What's a Girl Gotta Do (16 page)

“Oh, I can think of another. Of course, it
would probably mean life without parole . . .”

“You’re drunk.”

“No, I’m not.” I reconsidered. “Well, maybe I
am. I’ve had a helluva week, and not much sleep, and the
News-Journal thinks I’m a menace to society and . . . Well, anyway,
you’re here and you want to be my friend. What kind of friend? The
kind of friend who brings chicken soup, Puffs tissues, and French
Vogue when you’re sick with a really horrible, contagious disease?
Or the kind of friend who sends a belated birthday card each
year?”

“The kind of friend who really cares about
you but can’t stay married to you.”

“That’s a very narrow category,” I said, and
waved for another drink. When the waitress brought it, Burke asked
for the check. I took a big sip and after giving it some impaired
thought, said, “Okay. You can be my friend. But only on the third
Tuesday of each month.” I was talking too loud and slurring my
words, Even I could hear it. “And I still won’t tell you anything
about this murder. Even if I knew anything. And I don’t.”

“I think you’ve had enough to drink,
Robin.”

“It’s no longer any of your business,” I
said. “And it’s a conflict of interest, because you slept with me,
and now you’re reporting on a story I’m involved in. Oh wait,
things like that don’t matter at Channel 3, do they? Ethics and
stuff.”

“You’re drinking too much,” he said. “Maybe
you’d better get some air. Come on. I’ll take you up to get a
cab.”

He helped me to my feet and supported me as
we went up to the street. After hailing a cab for me, he insisted
on seeing me home. I was, in fact, pretty drunk. Halfway back to my
place I started feeling green.

“Oh, shit,” I said.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not feeling well,” I said, rolling down
my window.

“Are you going to barf?” Burke asked with
some alarm. Even in my troubled stat I could see how the idea of
his estranged wife puking in a cab distressed the ever neat and
tidy Burke Avery. I exploited his anxiety by hanging my head over
his lap.

“Robin, don’t throw up here, please,” Burke
beseeched.

“Oh,” said the Egyptian cabbie. “Oh, and I
just started my shift.”

“Put your head out the window,” Burke said,
and without waiting for me, he shoved my head out for me. I felt
like a German shepherd going for a ride with Master, but the cold
wind was effective. It washed over my face and calmed the
nausea.

“Breathe deeply,” the cabbie implored me. He
ran a red light in his haste to deposit me at my destination.

“I’m okay now,” I said, pulling my head back
in.

“You’re drinking a lot more than you used
to,” Burke said.

“I don’t drink every day and I never drink
alone,” I said, which wasn’t really true.

“I’m just saying you should watch it. Just
some advice from a friend.”

“Here we are,” said the cab driver and his
whole body slumped down in the front seat with visible relief.

Burke paid him and helped me out of the cab.
“You’re not walking very steadily. I’d better take you up,” he
said.

I protested at first, but then gave in. In
the elevator, I continued to lean against Burke, using him as a
crutch. The light was out in the hallway—again—making it seem
treacherous. For that reason alone I was glad he had seen me to the
door.

“Don’t come in,” I said.

“Let me just get you in and get some water
and aspirin down you.”

“Is this part of this friend stuff?”

“Yes, sure. Why not?”

“I’d really rather you didn’t . . . ,” I
began, but the lock popped and he opened the door before I could
finish.

“I see your housekeeping habits haven’t
changed much,” he said, dragging me inside and plopping me down on
the couch. He surveyed the mess, the clothes and paper and greasy
pizza boxes and empty soda cans strewn all over the room.
“Christ!”

“Don’t start with me.”

“There are flies in here, Robin. You’re the
only person I know who has a fly problem in the middle of
winter.”

“I’ve-been-a-little-depressed,” I said. If
you’re a slob, it helps to have a low comfort level. A mess doesn’t
really bother me, but Burke grew up in a home kept like a national
monument and even a little dust makes him rabid. Bottom line: He
was a Felix and I was an Oscar and we couldn’t seem to keep a maid.
We were doomed.

Louise Bryant came out of the bedroom,
absolutely delighted to see Burke. She started rubbing against him
and meowing and if she had been capable of intelligent thought and
speech, I’m sure she would have begged him to take her away from
here. Too bad Amy Penny was allergic or didn’t like cats or
whatever it was.

“Hello, Louise,” he said. He leaned over and
scratched her head. “Are you hungry?”

“You’d better feed her before she gets
combative. Her food’s in the refrigerator in a Corning casserole.
It’s already prepared. You can just zap it in the microwave.”

“You first,” he said, handing me a tall glass
of water and two aspirin coated with Maalox. “I’m going to make
tea.”

“Thanks,” I said. I was starting to feel more
sober. It was strange to have him in the kitchen, our bedroom door
open and our marriage bed there in full view. We drank tea together
and talked about the murder until ten, when he tried one more time
to get the dope on Griff from me. He was convinced I knew something
because someone had convinced him I did, someone belonging to his
vast network of cultivated sources. I wanted him to go so I could
look over that page, but he wouldn’t take the hint.

Finally, I said, “Look, I’m tired. I’ve got
to get some sleep. I have a big date tomorrow.”

“Eric,” he said, in an oddly wounded tone of
voice.

“Yeah.”

“He always liked you,” Burke said. He gave me
a sad look. “I need to ask you another favor, a personal
favor.”

“How awkward for you. What is it?”

“Be nice to Amy. . . .”

“Oh pulleeze. Why should I be nice to
her?”

“Because you’ll feel bad about it later if
you don’t.”

“No, I won’t.”

“I know you. You will. Let’s do this again
soon,” he said, and kissed my cheek.

As soon as the door slammed, I went to the
Webster’s and opened it to where the word “blackmail” was defined,
which is where I had hidden the page Griff had given me. I looked
at it up against the light, in case there was invisible writing or
something. Remembering how I wrote notes in invisible ink as a
child, with sugar and water that caramelized over a flame, I ran a
match under the sheet, but nothing turned up. I replaced the book
on the shelf. There was nothing on the page of any interest to
anyone else.

But I decided not to tell Burke. I kind of
liked the idea that he was on a wild goose chase, and I was the
wild goose he was chasing. There was a certain justice in it.

This made me feel something like happy and I
went to bed and began easily drifting off to sleep, only to awaken
with a start just as I was about to abandon consciousness.
Something was wrong with the apartment, I thought, but was too
drowsy to make the synaptic leap as to what it was.

I rubbed my eyes and went out to look around.
Something about the place jarred me, but thanks to all the lemon
vodka I’d had earlier in the evening, I couldn’t think what it was.
I felt sure that someone, someone other than me and Burke, that is,
had been in my apartment. But I didn’t know why I thought that. My
apartment is always so messy it was hard for me to tell if anything
was out of place.

I went back to bed and fell asleep again. It
wasn’t until the next morning that I realized what was wrong. Two
days before, Louise Bryant had knocked over a vase of dried flowers
on top of a file cabinet and I’d been too harried/indifferent to
deal with it, so I’d left it on its side. But somebody had righted
it. I knew someone had been in my apartment because it was tidier
than when I left it.

Chapter Ten

"YOU THINK SOMEONE was in your apartment
because it seemed tidier?' Detective Tewfik said as he walked
around, surveying the mess. "What is tidier exactly? And how on
earth can you tell? What tipped you off? is some dust missing?"

It was a pigsty, I won't kid you, but there
was no need to be sarcastic. Since Burke had left, I'd let it go
completely, and even in the best of times I'm not much of a
housekeeper.

In fact, I'm a slob. I admit it. It's not
that I'm a lazy person. I tend to workaholism, and when I do clean,
I clean compulsively, unable to stop until the place is completely
spotless. But housework just seems so insignificant and, as men
have always known, there's always something better to do. I haven't
read Moby Dick yet. I haven't seen Fellini's Satyricon. There are
dozens of countries about which I know nothing and billions of
people I haven't yet met.

I told Tewfik about the righted vase but
saying it out loud made me realize how stupid it sounded, and my
voice wavered and lost confidence. the thing is, I might have
righted the vase myself, automatically, without thinking about it.
Maybe I was paranoid.

"Did you make this up to get me over here to
answer your questions," he said, annoyed.

"Make it up? That would be dishonest," I
said, in my best Girl Scout voice.

He looked at me, trying to figure out if I
was on the level.

"Well," he said. "We haven't found the killer
in this case, so it wouldn't hurt to be extra security-conscious
until we do. There are a lot of burglaries in this neighborhood so
a break-in wouldn't necessarily be connected to the Griff case,” he
said. "Wouldn't you like to live in a place that wouldn't frighten
your mother? This neighborhood is scary after dark."

"I have this theory that a little terror is
good for you. Like, fear is the aerobics of the mind," I said.
"Besides, I have never been robbed, knock on wood. And look at the
size of the apartment and the rent I pay."

"You're muy macha, I know."

"My keys," I said suddenly, thinking out
loud. Tewfik looked at me, his dark, heavy eyebrows raised.

"I thought I lost my keys yesterday, but
maybe someone at work took them."

This made him pause. "You'd better take my
direct number, just in case," he said, and wrote it down for me.
"Be careful. If you don't feel safe, go stay with a friend or in a
hotel. And call me if your apartment gets mysteriously
cleaner."

"Yeah yeah," I said.

Tewfik put on his hat and coat. I liked men
in hats. It made me think of my childhood.

When he left, I picked up the phone, but
after three digits I put the phone back in its cradle. It was
Saturday and we were supposed to have a date that night at his
place, but he hadn't said at what time, and he hadn't called me to
confirm. What if he was just flirting, just kidding around. Would I
look like an ass if I called him, thinking it was for real?

Like I said, I was a little rusty on the
dating stuff. For years, my radar had been jammed by monogamy and
marriage, and now the single signals confused me.

Maybe if I came up with a pretense to call
him, I thought, but caught myself. resorting to feminine wiles,
shame on me.

I picked up the phone and dialed.

"Hi, you've reached 1-900-CONFESS," his
answering machine said. “After the beep, please leave your name,
number and a salacious tale of personal misconduct. I'll get back
to you as soon as I can."

"It's Robin, it's Saturday noon," I said,
thinking to myself, if he calls me back I'll cancel the date, I'm
not ready. "Today I took the Lord's name in vain, I had impure
thoughts about George Stephanopoulos and--"

The machine clicked off. Eric came on.
"Robin?" he said. "Sorry, I've been screening my calls this
morning. Greg keeps calling from Grand rapids."

"What's he doing in Grand Rapids?"

"A trade show, meeting sponsors, the usual PR
stuff he loves so much. Calling me to annoy me. So. You miss
me?"

"No." My voice sounded strange to me, soft,
sexy, roughened. No, I said, in the way a woman usually says yes,
trailing the vowel to a fade-out. I hadn't been speaking this way
consciously, and was only then aware that this was a different
voice for me, one I used only with Eric.

"Are we still on for tonight?" he said.
"You're not calling to cancel are you?"

"No, I was calling to see if I should bring
anything."

"Just your sweet self. 8 o'clock all right?
I'll meet your cab downstairs."

"Okay."

"Come unarmed," he said, before giving me his
address.

It was okay, I told myself. It was just a get
together. As long as I didn't kiss him, I was safe. I had control
over this.

Still, when I went to the corner bodega to
get milk and newspapers, I hesitated for a moment at the sight of
the little condom boxes hanging on hooks behind the counter and
considered buying some, just to be safe. I passed on them in the
end. Nothing was going to happen. I mean, it was a first date, sort
of.

Although a new disaster took the front page
(“WATER PIPE EXPLODES AT CAFÉ MARFELES, ELOISE MARFELES BLAMES
UNION ‘GOONS’”), the tabloids were full of Jackson’s theory that
someone was trying to destroy ANN through its reporters. Various
possible villains, ultra-right-wing “watchdog” groups on jihad
against the “liberal media,” media competitors, and vague political
cabals were suggested. Paul Mangecet’s name was mentioned, as he
was believed to control some of the stock, but he vigorously denied
any sinister intentions.

There was just one problem with all this: Why
would anyone trying to destroy ANN bother with me? Go to all that
trouble and expense? I mean, I was not a major player at ANN and I
had very little credibility left. Why pick on me?