Small Town

“You’ll make me come all night long, but I don’t want to wait. Do me now, with your fingers. That’s right.”

She sat perfectly still, she didn’t move, and her face didn’t change expression. Her eyes held his, and when he felt a trembling in her loins she caught her breath almost imperceptibly, and something changed in her eyes.

After a moment she said, “That was lovely. Franny? You were the police commissioner. You’re used to being in charge, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t been commissioner in a long time.”

“But you’re still used to being in charge.”

“I guess so.”

“Tonight,” she said, “I’m in charge.”

“All right.”

“No,” she said firmly, “I’m in charge. We do what I say. If you want to come home with me, those are the rules.”

“Fair enough.”

“You have to promise.”

“I promise.”

She looked at him as if to determine what his word was worth, and nodded shortly.

“Wait for me outside.”

“I have to take care of the check.”

“Go ahead, and then wait for me outside.”

Back at the table, he palmed two fifties to Jim Galvin and asked him to take care of the check. Galvin was saying something, but he acted as if he hadn’t heard, clapped the man on the shoulder, and headed for the door. Stelli caught him on the way out, told him not to be a stranger, presented her fleshy face for a kiss.

He turned at the door, and saw her walking toward his table. Had Galvin called her over? But no, Galvin didn’t even see her, he was holding his glass of whiskey and looking into it as if it were a crystal ball. And Susan Pomerance wasn’t going to that table anyway, she was going toward John Creighton’s.

Or for all he knew she was looking for the ladies’ room, because someone stood and blocked his view, and what was he standing there for, anyway?

He went outside and stood on the sidewalk in front of a shop that sold mineral specimens and semiprecious stones. He wondered if she’d come out, wondered if he’d get to go home with her. Wondered what in the hell he was getting himself into.

I don’t want to wait. Do me now, with your fingers.

Wherever it went, he thought, it had to be more fun than running for mayor.

Roz was saying that she’d felt all along they were better off with Crown. “Now we don’t have to fight with them over those two backlist titles. As a matter of fact, they’re going back to press on both of them. They’ll be back in print by September. By John Blair Creighton, this time around.”

“If they promote the new book right—”

“Honey,” she said, “they’ll have no choice, not with what they’re spending already. And it’s gonna be easier to sell than umbrellas in a shit storm. Oh, I was shameless hustling this one, John, but it’s easy when you’ve got something good to sell. Imagine if OJ could write like Faulkner, I told them.”

“I don’t write like Faulkner.”

“No, and neither does OJ. Imagine if Mailer hit an artery the night he stabbed his wife.”

“Imagine if Nabokov did Jon-Benet Ramsey.”

“God, you’re worse than I am. Imagine if he caught her in a net and mounted her like a butterfly. And speaking of lepidoptera, here comes yet another moth drawn to the lamp of your genius.”

A woman in a black dress, whom he’d noticed earlier at the bar. She rested a hand on his shoulder, leaned in toward him. She said, “Mr. Creighton? It’s awful to intrude, but I can’t help myself. My name’s Susan Pomerance, and I’m a very big fan of yours.”

“You are?”

“Huge,” she said. “And I heard your good news, and I couldn’t be happier for you.” She slipped a business card into his hand. “I hope you’ll call me,” she said, and smiled gently at Roz. “I’m sorry,” she said, and turned from them.

“ ‘The Susan Pomerance Gallery,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘Folk and Outsider Art.’ With an address in Chelsea and a phone number, and the URL for a website.”

“Everybody’s got a website. Except you, now that I think of it. Don’t worry, they’ll have one built for you. There’s something on the back.”

He turned the card over, shook his head, passed it to Roz.

“ ‘I’d love to get to know you better.’ Yes, dear, I’m sure you would. Signed Susan. And there’s another number, no doubt for the phone on her bedside table.”

“Amazing,” he said. “What was that all about? I figured she had to be a reporter, but not many of them own art galleries. Well, she did say she was a fan.”

“And she wants to discuss the color symbolism of the stories in Edged Weapons. Why do writers turn into morons when you get them away from their keyboards?” She leaned forward. “John, wake up and smell the champagne. She wants to fuck you.”

“I thought of that, obviously, but...”

“But what? You couldn’t believe your good luck?”

“Roz, I can’t believe any of my good luck.”

She sighed and patted his hand. “It’s a lot to take in,” she said. “Don’t try to make sense out of it right now. Just relax and enjoy it. Meanwhile, do you want me to get rid of this for you?”

“No,” he said, reaching to take the card from her. “No, I might as well keep it.”

sixteen