Single White Female (7 page)

Authors: John Lutz

BOOK: Single White Female

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At Fortune Fashions, Mayfair sat at his wide desk, before his IBM computer, and went through the routine taught to him by Allie Jones. His fingers pecked at the gray keys with dexterity now, sure of themselves. She'd done an excellent job of setting up the programs. Inventory, payroll, graphics for sales and manufacturing projections, all reduced to relatively simple commands. She was about fifty percent through the project, she'd told Mayfair. Which meant it was time for him to do what he'd intended from the first moment he'd seen Allie Jones. And why not? You were vice president of a company like this, certain perks were implied.

Allie had too much time invested to give up the Fortune Fashions account now, and she stood to lose too much money. Without a doubt she'd be vulnerable to pressure. And she'd recently broken up with whatever guy had been balling her; Sam something, he thought she'd called him. So Mayfair figured she was ripe enough to fall. Ah, timing was so important in life.

Not that he'd explain the facts to her in such crude terms. He was too practiced for that. But in varied and subtle ways, Mayfair would let her know that now
he
had enough knowledge to call some other programmer in to finish what Allie had started. Even his secretary Elaine must be getting proficient with a computer by now. The basic software systems were online, so no problem there. Allie had gotten a small amount of money upfront. Gradually, over a week or so, he'd make it clear that if she wanted to finish the Fortune Fashions job and see her big payday, he, Mayfair, was part of the arrangement. It wasn't so unusual; she'd probably done some job-related screwing before. Part of landing accounts, he was sure, a piece of the deal from the beginning, or there wouldn't have been a deal. An attractive woman didn't need a computer to figure that one out. Let's face it, software was software.

The door to the anteroom swung open, allowing traffic noises from the street ten stories below to infiltrate Mayfair's plush and virtually soundproof office. The thick carpet and drapes, the flocked wallpaper and deeply upholstered furniture, seemed even to absorb sound produced from within the office.

Elaine, tall and gaunt as a model, dressed in a Fashion Fortunes fall outfit, swished in and gave a perfunctory nod to Mayfair. They had run through a hot and frantic affair five years ago, but they seldom talked about it now. At the time, Elaine had known sleeping with him was a prerequisite for employment. Somewhat the same dilemma that would now face Allie.

Elaine had been married then, but so what? That shouldn't have caused such a problem. He hadn't asked her to go off on a guilt spree and spill her guts to her husband, who went crazy and came looking for Mayfair at home. At fucking home with the wife and kids, no less. Jesus, what a scene? What a night!

Mayfair had forgiven Elaine for that error in judgment, and even helped to find her an apartment to begin the single life she still led. So it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to the bitch. She was having a ball now, dating different guys all the time, accepting gifts from them. Not a hooker, though. A secretary. Mayfair almost smiled.

The scene with Elaine's husband had hastened his own inevitable divorce. His wife Janice and the kids were living in Buffalo now. Everybody seemed better off. Mayfair was certainly happier. He supposed that indirectly he could thank Elaine for that.

He leaned back in his padded swivel chair and studied her as she bent over a lower file drawer. She still had the wasp waist and trim ass, the nice legs.

Elaine straightened up and smoothed her skirt. Her calf muscle bulged as she swiveled a foot back into one of her high-heeled shoes that had worked halfway off. Sexy. She was holding the file folder she'd been seeking.

She turned around and aimed her heavily made-up eyes at him. “Allie Jones coming in today?”

“She's scheduled,” Mayfair said. Allie was tutoring Elaine in the use of the computer. Elaine was in the fold and would stay there. Mayfair would point this out to Allie to let her know the company's need for her expertise had decreased. In fact, she herself wasn't actually
essential
at this juncture. But he'd hint that there was no problem; she might increase her value in other ways.

About ten o'clock Allie and Elaine would isolate themselves in a corner of the anteroom, Elaine at her new computer while Allie sat next to her in the red and brown Danish chair pulled over from where it was usually angled against the wall. Patiently, professionally, Allie would explain to her what she was doing right, what she was doing wrong. Tutor and student got along well; both were bright and adaptable people.

He smiled. It wouldn't be long before they had something else in common.

She was getting ready to leave the apartment and ride the subway downtown to Fashion Fortunes when the phone rang.

Allie put down the earring post she'd been trying to work through her pierced ear, turned away from her dresser, and answered it with an absent “ 'Lo.”

Her face became serious. Then bone white. She squared her jaw and slammed down the receiver so violently she pinched a finger between it and its cradle.

A psycho. Whoever had called her had to be a psycho to say the things she'd heard on the phone, to even imagine what he'd said he'd do to her.
Go someplace and masturbate, buddy! But leave me alone!

She remembered the phone call she'd received earlier, the man who'd hung up on her. Might both callers have been the same person? It was possible, but she knew the odds didn't necessarily favor it. The city was full of sick people who regarded telephones as a means of erotic stimulation, Allie told herself. Any single woman in this city could expect that sort of phone call now and then. It was as much a part of life in Manhattan as being approached by panhandlers or getting cursed at by cabbies.

Yet there was a familiarity about both calls that chilled her. The manâor menâhad used her name. Casually called her “Allie.” Not “Allison”â“Allie.” Old chums. More than chums.

She grimaced and wiped her hand on her skirt, as if contact with the phone had soiled it.

Jones was such a common surname that she'd used her first name in the phone directory instead of merely her initial, as was the custom of most single women who wanted or needed to be listed. Allie had been uneasy about it at the time, and would have preferred an unlisted number precisely so she could avoid the kind of sick and random call she'd just received. But because of her business she needed to be accessible. An unlisted number might cost her accounts and income. She couldn't afford it.

Returning to stand before her mirror, she told herself whoever had phoned almost certainly wouldn't call again. Probably a sicko hunched over a public phone and running his finger down the directory pages, calling whichever female names appealed to his perverted sexuality. Maybe right now he was making the same kinky suggestions to some woman whose name began with
K
, a woman he'd never met. No need to worry about a sorry individual like that, whose sex life depended on Ma Bell. Allie made herself smile out at the world from the mirror. A philosophical, confident smile.

But as she attempted again to work the earring post through her earlobe, her hand trembled so that it was almost impossible to do.

Other than a massive Hispanic youth in shorts and a black muscle shirt, Allie was the only customer in Goya's. Apparently the restaurant didn't do much morning business. On the other hand it was past nine o'clock; she'd slept late, then decided to eat a quick breakfast out before her appointment at Fortune Fashions with Mayfair's secretary. She'd pushed the obscene phone call as far from her thoughts as possible.

Goya's was cool. The air conditioner and ceiling fans were toiling away despite the briskness of the morning. The young guy in the shorts and sleeveless shirt ought to be shivering instead of sitting there calmly sipping what looked like a Pepsi and gazing out the window. His leather jacket was slung over the back of the chair next to him.

Graham Knox, the skinny waiter with the jug ears and bushy black hair, took Allie's order, then returned a few minutes later with her bagel with cream cheese and coffee. He seemed to be fighting back a grin as he placed the order before her on the table. Good cheer was like pressure beneath the skin of his face.

He began to walk away, hesitated, then turned back. A neat pivot. He said, “I know simply being your neighbor gives me no claim on your time, but . . . well, I've gotten some good news and I guess I just have to share it with somebody. Business is slow and you're here and we
are
neighbors, so you're it, Allie. You mind?”

Allie set the bagel back on its plain white plate. What was this about? Had Graham hit the lottery? “I don't mind at all. I like hearing good news, even somebody else's.” She smiled, which Graham took as a signal to put on his lopsided grin. He looked like an amiable puppy when he did that. Allie liked this sincere and friendly man with the protruding ears and intent dark eyes.

He did an embarrassed little dance. “It happens I'm a playwright, and I've been working on a script for over a year.
Way
over a year, actually. And finally it sold. It's going to be produced.” He waited a beat or two, then he shrugged, as if, on second thought, having a play produced was no big deal and he shouldn't have mentioned it. “Anyway, that's my good news.”

“It's great news!” Allie said. “Congratulations! I mean it.”

“The title's
Dance Through Life.
It'll be onstage at Creative Playhouse down in the Village. Know the place?”

“ 'Fraid not. I love live theater, though. Especially off-Broadway.”

He widened his grin. “This is far enough off Broadway you'll need binoculars and a guide to find it.”

“Don't be silly. That is a hell of an accomplishment. God, to come to New York and actually have a play produced. You realize how many people try that and fail?”

“Oh, believe me, I do.”

“I'll go see it when it opens.”

“Really? I'll make sure you get free ticketsâgood seats. For you and yourâ” He suddenly clamped his mouth shut. “I meanâ”

Allie knew who he meant. Hedra. But how had he found out about her?

He glanced around like a conspirator in occupied territory. The big Hispanic kid stared back at him with flat, wary eyes, as if suspecting he was the subject of derision. “It's all right by me if you have a roommate,” Graham said softly. “What am I, the police? I noticed her in the Cody lately, saw her a few times with you. Then one day I heard you two talking as you got off the elevator, and you or she said something that revealed she was living with you. That's a major taboo in the Cody. I got out of sight in a hurry so you wouldn't see me. Didn't want to let you know that
I
knew.”

“How long have you known?”

“Oh, a couple of weeks. It's okay, though, your secret's safe with me. Honest!”

“I believe it is, Graham.” What choice did she have? “But don't mention it to anybody else. Please!”

“My word of honor on that, Allie. In this friggin' city, I never know when I might have to advertise for a roommate myself to share expenses.”

“Not you, Graham. Not a successful playwright.”

She was afraid she'd sounded patronizing, but he didn't seem to think so.

He wiped his hands together as if drying them on an invisible towel. Blushed. “I wouldn't say successful. At least not yet. And there's not that much money in it. Besides,
Dance
might fold after a week. Maybe after one performance. It happens.”

“Don't jinx yourself.” Allie spread cream cheese on her bagel, took a bite, and sipped her coffee.

He began to back away, embarrassed. She realized for the first time that he had a crush on her. Well, that was all right. A natural enough phenomenon that happened between men and women. Mature, normal people didn't let it upset their lives, didn't act on those low-level emotions and let them develop into more than friendship, into something that seized control.

Then she remembered the obscene phone call.

Graham?

No! Ridiculous.
I won't let life in this city poison me.
Graham Knox was the nicest and least threatening male she'd met in months. She wouldn't let urban paranoia destroy a burgeoning friendship.

He said, “I better get busy or I'll be fired and have to write like crazy.” He picked up a catsup bottle from the next table, then walked another table down and picked up a second bottle. A third. Where was he going, into the kitchen to water down the stuff so there'd be enough to last through lunch and dinner? “Hey, I mean it about those tickets, Allie.”

“You better. I want opening night.”

“No, let's make it a few performances later. When all the bugs are worked out.”

“Okay, you're the playwright.”

The lopsided grin. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

“Already have.”

After she'd eaten, while she was digging in her purse to pay the check, Allie realized she'd forgotten a disk she wanted to program into the Fortune Fashions computers. No problem. She could hurry back down the street to the apartment and pick it up, then still make Mayfair's office on time.

When she opened the door, she was surprised to find Hedra home. As soon as she saw Allie, she stood up from where she was sitting on the sofa. Her hands hung awkwardly at her sides, fingers working, kneading air.

“Thought you were at work,” Allie said, striding to the alcove where her computer was set up.

Behind her Hedra said, “I was just about to walk out the door.”

Allie found the floppy disk she was searching for, slid it into a protective hard plastic cover, then stuffed it into her purse.

When she walked out from behind the silk folding screen that formed a fourth wall of the alcove, she said, “I had an interesting conversation with a waiter down at Goya's.”

Hedra adjusted the belt of her brown skirt. The skirt's hem hit her at an unflattering angle, Allie noticed. “It's too easy in this city to have interesting conversations with waiters.”

“This one turned out to be a nice guy.”

“Far as you know from talking to him over the soup. You shouldn't mix with strange men that way, Allie.”

“He's one of our neighbors.”

Hedra frowned. She had more makeup on today and looked almost attractive. Allie recognized the eyeshade and lipstick. Colors like her own makeup. “He lives here?” Hedra asked. “In the Cody?”

“Right.”

“Like I used to,” Sam said, walking in from the kitchen. He was using a spoon to scoop low-fat yogurt from a plastic container. Dressed for business today: dark blue pinstripe suit, white shirt, red tie. It was an outfit the dress-for-success books said was supposed to inspire trust.

Allie realized her mouth was open. She looked at Hedra, who couldn't meet her eyes and seemed to be studying the toe of her black loafer. Hedra mumbled, “I tried to let you know . . .”

Allie glared at Sam. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to see you, but Hedra said you'd left.”

“Hedraâ”

“Don't blame her,” Sam interrupted. “I sorta forced my way in.”

“I wasn't gonna blame anyone but you for being here,” Allie assured him. Anger gathered deep in her. “If you think you have the run of this place just because you can notify the landlord I have a roommate, think again, Sam.”

He gave her his smile that could melt cold steel. Usually. “I only wanted to see you. I still love you, Allie. I can't help it.”

Hedra coughed nervously, then said, “I better get moving or I'll be late for work.”

Neither Allie nor Sam spoke as she grabbed up her purse and a light coat and went out, moving jerkily and too fast.

“I'm leaving, too,” Allie said.

“I'll go with you down to the street.”

She knew she couldn't stop him from doing that. Not unless she wanted to leave him here in the apartment by himself. “You sure will. You don't think I'd leave you here alone, do you?”

“I don't suppose you would,” Sam said.

Allie locked the apartment door behind her while Sam stood in the hall, watching. There was the slightest hint of a smile on his face, as if he'd just heard a good joke and it lingered in his mind.

Hedra had already gone down in the elevator. Allie and Sam waited silently while it rose slowly back to the third floor. It seemed to take long enough to rise three hundred floors.

Allie heard the cables thrum as the elevator adusted to floor level. The doors slid open. Sam stood back like a gentleman to let her enter first. She felt like waiting until the doors were about to close, then stepping into the elevator so he wouldn't have time to follow. The old rattletrap didn't have the kinds of doors that opened automatically if someone stuck a hand between them. But she knew that was foolish and would accomplish nothing in the long run.

Alone with him in the elevator, she reached around him to press the button. Gave it a twist with her thumb.

Sam said, “I'm asking for your forgiveness, Allie.”

She was silent, trying not to let his nearness affect her in the cramped space. She could smell his familiar aftershave, feel the warmth of him. The doors slid closed and the elevator hummed into motion.

Neither she nor Sam said anything until the elevator doors opened. Allie started to step out, then realized they weren't at lobby level. She looked at the floor indicator light, saw she'd pressed the wrong button on Three. The elevator was on the thirtieth floor. Sam was smiling faintly, as if he suspected she'd done it with subconscious purpose as some kind of Freudian slip. My God, might he be right?

She very deliberately stabbed a finger at the LOBBY button, and the elevator began its descent. She felt a hollowness in her stomach, as if they were plunging straight down the shaft at dizzying speed. Down to the center of the earth.

He said, “Other women forgive other men for less.”

“We're not other women and other men.”

He gave a humorless soft chuckle.
“Somebody
has to be. How else could Gallup and Harris take all those polls?”

“I never took part in a poll.”

“My life's not good without you, Allie.”

“You don't seem to have any trouble finding stand-ins.”

He clenched his fist and stared down at it, as if what had happened to his hand troubled him. Then he banged it into the elevator's steel wall. “So I'm a fucking sinner! Who are you, Mother Teresa? Isn't a human being allowed one mistake? For God's sakes, are you shooting for the ministry?
I need
you, Allie!”

Allie's heart was slamming. The abruptness of his outburst had startled her. The unexpected violence, and the heat of his words. Words that penetrated like darts because they recognized an imperfect world and made undeniable sense.

He was staring at her, his deep dark eyes angry and injured. She didn't know quite how to react. She heard a voice something like hers say, “What now, Sam? You grab me and kiss me into submission like in the movies? Or give me a good shake until I see reason? Get what you want by force if it isn't given willingly?”

“I don't play the game that way and you know it.”

He was right, of course. She did know that about him. “Game, huh?”

The elevator stopped on
10.
The doors opened to an empty hall, then closed again. They continued their descent.

“Don't twist what I say, Allie.”

“All right, I suppose that wasn't fair. Mother Teresa apologizes.”

He wiped a hand down his face in slow motion, a gesture of remorse. “I shouldn't have lost my temper.”