of pedestrians and a few hardy souls sitting bundled up on benches, holding their pale faces up to the sun-the park was empty. Abby and I hurried along the shoveled path, past the round, snow-filled sink of the fountain, and onward through the arch, exiting the park and heading due north toward 8th Street. To our right stood No. 1 Fifth Av – enue, the high-rise apartment building where the poet Sara Teasdale committed suicide in 1933, and about a mile and a half ahead, at 34th Street, rose the Empire State Building, its lofty spire piercing the clear blue sky like a humongous hypodermic needle.
Hanging a right on 8th and walking two blocks east, we finally reached the Birmingham residence, a four-story, tan brick structure housing a street-level chop suey restaurant.
(If I smelled like fish, Jimmy probably smelled like fried rice.) There were no buzzers near the building’s entrance, and no lock on the door either, so Abby and I simply went inside and trudged, in single file, up the dark, narrow staircase to the second floor.