FALLING ANGEL by William Hjortsberg

Author:William Hjortsberg [Hjortsberg, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-EIGHT

The blonde secretary merely glanced at me when I slammed the polished mahogany door. Perhaps she was accustomed to window washers having the run of her boss’s office. I bumped into Ethan Krusemark himself striding back down the long corridor with his chest thrust forward like he had a row of invisible medals pinned to his grey flannel suit. He grunted in passing. I suppose he expected me to tug my forelock. Instead, I said, “Fuck you!” but it rolled off him like spit off a duck.

On my way out, I blew a loud kiss at the receptionist with the poker up her ass. The face she made suggested a mouthful of caterpillar guts, but two salesmen cooling their heels in matching Barcelona chairs thought it was real cute.

I did a quick-change number in the broom closet that would have made Superman envious. There wasn’t time to repack the attaché case, so I stuffed my Smith & Wesson and the contact mike in my overcoat pockets and left the coveralls and safety harness crammed into the dented bucket. In the elevator, I remembered my necktie and made a clumsy, blind job of twisting a knot around my shirt collar.

There was no sign of Margaret Krusemark out on the street. She had mentioned going to Saks, and I figured she caught a cab. Deciding to give her time to change her mind, I cut across Lexington to Grand Central and went in through a side entrance.

I detoured down the ramp to the Oyster Bar and ordered a dozen bluepoints on the half-shell. They went fast. I sipped the juice from the empty shells and ordered another half-dozen, taking my time with them. Twenty minutes later I pushed my plate back and headed for a pay phone. I dialed Margaret Krusemark’s number and let it ring ten times before hanging up. She was safe at Saks. Maybe she’d hit Bonwit’s and Bergdorf’s before heading home.

The shuttle train hauled my mollusk-stuffed carcass over to Times Square where I caught an uptown BMT local to 57th Street. I called Margaret Krusemark’s apartment from the phone booth on the corner and again got no answer. Walking past the entrance to 881 Seventh, I spotted three people waiting for the elevator and continued on to the corner of 56th. I lit a cigarette and started back uptown. This time the lobby was empty. I went straight to the fire stairs. There was no percentage in being recognized by elevator operators.

Climbing eleven flights is all right if you’re in training for the marathon, but no fun at all with eighteen oysters tumbling around inside. I took it easy, resting every couple of floors, surrounded by the cacophonous blend of a dozen disparate music lessons.

When I got to Margaret Krusemark’s door I was breathing hard and my heart hammered like a metronome in presto. The hallway was deserted. I opened my attaché case and pulled on the rubber surgeon’s gloves. The lock was a standard make. I rang

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