Tengu by Graham Masterton Page B

must be
Mrs. Crowley,” he said, in a cultured South American accent. He emphasized Mrs.
as if he was already well acquainted with Mr. Crowley. “I’m sorry if I...”
    Eva clutched
her hands over her breasts. Until the man had apologized, she’d forgotten that
she was wearing nothing but a black transparent bra, black panties, and a black
garterbelt and stockings. Her face felt suddenly hot, and she said, flustered:
“Please–please wait there–I’ll just get my robe...”
    “Of course,”
smiled the man. But he didn’t avert his eyes.
    She retreated
into the bedroom, colliding with the doorframe in her drunkenness and bruising
her upper arm. She found her robe on the floor where she had left it that
morning and struggled into it. She tried to remember where she had taken off
her gray suit, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even remember driving back from
Gerard’s office.
    There were only
fragments. Pushing past Francesca. Slamming
the office door. Standing in the crowded elevator
trying not to sob out loud.
    She belted her
robe and went back to the front door. The man was still politely waiting there,
his hat in his hand, a small enigmatic smile on his face. He was short and
lightly built, and the shoes that peeped out from under his unfashionably
wide-bottomed pants were made of white kid, and as small as a tightrope
walker’s. His hair was oiled back into curls over his ears, and he wore a thin
clipped mustache.
    “Your husband
isn’t here?” he asked her.
    “Gerard? He
doesn’t usually get back until late. Sometimes he doesn’t get back at all.”
    “He hasn’t
called you? We had an appointment, you see. I was supposed to meet him at the
office, but when 1 went there, his secretary told me
that he’d already left for the day. I thought he might have come home.”
    Eva shook her
head. There was an awkward pause.
    “Do you think
there’s any point in my waiting for him?” asked the man, raising his hat as if
he wanted to hang it up somewhere.
    “Well,” said
Eva, “I don’t know. He may be coming back. He may not. He hasn’t told me.”
    “I’m very
impertinent,” said the man. “Here I am pushing myself on you like this, and I
haven’t even introduced myself.” He inclined his head once again, like a
respectable parrot. “My name is Esmeralda. I am a business acquaintance of Mr.
Crowley. We are almost friends.”
    “Almost?” asked
Eva.
    The man smiled.
“Nobody in business can really afford to have friends. Friends are a luxury.”
    Eva swayed a
little. “Well, Mr. Esmeralda, since you’re almost a friend of Gerard’s, I guess
it wouldn’t do any harm to invite you in.”
    “You don’t have
to. I may be a robber. Or a rapist.”
    Eva took a deep
breath. “The way I feel right now, Mr. Esmeralda, that’ll be your lookout.
    Please come
in.”
    She led the way
into the living room, and Mr. Esmeralda closed the front door behind him. He
hesitated in the hall for a moment, and then hung his white hat on top of
Gerard’s golf clubs. He followed Eva into the pale Italian-styled room,
shooting his strartlingly white cuffs and adjusting his necktie. Eva clumsily
collected her empty gin bottle and smeary glass, but Mr. Esmeralda seemed to
take that in his stride.
    “Would you care
for a cocktail?” asked Eva, blurrily. “I’m afraid I only have tequila or
strega. Or maybe some bourbon, if you feel like it.”
    “I don’t drink,
as a rule,” smiled Mr. Esmeralda. He paced over to the window with mesmerically
precise steps and stood for a while admiring the Crowlcys’ two-thousand-dollar-a-month
view of the Rancho golf courses. “You have a pleasant apartment here.”
    “Thank you,”
said Eva, sitting on the far end of the couch and tugging her wrap around her
knees. “Actually, it’s all Gerard’s taste, not mine.” She paused. “If I’d had
my way, we would have furnished it in elegant Colonial.”
    Mr. Esmeralda
smiled briefly. His smiles came and went like shadows