Ed McBain - Downtown

Michael was telling the blonde hed never been in this part of the city. In fact, hed been to New York only twice before in his entire life. Hadnt strayed out of the midtown area either time.

But here you are now, the blonde said, and smiled. All the way downtown.

She was wearing a smart tailored suit, gray, a white silk blouse with a stock tie. Briefcase sitting on the empty stool to her right. He figured her for someone who worked on Wall Street. Late business meeting it was now seven oclock shed stopped off at the bar here before heading home. Thats what he figured.

She was drinking Corona and lime.

He was drinking scotch with a splash.

The place looked like an old saloon, but it probably wasnt. Etched mirrors, polished mahogany and burnished brass, large green-shaded lamps over the bar, smaller versions on all the tables. There was a warm, cozy feel to the place. Nice buzz of conversation, too. Through the big plate-glass window facing the street, he could see gently falling snowflakes. This was Christmas Eve, a Tuesday night. It would be a white Christmas.

What brings you to New York this time? the blonde asked.

Same thing that brought me here the last two times, he said.

And whats that?

My ad agencys here.

Youre in advertising, is that it?

No, Im in oranges.

The blonde nodded.

Golden Oranges? Michael said, and looked at her expectantly.

Uh-huh, she said.

Youve heard of them?

No, she said.

Thats my brand name. Golden Oranges.

Sony, I dont know them.

But you know Sunkist, right?

Sure.

Well, Im just a small independent trying to get big. Which is why Ive got a New York agency handling my advertising. The blonde nodded again.

So what do you do? she asked. Grow the oranges and everything?

Yep. Grow them and everything.

Where?

In Florida.

Ask a stupid question, she said, and smiled, and extended her hand. Im Helen Parrish, she said.

Michael Barnes, he said, and took her hand. Nice to meet you.

So when do you go back to Florida? she asked.

Well, not till the fourth of January, actually. Im flying up to Boston tonight. Spend the holidays with my mother.

Your mothers up there in Boston, huh?

Yeah. Be good seeing her again.

Business all finished here?

Finished it this afternoon.

He realized that her hand was still in his. To the casual passerby, they must have looked like a man and a woman holding hands. Good-looking blonde woman with flashing blue eyes, suntanned man wearing rimless eyeglasses. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. Average height, he guessed. Well, five-ten, he guessed that was average these days. In the army, hed felt short. The army had a way of making you feel short. Come to think of it, he felt short nowadays, too. Jenny had done that to him. Made him feel short all over again.

Do you work down here in this area? he asked.

I do, she said.

Still holding his hand.

I figured you were with one of the brokerage firms, he said.

No, Im a lawyer.

Really? What kind of law?

Criminal.

No kidding?

Everybody says that. No kidding, or wow, or gee, or how about that, or words to that effect.

Because its so unusual. A woman, I mean. Being a criminal lawyer.

Actually, there are three in our office.

That many.

Yes.

Criminal lawyers. Women.

Yes. Trial lawyers, in fact.

Then youre a trial lawyer.

Yes.

Do you like the work?

Oh, sure.

She retrieved her hand gently, drained her glass, looked at the clock over the bar, smiled, and said, Well, I think Ill...

No, dont go yet, he said.

She looked at him.

Have another drink, he said. Then maybe we can go someplace for dinner together, he said. Ive got a rented car outside, we can go anyplace in the city you like. I dont have to start for the airport till nine-thirty or so. Unless youve got other plans.

I dont have any plans as such, but...

Then whats the hurry?

Well, Ill have another drink, but...

Good, he said, and signaled to the bartender for another round. The bartender nodded.

This doesnt mean were having dinner together, she said. I hardly know you.

Ask me anything, he said.

Well... are you married?

Divorced.

How long?

Nine months. More or less.

And on the loose in the big, bad city, huh?

Well, my plane leaves at eleven-oh-five. Its the last one out tonight. I was lucky to get anything at all. Its Christmas Eve, you know.

Yes, I know, she said. She was looking at him steadily now. Penetrating blue eyes. How long were you married? she asked.

Thirteen years.

Unlucky number.

Yes.

Do you have any children?

No.

How old are you?

Forty-one, he said. How old are you?

Thirty-two, she said at once.

He liked that. No coy nonsense like Gee, a womans not

supposed to tell her age. Just straight out thirty-two.

Are you married? he asked.

Corona and lime, Dewars with a splash, the bartender said, and put the drinks down in front of them. Shall I keep this tab running?

Please, Michael said.

He lifted his glass. She lifted hers.

To a nice evening together, he said. Till plane time.

She seemed to be looking through him, or at least past him, toward the other end of the bar, almost dreamily. She nodded at last, as if in response to a secret decision she had made, and smiled, and said, That sounds safe enough, and clinked her glass against his and began sipping at her beer.

But you didnt answer my question, he said.

What was your question? she said.

Are you married?

Would it matter?

Yes.

She waggled the fingers on her left hand.

See any wedding band?

That doesnt mean anything.

Im not married, she said.

Divorced? he said.

Nope. Just single.

Beautiful woman like you?

Ha.

I mean it.

Thank you.

So what Id like to do, he said, you must know a lot of good restaurants...

Slow down, she said smiling. You didnt ask me if Im engaged, or involved with anyone, or...

Are you?

No, but...

Good. Do you like Italian food?

Uh-huh, she said, and put down her glass, and slid her handbag over in front of her. and reached into it for a package of cigarettes.

Well, if you know a good Italian restaurant, Id like to...

All right, she said suddenly and coldly and somewhat harshly, you want to give it back to me?

He looked at her.

Her eyes had turned hard, there was no longer a smile on her face.

The ring, she said.

She was whispering now.

Just give it back to me, okay?

She held out her right hand. Nothing on any of the fingers.

The ring, she said. Please, I dont want any trouble.

What ring? he said.

The ring that was right here on this finger before we started holding hands. A star sapphire ring that was a gift from my father. I want it back, mister. Right now.

But I dont have it, he said. He realized there was a foolish grin on his face. As if she were in the middle of a joke and he was smiling in anticipation of the punch line.

She looked at him. Eyes as blue and as hard as the star sapphire she claimed was missing from her hand. Eyes somewhat incredulous, too. Shed told him she was a lawyer, a criminal lawyer, no less; was he some kind of idiot to have stolen her ring? This was in her eyes.

Listen, she said, her voice rising, just give me the goddamn ring, and well forget...

I dont have your...

Whats going on here?

Michael turned on the stool.

Big, burly guy standing there at his right shoulder, between the two stools. Tweed overcoat. Shoulders looked damp. Crew-cut hair looked damp, too. As if hed just come in from outside. Beard stubble on his face. Hard blue eyes. Tonight was a night for hard blue eyes. If you had brown eyes tonight, you were out of luck.