“The business involving the Carramazza family.”
“Yessss.”
If God had given snakes the power of speech, this was what they would
have sounded like.
“You know the detective, this man Dawson?”
“Yessss.”
“Will he ask his superiors to remove him from the case?”
“Never.”
“Will he continue to do research into voodoo?”
“Yessss.”
“I’ve warned him to stop.”
“He will not.”
The kitchen had grown extremely cold in spite of the house’s furnace,
which was still operating and still spewing hot air out of the wall
vents. The air seemed thick and oily, too.
“What can I do to keep Dawson at bay?”
“You know.”
“Tell me.”
“You know.”
Lavelle licked his lips, cleared his throat.
“You know.”
Lavelle said, “Should I have his children murdered now, tonight, without
further delay?”
Rebecca answered the door. She said, “I sort of figured it would be
you.”
He stood on the landing, shivering. “We’ve got a raging blizzard out
there.”
She was wearing a soft blue robe, slippers.
Her hair was honey-yellow. She was gorgeous.
She didn’t say anything. She just looked at him.
He said, “Yep, the storm of the century is what it is.
Maybe even the start of a new ice age. The end of the world. I asked
myself who I’d most like to be with if this actually was the end of the
world-”
“And you decided on me.”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh?”
“I just didn’t know where to find Jacqueline Bisset.”
“So I was second choice.”
“I didn’t know Raquel Welch’s address, either.”
“Third.”
“But out of four billion people on earth, third isn’t
She almost smiled at him.
He said, “Can I come in? I already took my boots off, see. I won’t
track up your carpet. And I’ve got very good manners. I never belch or
scratch my ass in public-not intentionally, anyway.”
She stepped back.
He went in.
She closed the door and said, “I was about to make something to eat. Are
you hungry?”
“What’ve you got?”
“Drop-in guests can’t afford to be choosy.”
They went into the kitchen, and he draped his coat over the back of a
chair.
She said, “Roast beef sandwiches and soup.”
“What flavor soup?”
“Minestrone.”
“Homemade? ”
“Canned.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“I hate homemade stuff.”
“Is that so?”
“Too many vitamins in homemade stuff.”
“Can there be too many?”
“Sure. Makes me all jumpy with excess energy.”
“Ah.”
“And there’s too much taste in homemade,” he said.
“Overwhelms the palate.”
“You do understand! Give me canned any day.”
“Never too much taste in canned.”
“Nice and bland, easy to digest.”
“I’ll set the table and get the soup started.”
“Good idea.”
“You slice the roast beef.”
“Sure.”
“It’s in the refrigerator, in Saran Wrap. Second shelf, I think. Be
careful.”
“Why, is it alive?”
“The refrigerator’s packed pretty full. If you’re not careful taking
something out, you can start an avalanche.”
He opened the refrigerator. On each shelf, there were two or three
layers of food, one atop the other. The storage spaces on the doors
were crammed full of bottles, cans, and jars.
“You afraid the government’s going to outlaw food?” he asked.
“I like to keep a lot of stuff on hand.”
“I noticed.”
“Just in case.”
“In case the entire New York Philharmonic drops in for a nosh?”
She didn’t say anything.
He said, “Most supermarkets don’t have this much stock.”
She seemed embarrassed, and he dropped the subject.
But it was odd. Chaos reigned in the refrigerator, while every other
inch of her apartment was neat, orderly, and even Spartan in its decor.
He found the roast beef behind a dish of pickled eggs, atop an apple pie
in a bakery box, beneath a package of Swiss cheese, wedged in between
two leftover casseroles on one side and a jar of pickles and a leftover
chicken breast on the other side, in front of three jars of jelly.
For a while they worked in silence.
Once he had finally cornered her, he had thought it would be easy to
talk about what had happened between them last night. But now he felt
awkward. He couldn’t decide how to begin, what to say first. The
direct approach was best, of course. He ought to say, Rebecca, where do