Time to Murder and Create

I didn't say anything. I remembered sitting across the table from her, making it obvious that she wasn't getting to me. The performance had evidently convinced her. But I knew better. The woman was good at getting to people.

"I hoped we could get together, Matt. There are things we ought to talk about."

"All right."

"Would you be free around seven this evening? I've appointments until then."

"Seven's fine."

"The same place?"

I remembered how I had felt in thePierre . This time we would meet on my turf. But not Armstrong's; I didn't want to take her there.

"There's a place called Polly's Cage," I said. "Fifty-seventh between Eighth and Ninth, middle of the block, the downtown side."

"Polly's Cage? It sounds charming."

"It's better than it sounds."

"Then I'll see you there at seven. Fifty-seventh between Eighth and Ninth—that's very near your hotel, isn't it?"

"It's across the street."

"That's very convenient," she said.

"It's handy for me."

"It might be handy for both of us, Matt."

I went out and had a couple of drinks and something to eat. Around six I got back to my hotel. I checked with the desk, and Benny told me I'd had three calls and there had been no messages.

I wasn't in my room ten minutes before the phone rang. I picked it up, and a voice I didn't recognize said, "Scudder?"

"Who's this?"

"You ought to be very careful. You go off halfcocked and upset people."

"I don't think I know you."

"You don't want to know me. All you gotta know is it's a big river, plenty of room in it, you don't want to try and fill it up all by yourself."

"Who wrote that line for you, anyway?"

The phone clicked.

Chapter 9

I got to Polly's a few minutes early. There were four men and two women drinking at the bar. Behind it, Chuck was laughing politely at something one of the women had said. On the jukebox Sinatra was asking them to send in the clowns.

The room is a small one, with the bar on the right side as you enter. A railing runs the length of the room, and on the left of it there is an area a few steps up that contains about a dozen tables. They were all unoccupied now. I walked to the break in the railing, climbed the steps, and took the table that was farthest from the door.

Polly's gets most of its play around five, when thirsty people leave their offices. The really thirsty ones stick around longer than the rest, but the place doesn't pick up much passer-by trade, and almost always closes fairly early. Chuck pours generous drinks, and the five o'clock drinkers usually tap out early on.

On Fridays the TGIF crowd shows a certain amount of perseverance, but other times they generally lock up by midnight, and they don't even bother opening up on Saturdays or Sundays. It's a bar in the neighborhood without being a neighborhood bar.

I ordered a double bourbon, and had put half of it away by the time she walked in. She hesitated in the doorway, not seeing me at first, and some conversations died as heads turned her way. She seemed unaware of the attention she was drawing, or too accustomed to it to take notice of it. She spotted me, came over, and sat opposite me. The bar conversations resumed once it was established that she wasn't up for grabs.

She slid her coat off her shoulders and onto the back of her chair. She was wearing a hot-pink sweater.

It was a good color for her, and an excellent fit. She took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her handbag. This time she didn't wait for me to light her cigarette. She drew in a lot of smoke, blew it out in a thin column, and watched with evident interest as it ascended toward the ceiling.

When the waitress came over she ordered gin and tonic. "I'm rushing the season," she said. "It's really too cold out for summer drinks. But I'm such a warm person emotionally that I can carry it off, don't you think?"

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Ethridge."

"Why do you keep forgetting my first name? Blackmailers shouldn't be so formal with their victims. It's easy for me to call you Matt. Why can't you call me Beverly?"

I shrugged. I didn't really know the answer myself. It was hard to be sure what was my own reaction to her and what was a part of the role I was playing. I didn't call herBeverly largely because she wanted me to, but that was an answer that only led to another question.

Her drink came. She put out her cigarette, sipped her gin and tonic. She breathed deeply, and her breasts rose and fell within the pink sweater.

"Matt?"

"What?"

"I've been trying to figure out a way to raise the money."

"Good."

"It's going to take me some time."

I played them all the same way, and they all came back with the same response. Everybody was rich and nobody could get a few dollars together. Maybe the country was in trouble, maybe the economy was as bad as everybody said it was.

"Matt?"

"I need the money right away."

"You son of a bitch, don't you think I'd like to get this over with as soon as possible? The only way I could get the money is from Kermit, and I can't tell him what I need it for." She lowered her eyes.