Small Town

“You don’t smoke,” he said.

“No.”

He lit the cigarette, took a drag, blew out the smoke, and watched it drift to the ceiling. He took another drag but didn’t inhale, blowing a couple of smoke rings, then pursing his lips and blowing out the rest of it. He reached across her body and stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray.

She asked if there’d been something wrong with it. He said, “Maybe I’ll quit.”

“Why?”

“Lately,” he said, “I keep finding new things to live for. That makes it harder to justify committing incremental suicide.”

“And you can quit just like that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I never tried before. I’m close to the end of the book, and this may not be a good time to go through withdrawal, but I can get a patch to keep from climbing the walls. You know what? I just decided. I quit.”

He got up, grabbed the half-empty pack from the bedside table, got the carton with six packs still left in it. Outside the window, the neighborhood recycler was rooting in the trash for cans and bottles. “Hey, buddy,” he called, and tossed the cigarettes to him. “Have a smoke,” he said. “Live a little.”

He got back in bed. “If I have them in the house, I might light up without even thinking about it. The patch will take care of the physical withdrawal. I might miss the oral gratification, though.” He looked down at her. “Maybe I’ll think of something,” he said.

They thought about going out for dinner, wound up ordering from Hunan Pan. He put on a record, Thelonious Monk, solo piano. They sat cross-legged on the bed, eating off paper plates, listening to the music. Afterward he pulled up a chair and asked her how she knew. “Before you read the books. What made you order them in the first place?”

“When I met you,” she said, “I felt something.”

“So did I, though it didn’t register consciously. I was high as a kite on the auction and everything that went with it. I told you what Roger Delacroix said.”

“Yes.”

“But there had to be a reason why I kept your card. It’s still in my sock drawer. I missed my chance to call, but I wasn’t going to throw away your number. What made you come over to the table, though? The whole room must have been talking about my book deal. From a jail cell to the bestseller list, ladies and gentlemen. You wanted to see what kind of guy made that kind of leap?”

She shook her head. “I was already interested in you.”

“How come?”

“I can’t explain it, not in any way that makes sense. I was drawn to you before I knew your name. Or what you looked like, or anything about you.”

“That’s very mysterious.”

“I know, and I don’t mean to be mysterious. I’m trying to think how to say this, but what difference does it make? I’ll just say it. I knew Marilyn Fairchild.”

“Oh.”

“Not well, we weren’t friends, we were barely acquaintances. She found me my apartment. We were friendly enough, but I never saw her after that. And then I heard she’d been killed, and there are murders every day, it’s a fact of life, but somehow...”

“It got to you.”

“I wondered who it could be, how it could have happened. And then they announced your arrest, and it turned out you were a writer, you lived in the Village. It wasn’t some degenerate who crawled out of the sewer, some drooling psychopath who spent his childhood wetting the bed and torturing animals. She met some guy in a bar and took him home and he killed her.”

Before he could say anything she put a hand on his wrist. “I know you didn’t do it,” she said. “But I didn’t know then.”

“How could you? How could anyone?”

“When I learned that was you at Stelli’s, I had to go over there, I had to meet you, to introduce myself. I didn’t know that was your agent, she could have been a wife or a girlfriend, but I had to do what I did. Of course I heard about your good news, the place was buzzing with it, and maybe that gave you more of an aura, I don’t know, but I think I’d have done the same thing anyway.”

A lot to take in, he thought. He leaned forward, touched his finger to the underside of her breast. “When did you get the piercing done?”

“A couple of months ago. Do you like them?”

“Yes, but it must have hurt.”

“It’s an interesting story,” she said, “and one I’ve never told. It’s a long story, though.”

“It’s not as though I’ve got a train to catch.”

“It may show me in an unflattering light.” She sat up on the bed, gathered her legs under her. “But maybe that’s important. You have to know who I am.”

“You never went back.”

“No,” she said, and touched her nipples. “I decided these were enough.”

“And once with Medea was enough?”

“Well, that was her decision. If I went a second time, it would be a simple business transaction.”

“You think she’d have stuck to her guns?”

“Maybe I could have changed her mind. But maybe not. She’s a strong woman, she seems to know what she wants and what she doesn’t want. And maybe once was enough. One piercing was enough.”

“Two.”

“One session of piercing, then. One visit to the piercer. Did you like the story?”