Bird's-Eye View by J. F. Freedman

Author:J. F. Freedman [FREEDMAN, J. F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: FIC031000
ISBN: 9780759525399
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2001-08-06T16:00:00+00:00

I don’t even try to go back to sleep. I sit outside on the porch, waiting for the sun to come up. It takes a long time, too long.

“Hey.”

I look inside, to my bedroom. Maureen’s up, reclining on her side, looking at me through the mesh.

“What’re you doing up so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“I can understand.” She pats the empty space in the bed. I go in and lie down next to her. She smiles, kisses me. I nuzzle her breasts, stroke her stomach, kiss her neck. She tastes salty.

We make love slowly, tenderly; it builds on the special feeling from last night that both of us want to hold on to. We don’t talk about the new place we’ve gone to; it’s too raw, too scary—the implications for the future.

She’s going to Boston for a few days—work. She’d put it off if she could, but people are depending on her. “I’ll try to call tonight,” she assures me. “What are you going to do with yourself? Stay out of trouble, I hope.”

“I’ll do my best,” I vow, stoutly.

“Nothing stupid.” She has a worried look on her face, as if she doesn’t trust me to keep my word. “You promised.”

“A promise is a promise.”

“See that you keep it,” she orders me sternly. “And stay away from Roach and Wallace.”

I give her a parting kiss. “I will have nothing to do with either of them.”

“This is going to sound like lovesick teenager crap, but you’re the first man I’ve ever fallen in love with, I mean really deep down, Fritz.”

“Maureen . . .” Jesus, how do you respond to that? I thought I’d gone off the deep end with Marnie, but that was nothing compared to the emotions I’m feeling at this moment.

“I don’t want to lose you, Fritz. Promise me I won’t.”

“You won’t lose me. I promise.”

• • •

It’s Fritz Tullis. I’d like to speak to Buster. Is he in yet?”

“He’s not available at present, Mr. Tullis,” comes back the crisp reply. Buster’s secretary, Enid, is at least twenty years older than he, and she tends to mother-hen him. One of her ploys in that regard is to call everyone over twenty-one, except office staff, by his or her last name—it holds them at arm’s length, so they can’t wheedle favors from her, such as talking to her boss when he doesn’t want to be disturbed, and provides cover for him when he’s late coming to work, or is otherwise indisposed. “Shall I tell him you called?”

I can picture her pen poised over Buster’s message list. “Yeah, please. As soon as possible, if you can,” I say, trying to keep the anxiety from my voice. I glance at the clock over the stove. Almost ten—I’d thought he’d be in by now, his phone machine picked up when I called him at home, over an hour ago. “How long before he’ll be in?” I ask as politely and casually as I can.

He and I need to talk, pronto. It’s one thing to keep your mouth shut about a so-called hypothetical murder when it’s an abstraction to you.

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