The Groaning Board

Don’t let this happen.
Put up a fight.”
    She pulled her hand away. “You know
something, Artie? I’m tired of fighting for this relationship. And I don’t know
why I’m here. He hurt me, Artie, so don’t butt in. Just go on up there and tell
me he’s all right, then take me to Smith’s.”
    “You’re—”
    “I know. I’m a really terrific
person, and he needs his head examined.”
    “Okay, okay.” Metzger stepped out of
the car and lit a cigarette. It was getting dark and the tiny light of his
cigarette was easier to see than he was, even with the bubble rolling light.
“Two goddam hardheads,” he said. He looked up and down the street, inhaling
deeply, breathing out through his nostrils. “I’ll be right down.”
    “Do we need the bubble? It’s so
conspicuous.”
    Without a word, Metzger took the light
off the roof, closed it down, and tossed it on the backseat. He admonished her
to lock the doors again, then went into the brownstone.
    An elderly woman went by, walking two
ancient pugs wearing bandannas around their necks. The woman looked at Wetzon
with curiosity, but didn’t stop except to let her dogs lift their legs on
Metzger’s tires.
    Wetzon eyed Silvestri’s building. It
was one of a number of wide brownstones that lined both sides of the street. In
daylight the window boxes under the front windows, if they were planted with
flowers, probably gave the tired building some color. Under the streetlamps, a
magnolia tree in the yard across the street wore fat buds.
    Silvestri was coming down the block
talking intently to a pretty woman with a wild profusion of long, dark hair. He
was carrying a big bag of groceries and she was carrying a supermarket shopping
bag. Instinctively, Wetzon slid down, slipping from seat to floor. Any minute
now he would notice Metzger’s car.
    She edged open the street-side door
and crept out, crouching down. He mustn’t see her. She tapped the door shut.
You idiot, she thought. Have you no shame?
    On the sidewalk, the footsteps
stopped for a moment. “Anything wrong?” the woman asked. She had a deep, smoky
voice.
    “My partner’s car. Maybe he’s waiting
inside.”
    Wetzon flattened herself against the
fender and was rewarded by the familiar little ping, and then the tickle as her
panty hose laddered up her thigh. Damnation. Brand-new panty hose. She
flattened her palms on the door and scoped through the car windows. Silvestri
and his lady friend were climbing the front steps of the brownstone. Then
Metzger appeared in the doorway.
    Wetzon crept along the outside of the
parked cars, careful not to get hit by passing vehicles.
    A cab came to a stop near her. “You
looking for a ride, lady?” the driver asked, not in the least curious about
what she was doing there, crouched in the street in her evening finery.
    She opened the door and crawled into
the taxi, only subli-minally aware that someone was shouting her name.

Chapter Twenty-Six

     
     
     
    “Sweetie
pie! I was beginning to worry about you.” Smith
greeted Wetzon with a tight smile and a cheek brush. ‘Where have you been?” Her
lips did not move through her painted smile. She smoothed her slip over her
hips. At least that’s what the thing she was wearing looked like: a long, black
satin slip with spaghetti straps. And she obviously had nothing on underneath.
    “I got a run on my way over and had
to go home and change. You wouldn’t want me to grace your lovely party with a
ladder up the front of one thigh, now would you?” Wetzon stepped into the
foyer. “Of course, if I’m too late, I’ll just turn around and go home...
    “Oh, for pity sakes! Ellen, sugar,
get my grouchy partner a glass of wine. We were just about to sit down,” Smith
added to Wetzon.
    I give you the beautiful,
controversial, ubiquitous Ellen Moore, Wetzon said to herself. Was she
surprised to find Ellen there? Not at all. It was probably part of her job,
working at The Groaning Board shop, working on the job. So what if she was
living with A.T. and not Micklynn.
    “Red or white?” The perfect Ellen was
wearing black silk trousers, a black silk turtleneck, and a black tuxedo
jacket. A sheer complexion was not marred by a smattering of pale freckles. Her
champagne-blond hair was straight, parted in the middle and slightly below
shoulder length. She wore no makeup; her whitish eyebrows and lashes were
undefined, further adding to a wide-eyed innocence.
    “Red.” All the furniture in Smith’s
living room