Also, there was a risk of going directly from her apartment house to the Hotel Coolidge. The cabdriver might remember. A circuitous route was safer.

She had selected the Coolidge because the hotel trade magazine, in its directory of conventions and sales meetings, had listed the Coolidge as hosting two conventions and a political gathering on the night of April 9th. It was an 840-rocm hotel on Seventh Avenue and 50th Street. Close enough to Times Square to get a lot of walk-in business in its cocktail lounges and dining rooms.

She wore fire-engine-red nylon lingerie embroidered with small hearts, sheer pantyhose with a reddish tint, her evening sandals with their "hookers' heels." The dress, tightly fitted, was a bottle-green silk so dark it was almost black. It shimmered, and was skimpy as a slip, suspended from her smooth shoulders by spaghetti straps.

Two hours later she was seated alone at a small banquette in the New Orleans Room of the Hotel Coolidge. Her trenchcoat was folded on the seat beside her. She was smoking a cigarette and sipping a glass of white wine. She did not turn her head, but her eyes were never still.

It was a small, dimly lighted room, half-filled. A three-piece band played desultory jazz from a raised platform in one corner. It was all relatively quiet, relaxed. Zoe Kohler wondered if she might do better in the Gold Coast Room.

Most of the men who entered were in twos and threes, hatless and coatless, but bearing badges on the lapels of their suit jackets. They invariably headed directly for the bar. There were a few couples at the small tables, but not many.

Shortly after 11:00 p.m., a single man came to the entrance of the New Orleans Room. He stood a moment, looking about.

Come to me, Zoe Kohler willed. Come to me.

He glanced in her direction, hesitated, then moved casually toward the wall of banquettes.

Lover, she thought, not looking at him.

He slid behind the table next to hers. She pulled her shoulder bag and trenchcoat closer. The cocktail waitress came over and he ordered a bourbon and water. His voice was a deep, resonant baritone.

He was tall, more than six feet, hunched, and almost totally bald. He wore rimless spectacles. His features were pleasant enough, his cheeks somewhat pitted. The backs of his hands were badly scarred. He wore the ubiquitous name-badge on his breast pocket. Zoe caught a look at it. hello! call me jerry.

They sat at their adjoining tables. She ordered another glass of wine, he another bourbon. They did not speak nor look in each other's direction. Finally…

"I beg your pardon," he said, leaning toward her.

She turned to look coldly at him. He blushed, up into his bald head. He seemed about to withdraw.

"Uh, I, ah, uh, wondered if I could ask you a personal question?"

"You may ask," she said severely. "I may or may not answer."

"Uh," he said, gulping, "that dress you're wearing… It's so beautiful. I want to bring my wife a present from New York, and she'd look great in that." He added hastily, "Not as good as you do, of course, but I wondered where you bought it, and if…" His voice trailed away.

She smiled at him.

"Thank you-" She peered closer at his badge as if seeing it for the first time. "Thank you, Jerry, but I'm sorry to tell you that the shop where I bought it has gone out of business."

"Oh," he said, "that's too bad. But listen, maybe you can suggest a store where I can buy something nice."

Now they had turned to face each other. He kept lifting his eyes from her shoulders and cleavage, and then his eyes would slide down again.

They talked awhile, exploring. He was from Little Rock, Arkansas, and was regional manager for a chain of fast-food restaurants that sold chicken-fried steaks and was about to go the franchise route.

She touched the scars on the backs of his hands.

"What happened?" she asked. "A war wound?"

"Oh no," he said, laughing for the first time. He had a nice, sheepish laugh. "A stove caught fire. They'll heal. Eventually."

"My name's Irene," she said softly.

He bought them two more rounds of drinks. By that time, she had moved her coat and shoulder bag to her other side, and he was sitting beside her, at her table. She pressed her thigh against his. He drew his leg hastily away. Then it came back.

The New Orleans Room had filled up, every table taken. Patrons were standing two and three deep at the bar. The jazz trio was playing with more verve, music blasting. The distracted waitresses were scurrying about. Zoe Kohler was reassured; no one would remember her.

"Noisy in here," Jerry said, looking about fretfully. "We can't rightly talk."

"Where are you staying, Jerry?" she asked.

"What?" he said. "Snow again; I don't get your drift."

She put her lips close to his ear. Close enough to touch. She repeated her question.

"Why, uh, right here in the hotel," he said, shaken. "The fourteenth floor."

"Have anything to drink in your room?"

"I got most of a pint of sippin' whiskey," he said, staring at her. "Bourbon."

She put her lips to his ear again.

"Couldn't we have a party?" she whispered. Her tongue darted.

"I've never done anything like this before," he said hoarsely. "I swear, I never have."

There was one other couple in the automatic elevator, but they got off on the ninth floor. Jerry and Irene rode the rest of the way alone.

"Notice they got no thirteenth floor?" he said nervously. "It goes from twelve to fourteen. I guess they figure no one would want a room on the thirteenth. Bad luck. But I'm on the fourteenth which is really the thirteenth. Makes no never-mind to me."

She put a hand on his arm.

"You're sweet," she said.

"No kidding?" he said, pleased.

Inside his room, the door locked, he insisted on showing her wallet photographs of his wife, his home, his Labrador retriever, named Boots. Zoe looked at what she thought were a dumpy blonde, a naked development house with no landscaping, and a beautiful dog.

"Jerry, you're a very lucky man," she said, handling the photos by the edges.

"Don't I know it!"

"Children?"

"No," he said shortly. "No children. Not yet."

She thought he was in his late thirties, maybe forty. No children. That was too bad. But his widow would remarry. Zoe was sure of it; she had that look.

He rummaged in his open suitcase and came up with an almost full pint bottle of bourbon.

"Voila!" he said, pronouncing it, "Viola." Zoe didn't know if he was making a joke or not.

"I think I'll skip," she said. "All that white wine has got me a tiny bit tipsy. But you go right ahead."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

He poured a small shot into a water glass. His hand was trembling; the bottle neck rattled against the rim of the glass.

"Listen," he said, not looking at her, "I told you I've never done anything like this before, and that's God's own truth. I got to be honest with you; I don't know whether you…"

He looked at her helplessly.

She went over to him, held him by the arms, smiled up at him.

"I know what you're wondering," she said. "You're wondering if I want money and if you should pay me before or after. Isn't that so?"

He nodded dumbly.

"Jerry," she said gently, "I'm not a professional, if that's what you think. I just enjoy being here with you. If a man wants to give me a little gift later because he's had such a good time…"

"Oh sure, Irene," he said swallowing. "I understand."

"You've got a radio?" she said briskly. "Turn on the radio. Let's get this show on the road."

He turned on the bedside radio. The station was playing disco.

"Wow," she said, snapping her fingers, "that's great. Do you like to dance?"

He took a gulp of bourbon. "I'm not very good at it," he said.