Tarnished Gold by Ann Aptaker

Author:Ann Aptaker [Aptaker, Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2015-07-28T04:00:00+00:00

*

Home beckons.

By the time I park in the basement garage and ride the elevator up to my apartment, I figure maybe Rosie can salvage things a little, at least soothe my bruises—the ones on my skin, the ones the Jacobson and Stern murders clawed me with, and the one Vivienne delivered to my ego by staying at Hagen’s. Maybe Rosie is that safe harbor I need tonight.

Taking off my dinner jacket and untying the bow tie that feels like it’s choking me now, I don’t even bother turning on a light in the living room on my way to the bedroom. I don’t turn on a light here either, just flop down on my bed. A shaft of city light through the window guides my hand as I dial Rosie’s number on the bedside phone. Sweet Rosie. When I called her from my office this morning, she was on her way out the door for an early shift, so maybe she’s home now. And it’s only a little after eleven thirty. She’s probably still awake.

The minute she picks up the phone and says hello, I feel better.

“It’s me, Rosie,” I say. “You busy?”

“What do you have in mind, Cantor?” If she said it any more seductively, I’d crawl through the phone and slither through the wire all the way to her place.

“Well, we could—wait, hold on, someone’s at the door.”

Out of habit, my heart races, because like last night, like any night during the last two years when there’s a buzz at my door, I hope and pray and imagine it’s Sophie: Sophie escaped from God knows who and what, Sophie coming back to me.

But also like last night, it could be Lieutenant Huber and his lackey, Tommy the Cop, come to twist my arm some more. Or like this morning, it could be Jimmy Shea and his lackey, Screwy Sweeney, come to twist all of me some more.

But when I switch on a lamp in the living room and open the door, it’s none of those people. It’s someone I’d least expect, never expect. It’s Vivienne.

She says, “May I come in?”

Dumbstruck, I step aside to clear the way, and in one of the great graceful moments of womanhood, she slides her clutch bag into her coat pocket and removes her purple evening coat as naturally as a snake slithering out of its skin as she walks through the door.

I take her coat, drape it over the back of a club chair while she looks around my living room. I can’t tell if she expected it to be more tasteful or less.

She finally turns to me, her dark hair swirling, her ruby necklace and black silk dress catching lamplight. My living room never looked so good.

“Wait here,” I say.

I go back to the bedroom, pick up the phone. “Listen, Rosie, I’ll have to call you back.” How long, I wonder when I hang up without explanation, until Rosie sees me for the heel I can too often be?

Back in the

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