Bronx Noir

“You bet. What about you, Peter? Will you remember?”

“Till my dying day.”

“I’d better get dressed and head on home.”

“And I can probably use a shower,” he said. “Unless you want to…”

“You go ahead. I’ll have another cup of coffee while you’re in there.”

Her clothes were on the chair, and she dressed quickly, then picked up her purse and checked its contents. The little glassine envelope was still in there, and unopened.

God, she’d been drunk.

She went into the kitchen, poured herself more coffee, and considered what was left in the pot. No, leave it, she thought, and turned her attention to the bottle of vodka on the sinkboard.

Had they had drinks when they got to his place? Probably. There were two glasses next to the bottle, and he hadn’t gotten around to washing them.

What a shock he’d given her! The touch, the unexpected warmth of his skin. And then his voice.

She hadn’t expected that.

She uncapped the bottle, opened the glassine envelope, poured its contents in with the vodka. The crystals dissolved immediately. She replaced the cap on the bottle, returned the empty envelope to her purse.

She made her cup of coffee last until he was out of the shower and dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, which was evidently what a Wall Street guy wore on the weekend. “I’ll get out of your hair now,” she told him. “And I’m sorry about last night. I’m going to make it a point not to get quite that drunk again.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Jen. You were running a risk, that’s all. For your own sake—”

“I know.”

“Hang on and I’ll walk you to the subway.”

She shook her head. “Really, there’s no need. I can find it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“If you say so. Uh, can I have your number?”

“You really want it?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

“Next time I won’t pass out. I promise.”

He handed her a pen and a notepad, and she wrote down her area code, 212, and picked seven digits at random to keep it company. And then they kissed, and he said something sweet, and she said something clever in response, and she was out the door.

The streets were twisty and weird in that part of Riverdale, but she asked directions and somebody pointed her toward the subway. She waited on the elevated platform and thought about how shocked she’d been when she opened her eyes.

Because he was supposed to be dead. That was how it worked—she put something in the guy’s drink and it took effect one or two hours later. After they’d had sex, after he’d dozed off or not. His heart stopped, and that was that.

Usually she’d stay awake herself, and a couple of times she’d been able to watch it happen. Then, when he was gone, she’d go through the apartment at leisure and take what was worth taking.

It worked like a charm. But it only worked if you put the crystals in the guy’s drink, and if you were too drunk to manage that, well, you woke up and there he was.

Bummer.

Sooner or later, she thought, he’d take the cap off the vodka bottle. Today or tomorrow or next week, whenever he got around to it. And he’d take a drink, and one or two hours later he’d be cooling down to room temperature. She wouldn’t be there to scoop up his cash or go through his dresser drawers, but that was all right. The money wasn’t really the point.

Maybe he’d have some other girl with him. Maybe they’d both have a drink before hitting the mattress, and they could die in each other’s arms. Like Romeo and Juliet, sort of.

Or maybe she’d have a drink and he wouldn’t. That would be kind of interesting, when he tried to explain it all to the cops.

A pity she couldn’t be a fly on the wall. But she’d find out what happened. Sooner or later, there’d be something in the papers. All she had to do was wait for it.

BURNOUT

BY SUZANNE CHAZIN

Jerome Avenue

When does something happen for the last time? Do you get a sign that Mike Boyle missed somewheres? For sure, it was that way with Gina. One minute, they were doing the usual dance—fighting and screaming and her throwing the lasagna pan at him and then making up and making out and all the sweet heat in between. And then bam, it’s all different. Like a Yankee’s pitching streak gone south. Instead of throwing the pan, she throws his duffel bag. “Go live with your other family!” she yells. “You like them better anyways.” She means the guys down at the firehouse on Jerome Avenue. That was six weeks ago. Forty-three days. More than a thousand hours and counting. And sex wasn’t the only thing that died for Mike Boyle that night. Something else died too—something even more important, if there was such a thing.

Mike Boyle forgot how to sleep.