Part 23 (1/2)

”From everyone.”

I went over to my desk, picked up a pencil and pad. I wrote Rhona Blake Rhona Blake on the pad and looked up. on the pad and looked up.

”Address,” I said.

”I can't tell you.”

”Phone number, then.”

She shook her pretty head. ”I can't tell you that either, Mr. London.”

”Mr. London. Look,” I said, ”if we're going to be such close friends you really ought to call me Ed.” Look,” I said, ”if we're going to be such close friends you really ought to call me Ed.”

I didn't get a smile. I said: ”How in h.e.l.l am I going to get in touch with you?”

”You aren't, Ed. I'll call you.”

She opened her purse again and took out an envelope filled with new money.

”Five thousand dollars,” she said.

”To waste on a blackmailer?”

”To invest in my peace of mind. And how much do you want, Ed?”

”I get a hundred a day plus expenses. And if all I know is your name, I'm afraid your credit rating isn't too good. I'll take two hundred for a retainer.”

She gave it to me in two bills. Brand new ones. I started to write out a receipt for $5,200 but her hand touched mine and stopped me. Her fingers were cool and soft. I looked up into the crisp green of her eyes.

”I don't need a receipt.”

”Why not?”

”Because I trust you, Ed.”

There were at least a dozen answers to that one. They all chased their tails in my brain, and I looked at Rhona and didn't say a word. Her hair looked as though Rumpelstiltskin had spun it out of gold. She stepped closer to me and her perfume came on like gangbusters.

”Ed-”

It was like this raw wet wind that comes just before the rain. Her hand held mine, and her eyes turned soft, and her body flowed up against mine. She came into my arms and our mouths met and that fine body of hers was taut against me and the world did a somersault.

My bed wasn't made. She didn't seem to mind. We went into the bedroom and I kicked the door shut. She kissed me, lips warm with the promise of hurried l.u.s.t. She stepped back neatly and her hands made the charcoal suit melt from her body. I helped her with her bra and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s leaped into my hands. She gave a little s.h.i.+ver of animal joy and small sounds of pa.s.sion tore from her throat.

It was a moment torn from Time. And we were on the bed, and her head was tossed back and her eyes were tightly shut, and her big beautiful body was a Stradivarius and I was Fritz Kreisler and Menuhin and Oistrakh and everybody else, stroking the world's sweetest music out of her.

”Oh, Ed. Oh, yes!”

She was a life-size doll who cried real tears. The room rocked. Someone took the earth out from under us and we took a Cook's tour through a brand-new world. At the end there was a monumental crescendo, and the finale came with a shake and a shudder and a sob.

HER VOICE CAME THROUGH A FILTER. ”I'll call you later, Ed. I've got to go now. The blackmailer said he would call me late this afternoon and make the arrangements for the meeting. I'll tell him you'll be coming as my agent, then call you and give you the details. You can meet him tonight, can't you?” ”I'll call you later, Ed. I've got to go now. The blackmailer said he would call me late this afternoon and make the arrangements for the meeting. I'll tell him you'll be coming as my agent, then call you and give you the details. You can meet him tonight, can't you?”

I grunted something. She leaned over the bed and her lips brushed my face. I didn't move. She left, and I could hear her feet on the stairs. A door closed. I still didn't move.

Later, I got up and showered. I washed the sweet taste of her body from my skin and told myself it didn't mean a d.a.m.ned thing. She was playing Lady of Mystery, and in that department she could give the Mona Lisa cards and spades and chuck in Little Casino. The interlude in bed was no love affair, no meeting of soul mates. It was a way to seal a bargain, a quick little roll in the hay to ensure my cooperation, an added bonus tacked onto the 200-buck retainer.

I could tell myself this. It was hard to believe it.

So I showered and got dressed and went into the living room to build myself a drink. Later she would call me. Then I would run out to Brooklyn to do the job for her.

I poured more cognac. There was a girl I was supposed to meet that night, a dark-eyed brunette named Sharon Ross. A publisher's Gal Friday, a warm and clever thing. I picked up the phone and tried to find the right way to explain why I couldn't take her to the theater that night.

”You've got a nerve,” she told me. ”We made that date two weeks ago. What's the matter, Ed?”

”Business,” I said. ”How's tomorrow night?”

”It's out.” She clicked the receiver in my ear.

So I drank the drink and crossed another Sweet Young Thing off my mental list of Things to Be Physical With. I was already giving up a lot for Rhona Blake.

She called around six. ”This is Rhona,” she said. ”I talked to...to the man. He wanted me to come personally but agreed to meet with you.”

”Sweet of him.”

”Don't growl. You're supposed to meet him at nine-thirty at a place called Johnny's. It's out in Canarsie on Remsen Avenue near Avenue M. Give him the money and get the goods, Ed.”

”Maybe I could get the goods without giving him the money.”

”No. The money doesn't matter. Don't do anything silly, like getting rough with him. Just...just follow orders.”

”Yes, ma'am.”

”Ed-”

”What?”

A long pause. ”Nothing,” she said, finally. ”I'll...I'll call you tonight, Ed.”

THREE.

My cabby came off the Manhattan Bridge at Ca.n.a.l Street, then found the East Side Drive and headed uptown. It was close to eleven and the traffic was thin. We made good time. The meter was a few ticks past $5 when he pulled up in front of my brownstone. I gave him a five and two singles and waved him away.

It was still too d.a.m.ned hot out. I went inside, took the stairs two at a time, unlocked my door, and pulled it shut after me. I poured a stiff drink and drank it.