ago?"
"I shot a bunch of the Bonettis and the Bonettis shot me back. I've been away from the big bad city for a year or so, recuperating."
From all the expression that got out of her, I might have just given her a weather report. "Are you better now?"
"Much better. Kicking the nicotine habit is a nice side benefit of my general recuperation. I don't gasp for breath and I don't burn holes in my pants."
Some motions are exquisitely casual, but this one was so damn deliberate, it didn't belong to a woman at all. Her fingers simply tightened around the pack of butts, squashed them into a little congested mess, and dropped it on her plate.
"Satisfied?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Nice gesture. How long will it last?"
"Remember the old song, Mr. Hammer? Anything you can do...?"
"Good luck," I told her. I reached over and picked up her pretty gold lighter with the engraved A.M. on it and thumbed back the top. A little pressure and I popped the piece askew so it couldn't be used again.
"You don't mind, do you?" I grinned. "I mean, you won't need that anymore. Just trying to help."
There was a deadliness in the way she studied me. Her very manner had a leveling effect—she rather liked the man/woman game play, but only when she could put herself on the same plane as me. In her professional life, she had reached a plateau that few of either sex achieved, and there was no room for anything of the loser in her.
Whoever in the past had challenged this one had only been a neophyte—he'd lost because he was a boy. But surely there had also been real men who'd gotten mired in her charm, only to buckle under the weight of her inherent confidence and educational superiority.
"No," she said, with a glance at the ruined lighter, "I won't be needing that anymore." Very slowly she dropped it in her purse.
Outside the window of the corner deli, the late risers of New York were drifting by. Most of them were the nothing people. Someplace they got money, but they didn't work. The better-dressed were husbands with rich wives, or kids with parents who paid the freight. The shabby ones were sheltered by the city or a church who kept them overnight but didn't let them back in till the evening. They were drifting now, all of them, walking and looking and wondering.
"What makes you such a bastard, Mr. Hammer?"
My mind had to refocus, and when it did, I said, "Maybe it's because I hate this place."
"New York?"
I nodded. "You weren't born here, were you?"
"No. I grew up in Albany."
"You should have stayed there." I was getting an edge in my voice.
"But
you
were born here."
"Unfortunately."
"Did you always hate it?"
"There was a time when it was love/hate, I suppose. But just about everything I loved about it is gone. From the Brooklyn Dodgers to the real Madison Square Garden."
The prosecutor across from me considered that, then asked, "What's her name?"
Velda.
"That's a little personal," I said, "for a first date."
"Is that what this is?" She picked up her coffee cup and smiled at me over the rim of it. "Why do you think I'm sitting here with you now, Mr. Hammer? Why did I accept your invitation?"
"You really want to know?"
She nodded, still watching me.
"I laid it on you last night and I laid it on you today," I said, "and you
still
want to know?"
"Certainly."
It was my turn to sit back and do the looking. I let it all ooze up into me, settle there until I was ready to say it, then I grinned like that day a year ago had never happened.
"To you," I said, "I'm an exercise. A far-out, way-out exercise to test your inherent abilities and your well-honed skills. Until now, everything has gone your way, because you have that glossiness beautiful girls get on their way to being women—that smooth surface that makes guys slide right off them. But someplace, way back, somebody smart warned you to watch out for a guy who had sandpaper on his hands, and who wouldn't slide off at all. You never thought you'd need that kind of
"I shot a bunch of the Bonettis and the Bonettis shot me back. I've been away from the big bad city for a year or so, recuperating."
From all the expression that got out of her, I might have just given her a weather report. "Are you better now?"
"Much better. Kicking the nicotine habit is a nice side benefit of my general recuperation. I don't gasp for breath and I don't burn holes in my pants."
Some motions are exquisitely casual, but this one was so damn deliberate, it didn't belong to a woman at all. Her fingers simply tightened around the pack of butts, squashed them into a little congested mess, and dropped it on her plate.
"Satisfied?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Nice gesture. How long will it last?"
"Remember the old song, Mr. Hammer? Anything you can do...?"
"Good luck," I told her. I reached over and picked up her pretty gold lighter with the engraved A.M. on it and thumbed back the top. A little pressure and I popped the piece askew so it couldn't be used again.
"You don't mind, do you?" I grinned. "I mean, you won't need that anymore. Just trying to help."
There was a deadliness in the way she studied me. Her very manner had a leveling effect—she rather liked the man/woman game play, but only when she could put herself on the same plane as me. In her professional life, she had reached a plateau that few of either sex achieved, and there was no room for anything of the loser in her.
Whoever in the past had challenged this one had only been a neophyte—he'd lost because he was a boy. But surely there had also been real men who'd gotten mired in her charm, only to buckle under the weight of her inherent confidence and educational superiority.
"No," she said, with a glance at the ruined lighter, "I won't be needing that anymore." Very slowly she dropped it in her purse.
Outside the window of the corner deli, the late risers of New York were drifting by. Most of them were the nothing people. Someplace they got money, but they didn't work. The better-dressed were husbands with rich wives, or kids with parents who paid the freight. The shabby ones were sheltered by the city or a church who kept them overnight but didn't let them back in till the evening. They were drifting now, all of them, walking and looking and wondering.
"What makes you such a bastard, Mr. Hammer?"
My mind had to refocus, and when it did, I said, "Maybe it's because I hate this place."
"New York?"
I nodded. "You weren't born here, were you?"
"No. I grew up in Albany."
"You should have stayed there." I was getting an edge in my voice.
"But
you
were born here."
"Unfortunately."
"Did you always hate it?"
"There was a time when it was love/hate, I suppose. But just about everything I loved about it is gone. From the Brooklyn Dodgers to the real Madison Square Garden."
The prosecutor across from me considered that, then asked, "What's her name?"
Velda.
"That's a little personal," I said, "for a first date."
"Is that what this is?" She picked up her coffee cup and smiled at me over the rim of it. "Why do you think I'm sitting here with you now, Mr. Hammer? Why did I accept your invitation?"
"You really want to know?"
She nodded, still watching me.
"I laid it on you last night and I laid it on you today," I said, "and you
still
want to know?"
"Certainly."
It was my turn to sit back and do the looking. I let it all ooze up into me, settle there until I was ready to say it, then I grinned like that day a year ago had never happened.
"To you," I said, "I'm an exercise. A far-out, way-out exercise to test your inherent abilities and your well-honed skills. Until now, everything has gone your way, because you have that glossiness beautiful girls get on their way to being women—that smooth surface that makes guys slide right off them. But someplace, way back, somebody smart warned you to watch out for a guy who had sandpaper on his hands, and who wouldn't slide off at all. You never thought you'd need that kind of
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