When our howling laughter had finally dwindled to intermittent chuckles and I was able to catch my breath, I asked, “How do you do it, Ab? How do you keep putting Jimmy’s childish ego ahead of your own true feelings and opinions? Doesn’t it make you nuts?”

She gave me a knowing smile. “Honest communication would be nice,” she purred, “but nothing beats a good snail in the pail.”

AS SOON AS JIMMY AND OTTO RETURNED, I chugged the rest of my beer, snuffed out my cigarette, and hopped down off the barstool. I wanted to go home. If I hurried, I thought, maybe I could get back to my place before Dan called. I bid a quick goodnight to my friends, gave Otto a pat on the head, and headed for the door.

Halfway there, though, I thought of something I wanted to do before I left (or rather, something I knew a good reporter or detective would want to do). So I spun around on my heels, darted over to the middle of the bar, and questioned each of the two bartenders in turn:

Had either one of them noticed the blonde in the white dress?

“Sure did,” said one.

“What man wouldn’t?” said the other.

Did they know who she was?

“Nah,” said one.

“No idea,” said the other.

How much did she have to drink?

“Enough,” said one.

“Too much,” said the other.

Did they know who the man she was with was?

No, two times.

Was either the blonde or the bald man a regular Vanguard customer?

“Not since I been working here,” said one.

“Never saw ’em before tonight,” said the other.

Was there anything at all they could tell me about the couple?

“One thing,” said one. “The man is loaded.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “He’s drunk?”

“No, he’s rich.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Three things,” he said. “One, he’s got a girlfriend who looks like Marilyn Monroe; two, I saw through the window that they drove away from here in a long black limousine; and three, the dude offered me a C-note to tell him who

you were.”

“What?!” I was thunderstruck. My heart started beating like a wild pair of bongos and every inch of my skin broke out in goose bumps. “Why the hell was he asking about

me?” I said (okay, screeched).

“Don’t know, doll. But he must’ve wanted the scoop on you pretty bad to be flashin’ a hundred-dollar bill in my face.”

My heart stopped racing and came to a dead standstill. “What did you tell him?” I asked.

“Not much,” he said, with a shrug. “Told him I’ve seen you around the Village a few times, and that you come to the Vanguard once in a while, when Jimmy ‘the Bard’ Birmingham is doing his thing, but that’s all I said. Nothing else. Couldn’t tell him your name since I don’t know what it is.”

Whew! As hard as I’d worked to make a name for myself as a true crime reporter and mystery writer, this was one time I was glad my success had been minimal.

“Did he give you the money anyway?” I asked.

“Yep,” the young bartender replied, pulling the bill out of his shirt pocket and showing it to me. “Easiest hundred I ever made. I’m gonna split it with Jerry, though,” he said, nodding toward his fellow barkeep, who was busy at the far end of the counter. “Jerry didn’t speak to the man, but he took care of all the drink orders while I talked to him, so he earned his half. And we always split all the tips anyway.”

Figuring I’d learned all he could tell me about Rhonda and the bald man, I thanked my informant for his time and trouble, and offered my hand for a shake. “I’d give you a C-note, too,” I said, “but I don’t have one on me.”

“That’s okay, babe,” he said, with a flirtatious wink. “Just give me your name and phone number and we’ll call it even.”

“Down, boy,” I said, smiling and shaking my head. “That information’s not for sale.”

Chapter 16

ON MY WAY OUT, I WANTED TO STOP and get Abby and Jimmy and Otto to come home with me-or at least fill them in on the freaky stuff I’d just learned from the bartender-but I couldn’t get anywhere near them. They were surrounded by hordes of fawning poetry fans, avid dog lovers, and rapt admirers of beautiful women. They were having a really good time. I didn’t have the heart to bring them down to my level of anguish and anxiety. Besides, I was in a hurry.

Still hoping against hope that I would get home in time for Dan’s call, I barreled out the door and hit the street running. I’m not kidding. I was really

running (ballet flats are a frantic girl’s best friend). The dense heat slowed me down a bit after just half a block, but I kept right on going, throwing one foot in front of the other, huffing and puffing till I thought my lungs would collapse, hurling myself onward like a racehorse-or a total nut case, take your pick.

Okay, I admit it. It wasn’t just the desire to talk to Dan that was spurring me on. It was also fear. (I’m such a sissy sometimes!) I was scared to death that the bald man’s long black limousine had been lurking in the darkness, waiting for me to leave the Vanguard and head for home. I was afraid that the sinister people in that sinister car were following me now- looking for a good opportunity to shanghai me (or watching to find out where I lived so they could shanghai me in the near future).

I kept twisting my head around, checking all the nearly empty lanes of southbound Seventh Avenue traffic, peering up and down the intersecting side streets, looking for the long black limo as I ran. But I didn’t see the car anywhere. And no suspicious headlight beams were creeping along behind me.

Finally, when I reached Sheridan Square, I allowed myself to decelerate. It was either that, or pass out. My lungs were strained to the bursting point, and so much sweat was streaming down my forehead and into my eyes I could barely see. By this point I felt pretty sure the limo wasn’t tailing me, but to be on the safe side, I made a sharp left turn onto Washington Place-which was a one-way street going west, which meant no motor vehicle could follow in the direction I was going (east) without breaking the law. (Am I tricky, or what?)

The sudden detour would add an extra block to my trip home, but I didn’t care. It was worth it for the peace of mind. Groaning, wheezing, and gasping for air, I slowed my pace to a stagger and pushed myself onward to Sixth Avenue (another one-way street leading

away from my destination). Then, one block down Sixth, I branched off onto Cornelia (another one-way street, etc., etc.) and headed-at last!-for Bleecker.

When I neared the end of the block, however, I freaked out again. What if the limo had secretly snaked its way into my neighborhood and was now slithering around the area, waiting for me to reappear? What if Rhonda Blake and her big bad rich bald boyfriend were now searching the Village streets with binoculars, hoping to see me enter my building, and thereby ascertain my address?

(Okay! Okay! So I was probably overdoing it a bit-dreaming up more than my share of scary scenarios-but when you’ve been stalked, molested, strangled, and shot as I have in the past, you tend to get a little wary around the edges.)

So instead of hurrying to the end of the street, turning the corner on Bleecker, and going straight to the front door of my building as I normally would do, I pulled to a stop on Cornelia, next to the locked and gated passage to the tiny courtyard behind my apartment. Unlocking the tall metal gate with the key I always carry with me for emergencies, I pulled the gate open, slipped inside, and then closed and locked it again.

Stealing like a cat burglar down the narrow cement path to the inner recesses of the courtyard, I could feel my heart banging against my ribs and my hot breath surging through my lungs. I was even more frightened now than before. (You would be, too, if you suddenly found yourself in a pitch-black enclosure crawling with worms and spiders and God knows how many different species of rodents.)