Sliver

  And Michelangelo was in Bimini, fishing for sailfish and screwing his new young wife, and would play dumb about anything connected with the building even if it was the Pope asking the questions. So let’s not get paranoid.

  He got up and got some more ginger ale. Found some chicken lo mein.

  Sat eating, watching them sipping decaf and spooning the strawberry mousse, oohing and aahing over it. Nice for her.

  He watched Vida’s little party, and the Stangersons’. Chris breaking the news to Sally. Stefan pleading with Hank.

  Kay heading for the foyer with good old Norman and June. Stay cool. Not to worry.

  Hadn’t she said she was going to let him have his privacy?

  “Am so sorry not coming before party,” Dmitri said.

  “That’s all right,” she said, showing him into the bedroom. “Scoot, Felice. Go on, scoot.”

  “Was in boiler room a flood yesterday,” Dmitri said, shaking a green-topped spray can near his shoulder.

  “Oh my,” she said, following him.

  “Fixed now. Soon dry. Mmm! Such a nice day!” He put the can on the sill by the end of the desk and tugged with both hands at the window’s right-hand inner panel—tugged it open four or five inches. Moved across and tugged the left-hand outer panel open the same. “No problem,” he said.

  Holding her arms, rubbing them against the chill air, she studied Dmitri in his gray shirt and shiny brown pants as he shook the spray can, pulled its top off. Did fixing tight windows remind him of Naomi Singer doing her swan dive and nearly hitting him? Stupid woman . . . If she’d had to do it, why hadn’t she done it from her bedroom?

  He seemed untroubled, bending, drawing a plume of spray slowly along the inner track, coming her way. She moved farther aside and back, closer to the closet wall. Asked, “What is that?”

  “Silicone,” he said, spraying back the other way.

  Felice sprang onto the sill and leaned out and down, rump up, white tail waving its black tip, as Dmitri put the can down and took hold of the panel.

  Stepping forward, she stroked Felice’s back. “No . . .” She picked her up with both hands, lifted her and turned her around, held her in midair, forelegs splayed, the orange-and-white face close to hers. “No,” she said, staring into the slit-pupil green eyes. “N, O. We do not lean out of windows here. All nine lives, pfft. That’s a definite no-no. Capeesh?” Felice looked at her; she looked at Dmitri.

  He seemed as untroubled as before, moving the panel toward her. She stepped back, putting Felice on her shoulder; kissed and petted her. Said, “I hear the owner of the building is a pain in the neck.” Felice purred.

  Dmitri sprayed the farther half of the track. “Meals I know,” he said, “not owner.”

  “Meals?”

  “Mr. Meals, manager. You know Mr. Meals. . . .” Dark eyes glanced at her.

  “He sent me a letter,” she said. “Does he like the marble in the lobby?”

  “Da! Surprise. Marble is good.” He put the can down, pulled the panel to him, slid it from side to side. “See? No problem.” He coasted the panel in its easy track, side to side, side to side.

  “Terrific,” she said. Felice purred at high. Stroking her, she watched Dmitri spray the farther half of the outer track. “Dmitri . . .” she said, “I wonder . . . did Mr. Mills ever tell you to—give extra attention to one tenant, listen to what he says, do what he asks?”

  He nodded. “Da,” he said. “She . . .”

  “A woman?” she said.

  “You,” he said.

  “Me?”

  He nodded. Put the can down. “When you sign lease.” He pulled the outer panel toward him.

  She said, “When I signed the lease?”

  He drew the inner panel over. Glanced at her. “You not know Mr. Meals?” he asked, dark eyes twinkling above his apple cheeks.

  “No,” she said.

  He shrugged. “He say, ‘Make sure she happy. Take extra good care.’ ” He picked the can up, shook it.

  She lifted Felice from her shoulder, put her down on the rug, looked at him. “You’re sure he said me,” she said.

  “‘Meese Norris,’ ” he said, spraying along the near half of the outer track. “‘Moves into twenty B. Make sure she happy. Take extra good care.’ ”

  “And he doesn’t always say something like that when—”

  Shaking his head, he said, “Never. Never. You only.”

  She said, “I can’t understand how that could be. . . .”

  He coasted both panels, side to side, side to side.

  He did the living-room window too.

  Backed from her moneyed palm with raised hands, holding the spray can. “No, no. Please. Glad. No.”

  She didn’t push it.

  Went back to cleaning.

  Wendy called to thank her. They talked about how much better June looked. What was going on between Tamiko and Gary.

  Tamiko called. They talked about Stuart, Wendy.

  June. After the chitchat she said, “June, I do want to find out who owns this building; could you get me the builder’s phone number, or the contractor’s, or both?”

  “Yes, I’m sure Civitas will have them.”

  “I’m going to call the manager Monday,” she said, “but he’s in the same office as the woman I spoke to; he probably doesn’t know any more than she does. And I don’t see the lawyers being forthcoming. I’ll let you know for sure Monday. Don’t bother till I do.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  She told her.

  “I love it! It’s right out of Lydia’s Landlord.”

  “Olivia’s Landlord,” she said, “Lydia’s Doctor.”

  “Whichever. Do you want to come play Scrabble tomorrow afternoon? It’s supposed to rain. Paul’s going to be here.”

  They left it open.

  Thank you, Dmitri.

  No, thank you himself, for telling Edgar to have them take extra good care of her in the first place. As if otherwise somebody might have insulted her or pushed her down a flight of stairs.

  No question about what he had to do now, whether he wanted to or not. And before Monday morning.

  After Edgar stonewalled and Barry Beck really didn’t know, she was going to be on the phone pronto with Dominic Michelangelo. Maybe he’d play dumb but maybe she’d inspire some of his witty macho repartee. Had she ever been on TV? She sounded pretty enough. . . . Especially if she caught him with a glass in his hand, which was probably hard not to do nowadays. Was she sure she’d never been on TV?

  And she would wonder how come he was retired and living in Bimini, still in his forties. . . .

  Before tomorrow he had to do it. Because tomorrow she could be out all afternoon playing Scrabble and maybe stay there for dinner.

  Part of him wanted to do it, he knew that. Knew which part of him too. You don’t watch a shrink of Dr. Palme’s caliber for three years without picking up a few personal insights.

  But she’d really left him no choice. The minute she caught on to the cameras she’d be blowing the whistle right and left; no buying off a straight arrow like her. He’d be finished. Charged even with Brendan’s heart attack—not that one charge more or less would make a difference.

  It was prudence, not paranoia.

  He stayed cool. Tracked different approaches while she finished cleaning and went out to shop. Daisy’s famous father, in from Washington, was giving Glenn and Daisy the inside scoop on the Middle East crisis. He couldn’t focus on it, didn’t even bother taping.

  Decided on the best way to handle it, thought out the details. Tried to stay cool.

  He went out and did some shopping himself, hurrying up Madison, hoping he wouldn’t bump into her.

  Watched out for her going back in.

  She was at her desk, settling down to work on the same manuscript she’d been working on all week.

  He put the bottle in the refrigerator.

  Watched her. Waited.

  He called her at
5:08 by both their clocks, as she finished a short end-of-a-chapter page, Felice snoozing in the middle of the bed. He had them on 1, nothing on 2.

  She was turned toward the phone at the window end of the desk when he said who it was; he couldn’t see her face, didn’t give her time to speak. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, “but there’s something I’d like to speak to you about. It’s a little heavy for the phone. It has to do with the building. Could I see you, please, for a couple of minutes?”

  “Right now?” she asked, swiveling in the chair, swinging her glasses up into her hair, looking toward Felice standing on the bed arching her back.

  “If it’s not a bad time for you,” he said.

  She said, “No, it’s not . . .”

  “May I come up?” he asked.

  She walked the chair closer to the bed as Felice stalked toward her paw by paw. “In ten minutes,” she said. Felice flew into her lap. “Oof,” she said, swiveling back. “A cat just pounced on me.”

  Smiling, he said, “It’s a jungle out there. Up there, I mean. Thank you.”

  “See you,” she said.

  They hung up.

  He drew a deep breath. Puffed it out, watching her swinging around in the chair, putting her glasses on the desk, stroking Felice’s back. “Hmm . . .” she said. “Interesting . . .”

  “You said it,” he said.

  She switched the lamp off, pulled down the desk’s gleaming top. Stood up, dumping Felice to the rug. Went to the closets, unbuttoning her shirt.

  Changing for him. Nice . . .

  He looked down at his stained jeans.

  He’d better change too.

  5

  SHE PUT ON THE black jeans and the beige turtleneck, black flats.

  Brushed her hair and put on lipstick and blush, might as well, wondering what it could be that was a little heavy for the phone and had to do with the building. Something connected with the deaths? She hoped not, didn’t want to be reminded of—Humming “Strike Up the Band,” she switched the bathroom light off, went through the foyer switching the light on, and into the living room; switched on the end-table lamps.

  Dmitri’s spray tinged the air. She went to the window and opened the right-hand panel, caught it as it slid too far—good job, Dmitri—pulled it back to a few inches open. The sky was dark; the Matchbox traffic, less of it than on weekdays, flowed and paused in the streetlights’ pink-gold glow.

  Listening for the elevator door, she went back into the bedroom and eased the left side of the window open. Cool earthy air flowed past her as she returned through the foyer. Felice looked out at her from the kitchen, up on her hind legs scratching at the post. “Good cat, what a cat,” she said, veering in. She got the box of treats from the cabinet, shook one out, tossed it. Put the box back and got a treat for herself from the fridge, a cherry tomato from under the salad’s wrap. Chewing, she rinsed her fingers, wiped them on the dish towel.

  She went into the living room. De-neatened the books and bowl on the coffee table. Raised the blind all the way and cinched it.

  Stood watching a long truck, a moving van, jockeying into Ninety-second Street, its ID number black on the pink-gold roof. It hitched back and forth, clogging traffic on the avenue. Horns honked, blatted. Felice meowed.

  Stood meowing at the hall door. Meowed at the crack at its bottom.

  The bell chimed as she went to the door. She leaned to the peephole; unlocked the door and opened it. “Hi,” she said, smiling, offering her hand.

  “Hi,” Pete said, shaking it, smiling, coming in, in a canary sweater over a white shirt, knife-edged tan chinos, new-looking white sneakers. Felice sniffed them; he crouched down to her, rubbing a hand back over her head and ears. “And here’s the famous pouncing cat,” he said, rubbing down around the side of her neck. “Isn’t she a cutie. . . .” Felice lifted her orange-and-white head, eyes clenched, as he tickled a finger under her jaw. Comb tracks streaked his dampened red-brown hair. “How old is she?”

  “Going on four,” she said, smiling, closing the door.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Felice.”

  His blue eyes looked up at her. “As in Felix?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling down at him. “You’re the second person to catch that in less than twenty-four hours, which is amazing. It goes right past almost everybody.”

  “Really?” He smiled at Felice pushing the side of her head against his rubbing hand.

  “I had company last night and someone got it,” she said. “Someone who’s known her for over a year.”

  “It’s a great name for a female cat,” he said.

  “It’s Spanish for happy too,” she said, “but I wasn’t thinking of that.”

  “Oh sure, feliz,” he said, standing up. “Hey, that’s great. . . Wow, what a painting. That’s terrific. . . .”

  “My best friend did it,” she said.

  “Really? No amateur, I’m sure.”

  “No, she’s exhibited here and in Toronto. Roxanne Arvold.”

  He squinted. “It’s great the way she’s got the—grace of it,” he said, “and the delicacy of all the feathers and all, without letting you forget it’s a bird of prey.”

  She said, “That’s what she was aiming for. . . .” Looking at him.

  He turned toward the living room. “Oh that’s nice,” he said. “You furnished it very nicely. Great colors . . .”

  “There are things that haven’t come yet,” she said, following after him and Felice.

  He stood before the Zwick. “I like this too,” he said. “It’s got a Hopper feeling. Another friend?”

  “No,” she said. “The Washington Square art exhibit.”

  He circled around. “Very nice . . .” he said. Looked at the sofa. “What color would you call that?”

  She looked, cocked her head. “Apricot,” she said.

  “Apricot . . .” He studied it. “Great color . . .”

  She smiled at him, and at the sofa. “It was a great sofa too,” she said, “before Felice got at it. I’m going to have it refinished and re-upholstered once she’s learned to use the scratching post. I have a feeling that the minute I’m in the elevator she’s back here scratching the arms again.”

  “I have a feeling you’re right,” he said, smiling, bending sideways and scratching Felice’s head as she rubbed it against his chinos. “Cats being how they are . . .” He looked around. “Wow,” he said, standing straight. “What a difference between thirteen and twenty.” He went to the window, looked out through the right-hand panel. “This is fantastic. I’ve got the roof of the Wales and the back of that building.”

  “Be careful,” she said, going to the window. “They slide easily. Dmitri sprayed the tracks this morning.”

  “Is that Queens or Brooklyn?” he asked.

  “Queens,” she said, looking out through the left-hand panel.

  He whistled. “What a view,” he said, bowing Felice’s tail as she walked the windowsill.

  They stood looking out at glittering high-rises, blue and gold bridge lights doubled in water, far-off fields of light. Stars gleamed in the dark above, a few of them moving, red and white. “JFK is out that way,” he said.

  She said, “What did you want to speak to me about?”

  He turned toward her, drew a breath, his blue eyes troubled. “I’ve been feeling guilty,” he said. “The other day, in the laundry room, you asked me if I knew who owned the building, and I said no. I think maybe you’re still wondering about it, because of what you said about why was it changed to rental after the money had been invested.” He smiled. “I have a feeling you’re the kind of person who . . . doesn’t give up on a puzzle until she’s got it solved.” He shrugged. “And I don’t like to think that maybe you’re being distracted from your work for no good reason.”

  She said, “You know who owns it?”

  He nodded.

  “Who?” she asked.

  He touched his canary-sweater
ed chest, tapped it with a finger. “Me,” he said. “I’m the owner.”

  She looked at him.

  “I semi-grew-up in the neighborhood,” he said. “My folks had an apartment over on Park besides the house in Pittsburgh. And the house in Palm Beach . . .” He sighed, smiled. “I inherited a load of loot when I was twenty-one,” he said. “I always liked living here the best of all, so I moved into the Wales while I sort of got my bearings. Five years ago that was. Listen, Kay—is it all right if I call you Kay?”

  Nodding, she said, “Sure . . .”

  “Would you mind if I closed this window?” he asked. “It’s a little chilly standing here.”

  “Oh sure, go ahead,” she said. “And sit down, for goodness’ sake.”

  He closed the window.

  She sat on the near end of the sofa, a leg folded under her.

  He sat in a side chair, crossed his legs, loosed the pressed knee of his chinos.

  Felice curled up on a cushion by the heating strip below the window. Watched them.

  “So as I said,” he said, leaning toward her with an elbow on the chair arm, his hands folded, “there I was in the Wales. Sixth floor front, watching them demolish the brownstones that used to be here, two of them, and excavate, and pour the concrete. . . . And it hit me that it would be really cool to own an apartment house and live in it, since I enjoyed the time I spent in Eleven-eighty-five so much. That’s where we were—the big building with the drive-in courtyard?”

  She nodded.

  “And real estate is a good investment, isn’t it? It’s how Donald Trump started.” He smiled. “So I had my lawyers buy it,” he said. “I switched it to rental because if it were a condo and somebody turned out to be a pain, gave noisy parties every night or something, I’d be stuck with them. This way I’ve got some flexibility. And I don’t let anyone know I’m the owner, not even the folks at MacEvoy-Cortez, believe it or not, because I don’t want to be bothered about the details and have people coming to me with complaints, and the staff kissing my ass all the time, excuse the expression.”

  She said, “You live here all year round?”

  He nodded. “I’m a computer person,” he said. “I’m not interested in yachts and mansions. Oh, I expect one day I’ll get a bigger place to live in, with a game room and maybe a pool, but right now a small apartment suits me fine. I can take care of it myself without having anyone fussing with my papers and things.”