The Night Watcher. John Lutz
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and was still sleeping deeply as he left the bedroom.
The apartment’s living room was vast, carpeted in pale rose with a cream-colored soft leather sofa and matching chairs. There were steel or chromium-framed, modern oil paintings on the walls. Billy neither understood nor liked art that didn’t look like identifiable objects. These things were all splotches of color and irregular shapes. One of them was simply three different-sized dots on a solid gray background. There was one painting that wasn’t so bad, though. It looked like a nude woman seen from a lot of angles at once. He bet all the paintings were expensive, but if he owned them, he’d sell them, have them auctioned off at Sotheby’s or someplace. The furniture was obviously quality stuff, though some of it was old. Why the hell, if Myra could afford that massive glass and gold coffee table that looked like the continent of Australia, would she own something like that rickety wooden chair with the curlicued wood back? Well, if this were his place he’d keep the table and ditch the chair. The big whitewashed-looking cabinet that held the TV and stereo, he’d keep that. Maybe get it refinished, though.
He walked over and glanced into the kitchen. Lots of white wood cabinets, big sink with a gray marble countertop, steel refrigerator and stove that looked like they came out of some restaurant. Well, piss on the kitchen. Who needed it? He and Myra would eat out every meal.
It wouldn’t be so bad actually being married to old Myra. Billy might even have angled for it if she weren’t so damned smart. Only when she was asleep, like now, did he hold any real advantage over her. Women were wily and indirect and usually doing more than one thing and thinking more than one thing at a time. And if it came right down to it, they wouldn’t play fair. They were more difficult to read and deal with than men, who were usually pretty much transparent and direct, more honest. Still, Billy liked women even though they could be tricky. Especially Myra could be tricky. Not for the first time, Billy cautioned himself to be careful.
He took another turn around the living room, then the second bedroom, running his fingertips lightly over objects that could be or should be his own if only life were more fair. The third bedroom, Myra’s home office, he didn’t go into. Didn’t even try the knob. He knew the door would be locked.
Billy glanced at the polished mahogany clock with its gold dial on the mantel. It was way past midnight.
He padded back into the bathroom and showered, then rubbed himself dry with a soft towel that was warm from being draped over a heated brass rack. His hair was short and dried quickly. He combed it, shot it with Myra’s hair spray, then used Myra’s roll-on deodorant.
Back in the dim bedroom, he found his clothes and put them on. It wasn’t the best thing for his health, to go outside in the cold right after a warm shower, but it was an occupational hazard this time of year, and Billy had built up immunities. Besides, his thick Armani coat, out of style this season but still warm, was hanging in the closet in Myra’s foyer.
After fastening his blazer button, he went to the bed and leaned over Myra. He kissed her on the forehead, once, twice, to be sure she was somewhat awake.
“Good night, Myra. You were wonderful, as always.”
She managed a smile, then turned her face back to the pillow, muffling her words. “Nigh’…Billy.”
He felt lonely, almost as if he were leaving his own home and wife, as he walked from the bedroom and the sleeping woman behind him. In the entry hall he shrugged into his coat and turned up its black leather collar.
Glancing at his reflection in the gold-framed mirror, he smiled handsomely, blatantly admiring his boyish blond looks, telling himself the world wasn’t always shitty. This had been a good night but he didn’t yet know how good.
Myra paid the service direct or had used a charge card, but he knew there would be an envelope for him on the marble-topped credenza.
Next to the door.
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