The Man Who Loved Women to Death (21 page)

“To him, it is. It’s huge. I guess you can’t understand that.”

“I guess I can’t.”

“Tuttle hasn’t the nerve to confront the scariest truth of all, Hoagy—himself. Driving a race car, that’s just an escape from it, like drinking or chasing women or …”

Or walking on water? Holding an entire frightened city in your grip, waiting for your next move?

“Sometimes, I think he’s following me,” she said softly.

I stiffened. “When? Where?”

“It’s more a feeling than anything else. I haven’t actually seen him.” She sipped her tea. “Maybe I’m just going insane.”

“Maybe
you should call the police.”

“No, no. I want them out of my life.”

“He’s
not
a wet leaf, Tansy.”

“No police,” she insisted. “Besides, I know how to protect myself now.” She climbed out from under Lulu and went to the elevator and came back with her shoulder bag, a scuffed old leather one. She reached inside. Out came a Ladysmith, the slim and trim .38 that Smith & Wesson tailors for a woman’s hand and a woman’s fears. “Tuttle comes near me again and, believe me, he’ll be sorry. You think he’s the answer man, don’t you?”

I stared up at her. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I’m thinking it, too, that’s why.” She shoved the gun back in her bag and sat back down. Lulu moved back into her lap without hesitation. A contented grunt followed. “As soon as I heard it on Cassandra Dee’s show tonight. What was it she called him—‘The Man Who Loves Women to Death’? That’s Tuttle. That’s always been Tuttle. He hunts them down. He catches them. He takes whatever meat he chooses and he moves on, leaving the steaming carcass behind for others to deal with. He doesn’t actually
want
them, you know.”

“He wants you,” I pointed out.

“No, he doesn’t. He just thinks he does.”

“May I ask you a personal question, Tansy?”

She cocked her head at me curiously. “Of course.”

“Why did you drop the criminal charges against him?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Because I couldn’t win, that’s why. His lawyer told my lawyer that they were planning to plead self-defense.”

“Wait,
Tuttle
was planning to plead self-defense?”

“Uh-huh. By claiming I attacked him with a kitchen knife.”

“Did you?”

“Of course not. But it would have been my word against his. And Tuttle Cash just happens to be the proverbial all-American boy. A sports hero. A star. Who do you think the jury would believe, him or me? Who do you think the police believed when they showed up? Christ …” Tears started forming in her eyes. She swallowed, fighting them back. “They f-figured he’d caught me fooling around, that’s what they figured. They figured I was a no-good slut. They figured I
deserved
it.”

“No one deserves that.”

“Domestic violence is the number-one health risk in America for women ages fifteen to forty-four, Hoagy. Did you know that? But the only way we can get any attention from the police is to get killed. Otherwise, as far as they’re concerned, men and women fight, and boys will be boys, and that’s all there is to it.” She trailed off into brittle silence, her eyes on the fire. “I knew I would lose. And it would be very public. And I would destroy my reputation and my business in the process. I couldn’t risk that. I wouldn’t risk that. So I filed for a divorce and I hobbled away. I just wish he’d stop writing me. God, how I wish he’d stop writing me.”

“Are you seeing anyone these days?”

She shook her head. “I’m still not ready for that. Maybe I never will be. I have my work. I read a lot. I exercise every day, which keeps me feeling healthy and strong.”

“It does more than that,” I said, admiring the taut, toned line of her naked calves.

“Plus I counsel battered women over at a clinic on East Tenth Street.”

“And who counsels you?”

Tansy swallowed, her eyes searching mine. “Hoagy, do you …?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you remember that time we went to see
The White Sheik
together at the Thalia, just you and me? Tuttle was out of town. You had left Merilee.”

“She threw me out, actually.”

“Do you?”

“Vaguely. You wore a cream-colored turtleneck, faded jeans and black boots. Your hair smelled like Kiehl’s chamomile shampoo. You had a bandage around the pinky finger of your left hand from where you’d cut yourself pruning a forsythia. We ordered moo-shoo pork at the Peking Duck House on Broadway afterward, and the waiter forgot to bring us our pancakes.”

“Do you remember after that?” Her voice was almost a whisper. “When you kissed me good-night in the cab?”

“I remember,” I said, my own voice turning husky.

“I was a fool.”

I said nothing. She was the one doing the talking.

“I should have gone right upstairs and called him and told him that the wedding was off, Hoagy. I should have run to you and begged you to make love to me all night long.”

“And I could have done it, too, in those days.”

“Stop joking,” she said crossly. “I’m being serious.”

“I’m always at my most serious when I’m joking, Tansy.”

“We would have been happy together, Hoagy. We would have made each other happy.”

“No, we would have made each other miserable. Trust me, I was no prize. I was confused. I was angry. I was a mess.”

“You’re not anymore.”

“I am, too. I’ve just gotten better at hiding it.”

“I was a fool,” she repeated.

“Okay, you were a fool,” I said roughly. “He was no good and you should have known it. You were supposed to be smart. You weren’t smart at all. You were stupid. How could you have been so stupid?”

Stung, she pulled back from me. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”

“I’m not a very nice person.”

“You try hard not to be, but you are.”

“No, I’m not. You’re kidding yourself.”

“In that case, I’ve been kidding myself for an awfully long time.”

“Not to worry. That’s the new national pastime. Replaced baseball.”

She let out a sigh and rested her head on my knee. “This is so nice, yammering with you in front of the fire like we used to.” Her voice had turned small, like a child’s. “Will you come back again some time? Talk to me like this?”

“Sure I will.”

“I feel so safe. I may even be able to sleep tonight.”

“Sure you will.” Gently, I caressed her cheek with the back of my hand.

“I don’t feel anything when you do that, Hoagy.”

“Don’t tell me I’m losing my touch.”

“No, it’s the nerves. The feeling never came back.” She took my hand and held it. Hers was cold. “Merilee never calls me.”

“She felt you pushed her away.”

“I needed some time.”

“It’s been some time.”

“I know it has,” she admitted. “Hoagy?”

“Yes, Tansy?”

“You don’t have to worry about Tuttle coming after me or anything. He won’t. I realize that when I’m able to think about it clearly. Because, let’s face it, if he really wanted to kill me he would have by now. That’s not what he wants. Don’t you see what it is he wants, Hoagy?”

“I’m afraid not, Tansy.”

She held my hand up to her face, the one that didn’t feel anything. “He wants something much, much worse than that. He wants me
alive.”

IT WAS ONE-THIRTY
in the morning when I pulled up on Third Avenue across the street from King Tut’s. There was still plenty of activity going on. Three Yushies in topcoats climbed out of a cab and went in, laughing and ruddy-faced. So did two members of the New York Rangers, Mark Messier and some other player I’m sure I would have recognized if I knew shit about hockey. A white stretch limo pulled up and out tumbled a gaggle of half-naked fashion models, impossibly young and giggly. I had a battered silver flask of calvados in the glovebox. I opened it and took a drink. I sat there, Lulu dozing next to me.

Vic Early came out a few minutes after two, big hands stuffed in the pockets of his overcoat, and clomped across the street toward us and got in, nudging Lulu into my lap. Vic smelled of cigarette smoke and beer. He looked miserable.

“How is everything?”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“Ah, you met Malachi.”

“I met Malachi.” He shifted in the seat next to me, wincing in pain.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I just have to pee.”

“They do have a men’s room. You could have used it.”

“No way. That’s how I lost Sharon Stone.”

“I believe she was found.”

“Not by me, she wasn’t.” He yawned hugely and rubbed his eyes. “He’s still in there, playing the charming host, Hoag. Telling old football stories. Downing shot after shot of brandy. He seems real jolly. Personally, I think he’s depressing as hell. I guess I’ve just been around too many ex-jocks like him, guys no longer in the limelight, trying to hang on. He remarked upon my size. I told him I once played for the Bruins. He actually remembered my name.”

“You
were
an all-American your junior and senior years, Vic. Did he make you for a friend of mine?”

“No chance. And he’s been here all evening. I guarantee it.”

“Thanks, Vic. I’ll take over from here. Get some sleep.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“I’ll need you back on duty at eight.”

“You got it, Hoag. When are
you
planning to sleep?”

I didn’t have an answer for that one.

Tuttle came out the front door of his place just as Vic was reaching for the car door. The collar of The King’s duffel coat was turned up and he was reeling slightly, either from the brandy or his bad knee. He started toward the corner of Seventy-seventh Street. I started up the Jag.

Vic watched him critically. “Be careful, Hoag. He’s carrying.”

“Carrying?”

“You can tell by his stride. And by the swing of his left arm. He’s favoring a weight in his left coat pocket. There, see that? He just adjusted it with his left hand when he stepped off the curb.”

“Damn, I can’t believe Malachi gave him back his gun. What must he be thinking?”

“Oh, that reminds me—he cut out early.”

“Malachi?”

“Yeah, about ten-thirty. Didn’t come back.” Vic glanced at me. He still wasn’t sure what this was all about—although he had to have his suspicions. “Want me to find out where he went?”

“Yes, Vic. I believe I would.”

Vic got out and hailed a cab. Lulu climbed gratefully back into his seat. Tuttle was making his way toward Lexington on Seventy-seventh. I backed up to the corner and went after him. Found him out in the middle of Lex searching for a cab. I wondered about this. Why hadn’t he just grabbed one outside his restaurant? Was he afraid someone would overhear where he was going?

I pulled up in front of him and honked. He recognized my ride, of course, but wouldn’t look at me. Just kept on scanning the avenue for a taxi, his jaw squared stubbornly. I rolled down the window and thumped the door with my gloved hand. “Hey, good-looking. Feel like taking a ride?”

He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “You going to offer me money to suck on your dick?”

“No, I’m going to offer you money not to.”

Grudgingly, he got in, displacing Lulu, who was getting fed up with this whole up/down, up/down routine.

“You following me or something, Doof?” he said thickly. He was very drunk. Glazed drunk.

“I felt bad about what happened between us. Thought I’d stop by. They said you’d just gone out the door. You headed home?”

“No, down to Ten’s. Girl I know named Luz dances there. Dead ringer for Julia Roberts.”

“I thought Mal said she—”

“Mal said she
what?”
he demanded, his voice turning icy.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“Care to tag along?”

“Try and stop me.”

We drove, Tuttle staring out the window, me thinking about what a thrill it had been, once upon a time, to have Tuttle Cash,
the
Tuttle Cash, riding along next to me in my car. To know that Tuttle Cash was content to be in my company. That Tuttle Cash was my friend. God, it had made me so proud, I wanted the whole world to know about it. But that was then and this was now. Now Tuttle Cash was a suicidal, middle-aged alcoholic with a gun in his pocket. And some nut calling himself the answer man was answering to his description.

Now I didn’t want anyone to know Tuttle Cash was in my car with me.

“You’ll be happy to know, Doof, that I’ve decided to forgive you for thinking maybe I killed those girls.” He waited for me to respond. When I didn’t he continued. “It was on the eleven o’clock news. I had it on over the bar. There’s three of them now, you know.”

“I know.”

“They said business was already down thirty percent tonight at a lot of movie theaters and restaurants. Women are scared to go out alone. Imagine one guy having that much power over the city. Incredible, huh?”

“Incredible.”

He was watching me. “It’s not me, Doof. You have to believe me.”

“I don’t have to do anything, Tuttle.” I glanced at him curiously. “Why have you?”

“Why have I what?”

“Decided to forgive me.”

He fished around in my glovebox for the silver flask and found it. “Because you can’t help yourself, Doof. It’s Tansy. You want her for yourself. I don’t blame you. Really, I don’t.”

I sighed inwardly. “Tuttle, I’m with Merilee, remember?”

He ignored this. “Sure, you’re looking to pin this thing on me so I’ll be out of Tansy’s life.”

“Tuttle, you
are
out of her life!”

He ignored this, too. Just went back to staring out the window, his chest rising and falling.

We had reached midtown now, where there is always traffic on Lex, no matter the time. I cut over to Park, which was quieter, and continued downtown.

“I saw her tonight, Tuttle.”

“Oh, yeah?” He finished off my calvados and tossed the empty flask back in the glovebox. “Did you fuck her?”

A ferocious growl came from the direction of my lap. Followed by a yelp of the human variety.

“Jesus, Lulu
bit
me!”

“You don’t say,” I said mildly. “Where?”

“In the wrist,” he moaned, holding up his torn cuff. “I’m
bleeding!”