The Shadow Hunter

no heart-to-heart conversation tomorrow, because there would be no time. In TV news there was never time for anything. That was all right. She wasn’t sure she wanted to further unburden herself to a woman who, after all, was one of Howard’s fantasy conquests.
    She looked past the computers and gray metal desks to the row of wall clocks set to different time zones. California time was seven-forty-five. Better get moving. She needed to grab a late dinner and read the script and touch up her cosmetics and hair. Of these three items her personal appearance was the main concern. It seemed she spent a lot more time in the makeup room since turning forty.
    “Funny how that works,” she murmured. She must have a streak of masochism to have chosen a profession in which success was so utterly dependent on youth and beauty, then to have compounded her error by choosing a husband whose priorities ran along the same lines.

19
    Hickle knew there must be something he could say to bring his date with Abby to the proper conclusion. In the movies people were always saying clever things. Why was it so much harder in real life?
    He mulled over the problem as the elevator carried him and Abby to the fourth floor. Even when he escorted her down the hall to her door, he had not found a solution.
    “Well,” Abby said, “here we are.”
    This was his moment. He had to go for it. Be spontaneous.
    “It was fun,” he managed.
    Damn, that was no good. Any jerk could have come up with that. But Abby surprised him by smiling in reply. “A blast,” she said. “Your taste in restaurants is excellent.”
    “Oh, well…I work in a restaurant, remember?” He wasn’t sure why he repeated his earlier lie.
    “I remember. Maybe I’ll drop by sometime for a free meal.”
    Caught, he had to think fast. “The owner frowns on that,” he answered, hoping he sounded casual. “But you never know. We’ll see.” He decided to quit while he still could. “Good night, Abby.”
    “’Night.”
    He wondered if he was supposed to kiss her. He had never kissed a girl, except for Priscilla Gammon in the third grade, whom he had smooched on a dare. Priscilla had screamed and called him gross and wiped her mouth elaborately with her sleeve, and for the next two weeks whenever she had seen him she’d made retching noises. He doubted Abby would do anything like that. Still, he’d better not risk it.
    “Good night,” he said again, pointlessly.
    Abby smiled, unlocking her door. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite—which in this place is more than just an expression.”
    He nodded, not knowing what to say. He went on nodding until she disappeared inside her apartment. Then he found his keys and entered his living room. It occurred to him that he ought to check the VCR to be sure it had taped the 6 P.M. news, but somehow this didn’t seem important, and he decided it could wait.
    He wandered into the bathroom, not knowing why, and left without doing anything. He opened his windows, letting the night breeze filter through the swinging blinds. The cool air felt fine. In the kitchen he poured himself some water and drank it fast, belching pleasurably. He looked around at his apartment, and although it had always looked like a dump to him, tonight it seemed better, almost livable. He thought his life was pretty good, better than he had realized, and he wondered why he should be feeling that way.
    Well, it was Abby, of course. They’d had a great time together. When the check had come, impulsively he’d insisted on paying it, though she had offered to pay half. He had wanted to treat her to the meal because that was the kind of thing a man would do, and it wasn’t often he got to feel like a man.
    Certainly Jill Dahlbeck had never let him feel that way. He remembered summoning the courage to ask her out, and the strained, false politeness in her voice as she turned him down, giving some weak excuse. He had hated her in that moment and for years afterward. She had emasculated him, humiliated him,as women always did, because all women were bitches at heart, bitches and lying whores—
    He calmed himself. Not all women, he reminded himself. Not Abby.
    The phone rang.
    He looked at it, astonished. Nobody ever called him. It had to be a wrong number.
    Unless it was Abby. Had she gotten his number? Was she calling to talk? He picked up the phone, his hand trembling a little. “Hello?” he said into the mouthpiece.
    Silence for a moment, and then a female