Montaro Caine A Novel

23





WHEN CURLY BENNETT RETURNED HOME TO HIS ONE-BEDROOM apartment on East 37th Street, he felt pleased with himself, much the way he always felt after a fruitful day on the job. He and Aikens had, once again, greased the palm of the janitor to obtain the books they had seen at Cordiss Krinkle’s subleased Manhattan apartment and had delivered them directly to Montaro Caine. The apartment was a mess and Curly doubted that the tenants would have noticed a few missing books. While Aikens had stayed with Caine to pore over the books, Curly went back to his office where he tracked down addresses for Cordiss in Paris and San Remo. All things considered, this had been the kind of day Curly liked. In the absence of any recognition from the executive suite, he stood ready to give himself a generous pat on the back.

The landline was ringing as he entered his living room. That phone rarely rang; he hoped there wasn’t an emergency at the office; his plan was to nap for an hour before venturing across town for his weekly poker game. He snatched the receiver from its cradle.

“Curly Bennett here.”

The voice on the other end of the phone startled him. “Hi there, Curly Bennett. Gina Lao here. Remember me?”

How could he forget? “Gina. Of course I remember you.”

She had caught his eye the first time he’d seen her at Fitzer accompanied by Michen Borceau. He had wanted to talk to her then, but though they had crossed paths several times at company headquarters, no graceful opportunity had presented itself. The nature of his business had taught him to proceed cautiously in such matters with a fellow employee. He wasn’t able to talk to Gina until six months later at a company party at the Hilton, where they were formally introduced.

At the party, Gina picked up his scent almost immediately, and with mild flirtatious glances, she let him know. Encouraged, he began to close in gently as the evening wore on. But soon he noticed that, with each step he took toward her, she drifted farther away. Finally, Curly labeled her a high-end tease and dismissed any thoughts of her. Now, rumor had it that she was dating Alan Rothman, a slick creep who made Curly even more dubious of Gina’s character.

“Curly, I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,” Gina said now.

“Oh no, not at all.”

“I’m so glad. I need your advice on something.”

“Advice on what?”

“Well, the phone’s so impersonal; I wonder if we could meet for a drink.”

“Depends on when and where,” Curly said. “I’ve got a poker game tonight.”

“Oh my goodness. Curly, it won’t take long—a half hour, forty-five minutes at the most. Would you mind coming to my apartment? I would really appreciate it.”

Despite his cautious instincts, Curly felt an instant response in his groin, as if some involuntary message had been reflexively dispatched to his testicles.

“Do you still live in the Village?” he asked as he swallowed hard.

“I do,” she said. And after she had given Curly the address and hung up her phone, she placed a call to Alan Rothman.