Little Deaths(39)

And then her prey appeared.

A swagger in a suit with slick hair and a dimple in his chin and the laughter of his friends shoving him forward. She took out a cigarette, he produced a lighter. They started the practiced dance: she bent to the flame, his eyes flickered to the V of her breasts, to the way it widened as she leaned back again.

He smiled at her, stepped up to the bar, and raised his chin; the bartender was there, smooth as a long streak of polished wood.

“Whatever the lady’s drinking,” his gaze on her again, “two of those.”

A bill appeared between his fingers, disappeared as the glasses were placed carefully between them. While he raised his to her, her eyes slid sideways to the solemn-faced Hud. Maybe there was just the hint of a comradely wink.

They drank. He told her a name, she told him one in return. She sought out the damp pink faces of his friends over his shoulder, baying like dogs, beating the table, and she turned back, smiled, fluttered.

Next time, it was Ruth who caught the bartender’s eye. He asked, “What’ll it be, folks?”

She looked at her friend and said, “You choose. Last time we had my drink. I want to know what you like.”

He held her gaze, but he wasn’t quite drunk enough for a line, or a lie. Not quite. Ruth just sipped and waited.

Pete could tell that the next round of drinks didn’t matter so much; it was just something to do with their hands. Ruth raised her eyes to the bartender and ordered two more without speaking, but this time there was no smile and no conspiring with Hud because by then their heads were close, Ruth’s and her friend’s, and the rest of the bar was just noise and light and figures in the background.

By then she probably knew that his wife didn’t understand him, and she had probably told him that her husband was a jerk, and they both knew what would happen, but it still wasn’t quite time. Not yet. That was time for sweet anticipation, for delicious teasing, for the rush of confidence, for feeling the blood pumping and knowing that this was what being young and good-looking and alive was for.

He excused himself to go to the bathroom and she turned a little so she wouldn’t have to see him pause at his friends’ table and see the grins and the backslapping, and Pete saw her hold on tight to the bar and dig her nails in.

When he came back, he sat a little closer and ordered two Scotches, straight up, one for the road, here’s mud in your eye, baby, and that made her laugh, hard, but then he put his arm around her and she stopped laughing and looked up at him.

They got up and left and Pete followed. He needed to know what she was like when she thought she wasn’t being observed.

So he followed them home, the cops behind him. He let one hand sit lightly on the wheel, his other arm resting on the window, elbow bent, palm curved against the roof. He spread his fingers and let the warm night air trail between them.

When they stopped at the lights, he saw their figures silhouetted against the neon, watched as his arm came up around her, and as she leaned in against him. Watched as their darkness merged and the space between them closed.

When they reached 72nd Drive, Pete rolled up and parked nearby, watched them go inside, Ruth tucked into his arm and her face turned up to his. Pete lit a cigarette and saw the soft pop of light that signaled a lamp being lit, and then Ruth’s slender figure against the window as she closed the blinds.

He imagined the dark heat of the room, the golden glow of the lamp. Maybe she’d put a Sinatra album on the record player—surely this was the kind of guy who’d appreciate that husky, easy voice, who’d hear the yearning behind the words.

She’d excuse herself to go freshen up, then mix a couple of drinks, sit close, wait for him because she knew guys liked to make the first move, but she’d tell him she wanted him to make it—with her eyes and her mouth and her slim, dancing finger circling the rim of the glass.

Pete got out of his car and walked toward her building, feeling the eyes of the cops on him and not caring. He walked right up to the ground-floor windows but he heard nothing from inside, so he kept walking, around the side of the building and then to the back. Not knowing what he was doing, just needing to be nearby. There were no other lights on and he had to watch carefully where he was putting his feet. And so, looking down, he saw it.

A window in the basement was partly open. Just an inch or so, but enough to get his fingers through and open it. He climbed inside and pulled it closed behind him. The basement smelled of laundry detergent and Marlboros and dust, and he fumbled his way to the wall and felt for a light switch. Turned it on for a second to orient himself, and noticed an old sofa against one wall, a stack of boxes, piles of magazines, a row of empty beer bottles on the floor.

He turned the light off again, felt his way to the sofa, and lay down. Let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He couldn’t hear anything from the apartment above him, only the faint scurrying of an insect and the soft creaks as the building settled in for the night.

And then he heard a louder creak, and something that could have been a groan. He saw them together: Ruth winding her fingers in the man’s hair and pushing her body up against his as he moved her back and down into the couch, as she let her moans become incoherent pleas, please, as he gazed at her with wild eyes and started to unbuckle his belt.

Pete heard a thud as she let her shoes fall, and then footsteps as she led him into the dark bedroom. Another groan, this time from him, and he saw her smiling in the darkness because she knew she had him now. Silence again: she might be undressing him slowly. Teasing.