The Night Watcher. John Lutz

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СКАЧАТЬ sideways in a throw pillow. Her smeared mascara made her look like a stricken raccoon.

      She seemed to draw strength from Stack. She sniffed and swiped at her nose with the back of her bare wrist. “I can talk. I’ll try…I want that bitch arrested and punished!”

      Stack and Rica exchanged glances. “You have some idea who did this to your husband?” Rica asked.

      “I have exactly an idea,” Sharon Lucette said. “Her name is Lillian Tuchman. She was suing Ron and his partners because of her navel.”

      Rica touched the point of her pencil to her tongue and began writing in her notepad.

      Stack sat down next to Sharon on the sofa and patted her ever so softly on the back, a father calming a desperate child. “Her navel, is it, dear?” he asked gently.

      “Yes. She claimed it wasn’t where it should be.”

      “Ah,” Stack said.

      Sharon Lucette began to talk and couldn’t stop talking. Stack spoke to her encouragingly now and then, guiding her in her grief and obviously feeling genuinely sorry for the distraught woman. These were the only sounds in the hushed apartment: Sharon’s disbelief and pain set to words; Stack’s solicitous, soothing voice; and the sharp point of Rica’s pencil scratching paper.

      Rica tried to write as fast as Sharon talked, making sure she wasn’t missing anything pertinent, noticing that the smell from next door had permeated this apartment, too.

      Probably it had permeated Sharon Lucette’s mind and would never leave her, awake or asleep.

      Rica wished Stack would talk to her sometime the way he was talking to Sharon Lucette.

      FOURTEEN

      Dinner was at Four Seasons, and on Myra. Billy Watkins accepted her generosity with solicitous charm. He was thirty-one, blond, looked like a college quarterback, and was getting tired of his job, though he liked Myra all right. She was one of the service’s richest and least-demanding clients, and as far as he knew he was the only escort she ever requested. And though she was a bit old, she wasn’t all that unattractive. Her body was still young enough.

      Billy knew Myra liked him, too, but that she didn’t love him. He’d learned a great deal about women, and this one was tough and vulnerable at the same time, and wary of love. They understood each other without having expressed it in words—neither of them would ever really love again. It made Myra sad. It made Billy strong.

      In her soft bed in her expensively furnished apartment, she was as usual almost insatiable. She’d started out on top, as she often did, then let him turn her onto her back and thrust deeper and harder. She would beg him to be rough with her, biting his bare chest and shoulder hard in an effort to urge him on. Her nails would dig into his back, and her heels would batter his thighs and buttocks. Myra could be hard work, but Billy didn’t mind. He’d dealt with more desperate and physical clients. Like the woman on East Fifty-fourth who would only fuck in the tile shower with the water almost hot enough to boil lobsters. Or the one—

      “Ah, Christ, Billy!…”

      Beneath him, Myra had climaxed again. He’d spent himself almost completely the first time, an hour ago, and hadn’t completely recovered enough to give her his best. But it had been good enough, which pleased Billy, though not as much as it had pleased Myra.

      Raising his weight so it was supported on his knees and extended arms, he withdrew from her, careful not to hurt her as he rolled off her and onto his back. He lay there catching his breath. The ceiling fan above the bed was turning, the light fixture attached to it set on low. He bet the fixture, with its opaque delicate pink shade, cost a fortune.

      It didn’t surprise him to hear Myra begin to cry. Sobbing softly, she came to him and he put his arm around her and held her close. Her bare body was cool against his, though they were both perspiring.

      She was the only woman he’d ever known who cried almost every time after sex, as if the act brought forth memories or a reality too painful to confront. Someday maybe he’d ask her what it was all about, what it all meant.

      Her sobs were contained and quiet, as if she was ashamed of them. Billy knew they would build to a soft crescendo, then trail off, and she would mutter things he couldn’t understand before she embraced her dreams and her breathing evened out. The same pattern, every time. People were captives of their pasts. He began stroking her damp hair and forehead softly, assuring her over and over that everything would be all right, that whatever they’d held at bay with their frantic coupling wasn’t worth their fear. They both knew he didn’t mean it, but they both wanted so much to believe.

      Half an hour later, when Myra was asleep and snoring softly, he gently extricated himself from her and pulled the sheet up over her bare body so she wouldn’t catch a chill from the fan’s faint breeze. Then he worked his way over to the edge of the mattress and sat up, his toes digging into the plush carpet. From the street below, the sound of a car repeatedly blasting its horn was muffled and barely audible. This was one of Manhattan’s more desirable prewar high-rises, and the quietest apartment Billy had ever been in.

      Almost silently, nude, he padded barefoot into the white-and-lavender-tile bathroom that was nearly as large as his bedroom. He stood before the commode and rolled and peeled a condom off himself, dropping it into the toilet’s blue-tinted water. Then he relieved himself, watching the color of the water change to something ugly. Like my life.

      He turned away as he flushed the toilet. It made a sound little louder than a whisper.

      Maybe it was telling him in a hushed tone that life could change, would change, if you made it.

      Myra had drunk quite a lot of wine at dinner, so she was sleeping soundly. Billy enjoyed these times after sex with her. It was almost as if they were a genuine devoted or resigned couple and he lived here and owned everything around him. As he had last time he’d been here, he decided that before showering he’d walk around and take inventory of his possessions—what might be his possessions, if he possessed Myra. He could pretend, couldn’t he? That was all life was, anyway, pretend. Anyone in his business would tell you.

      He noticed Myra had rolled onto her right side, wrapping herself in the white sheet, and was still sleeping deeply as he left the bedroom.

      The apartment’s living room was vast, carpeted in pale rose with a cream-colored soft leather sofa and matching chairs. There were steel or chromium-framed, modern oil paintings on the walls. Billy neither understood nor liked art that didn’t look like identifiable objects. These things were all splotches of color and irregular shapes. One of them was simply three different-sized dots on a solid gray background. There was one painting that wasn’t so bad, though. It looked like a nude woman seen from a lot of angles at once. He bet all the paintings were expensive, but if he owned them, he’d sell them, have them auctioned off at Sotheby’s or someplace. The furniture was obviously quality stuff, though some of it was old. Why the hell, if Myra could afford that massive glass and gold coffee table that looked like the continent of Australia, would she own something like that rickety wooden chair with the curlicued wood back? Well, if this were his place he’d keep the table and ditch the chair. The big whitewashed-looking cabinet that held the TV and stereo, he’d keep that. Maybe get it refinished, though.

      He walked over and glanced into the kitchen. Lots of white wood cabinets, big sink with a gray marble countertop, steel refrigerator and stove that looked like they came out of some restaurant. Well, piss on the kitchen. Who СКАЧАТЬ