The Sentinel (9 page)

"There you have it. He beat the shit out of them. And if that's the case, no wonder the woman was frightened."

"I don't know. There's something more."

"Allison!"

"What?"

"Just Allison," he said, focusing his eyes on her severely.

"Okay, I promise. I won't dwell on it. You're probably right anyway."

"It wouldn't be the first time." He laughed.

She glanced at her watch. "I'd better get out of here."

"What time is it?"

"Twelve forty-five."

"I have to go too. I have to finish a brief." He motioned for the waiter.

"Want me to help later?"

"No."

"What about the trial?"

"Adjourned until tomorrow."

"You'll win."

Michael smiled. "Why don't you go ahead. I'll wait to pay the check."

"Okay." She leaned across the table and kissed him very gently on the forehead. "I love you," she said softly.

He nodded affectionately.

She grabbed her portfolio and duffel and stood up. "Did you call the phone company for me?"

"I forgot."

"Michael, please. I've got to get a phone into that apartment."

"All right. I'll call this afternoon." He paused and thought for a moment. "But only if you promise to forget about last night and leave those two women alone."

"I promise." She blew him a kiss and hurried out of the restaurant.

Half an hour later she stepped through the curtain and closed her eyes to avoid the blinding glare of the high-powered spotlights. She heard a few whispers and the high-pitched voice of the gay announcer. Then, opening her lids, she squinted. Five or six seconds passed in whiteness as her eyes adjusted. She slowly moved about the stage and eventually disappeared behind the curtain. She hustled into the dressing room, tore off the outfit, changed clothes and went back in time to make her second entrance.

"Allison again, this time wearing a floor-length chamois dress," lisped the announcer.

She walked to the runway and turned about in place. A sharp pain jolted her head. She stumbled slightly but retained her balance and continued to walk in front of the crowd. She was dizzy again. Perhaps it was the recurrence of last night's disability. Or maybe the lack of sleep.

Then the rush, the lack of sensation in her arms and legs. And a new terror: the loss of sight and sound.

She stood in the middle of the stage, unable to move. The faces in the audience blurred; her vision darkened. She reached out. Into a long dark room. She walked. Faster. Faster. She heard a mumbling, something unintelligible. She listened. Then the image and sounds faded and she fell to the ground before the horrified audience.

Chapter VIII

"The white pills are supposed to relax me," said Allison. She held the receiver against her shoulder, closed the folding dOor and waited for Michael's response. Damn the phone company, she thought to herself angrily. If they had installed her phone as promised, she would not have had to search the streets for nearly half an hour in order to find a street phone that was working. The one on the corner of Eighty-ninth was out of order, someone having broken the mechanism while trying to pry loose the coin box. The nearest in service was six blocks uptown on Columbus Avenue. Expectedly, it too had been battered. The casing was dotted by deep gouges and long scratches; the coin return was stuffed with Baby Ruth candy wrappers, cemented in place by a foul-smelling clump of red licorice. But fortunately it had survived.

"The others are just sleeping pills," Allison replied to Michael's next question.

She had spent the last six hours in Roosevelt Hospital, where she had been taken after her collapse. They had run a series of tests. Primarily neurological and vascular. Apart from a slightly elevated blood pressure, the results were negative. She was released, given medication and advised to consult a neurologist if there was a repetition of the incident.

Instead of going to the apartment, she located the phone booth, told Michael of the seizure and now stood jiggling the door, trying to close out the cold air.

"I'll be all right. You don't have to come." She listened intently then added, "Yesterday's episode didn't help!"

No, it hadn't. Obviously Gerde and Sandra had contributed to the tensions that had caused the blackout. Hadn't the incident kept her up much of the night? Surely that was enough. She listened again while trying to reconstruct the impressions she'd had just prior to her collapse. The dizziness and darkness. The long room that stretched into eternity. The noises. It made no sense.

"I'll call you if I don't feel all right," Allison concluded. She placed the receiver on its hook, stepped out onto the darkened street, turned downtown and walked along the rows of middle-income housing that had sprouted like mushrooms during the past few years, fertilized by federal subsidies.

She alternately counted the rows of lighted windows and the slabs of concrete that skidded under her feet until she turned off Columbus onto Eighty-ninth Street and walked into the darkness.

A note was taped to her door. She pulled it off. It was the bill from Slapen's Appliance Mart. Her television had arrived.

Excited, she entered the apartment.

There it stood, twenty-four inches' worth, full color, attractive frame, nestled right into the space she had marked against the wall.

She tossed her jacket on the sofa, walked into the kitchen and turned on the water. She placed two vials on the sink, one with a white top, the other blue. The white one was marked "Tranquilizer" and listed elaborate instructions. The other was marked "Sleeping Pills." She read the tranquilizer label carefully, removed two oval pills, popped them onto her tongue, then filled her mouth with water. She had never been good with pills. Unsympathetically, they squeezed down her throat.

She placed the covered vials on the formica counter and returned to the living room.

Kneeling in front of the console, she turned on the set and adjusted the color. Then, standing with her eyes glued to the screen, she unbuttoned her long-sleeved blouse and exchanged it for a white tee shirt that lay on the sofa. She examined herself in the mirror, approved the change, noted that her breasts looked extremely full under the tight-fitting pullover, and smiled as she caught the reflected image on the television screen.

She sat on the sofa to watch. That seemed like a good way to spend the evening. At least she knew the ending would be happy. And this had not been a very happy day.

She placed her feet on the hassock; she was exhausted. She licked her lips with a sensual swipe of the tongue; she was beginning to feel the effect of the pills. The images on the screen blurred; their movements slowed.

Then the doorbell rang. She jumped to her feet. She knew it wasn't Michael; he was working late. And it was no one else from outside. If it had been, they would have buzzed to get in. Chazen? The two lesbians? The other neighbors?

"Who is it?" she asked loudly as she approached the door. There was no response. She bit her nails nervously. "Who's there?" she repeated. Silence. She paced back and forth in front of the door, the ticking of the large grandfather clocks counterpointing the thump of her footsteps, her shadow mimicking her progress.

"It's me," came the high-pitched voice.

"Mr. Chazen?"

"Yes, of course."

She caught her breath, relieved. She opened the door, careful to keep the safety chain on. Peeping out through the opening, she saw a little man dressed in a rumpled black tuxedo. It was Chazen. Jezebel and Mortimer were markedly absent.

"Come, come, open the chain so I can come in."

She slipped off the chain catch; Chazen stepped in.

"Why are you so nervous?" he asked.

"I'm not nervous," she replied.

"You are," he scolded.

"Well, yesterday's experience-"

"Oh, that," he interrupted. "Forget it ever happened."

She smiled. "That's a lovely outfit you have on, Mr. Chazen."

"Yes it is." He adjusted the old-fashioned bow tie that hung loosely from his neck and pressed the front of his jacket to smooth out the rumples.

"Do you like my flower? I grew it myself in my window box."

"It's lovely."

He grabbed her by the hand. "Now, my dear, I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise?" she replied, concerned. She'd had enough surprises recently.

"Yes, a lovely surprise. Come with me to my apartment."

She squeezed his hand gently. "No, thank you."

"Now Allison," he said sternly.

She interrupted. "I've had a very trying day and I don't feel too well. Besides, I've just taken two tranquilizers and I'm really out of it. Maybe next time."

"I insist," he demanded. "My surprise will make you feel a thousand times better. And it means a great deal to me!"

"But-"

He raised his hand. It was hopeless. The little man was not going to leave the apartment without her. There was nothing she could do but say yes. And maybe his surprise would make her feel better. She shrugged.

"Okay, but only for a few minutes."

He smiled, pleased with his success. He whipped his right hand from behind his back and produced a large top hat with a rumpled brim, which he proceeded to place gently on his head, tipped slightly to the side. She looked at his clothes.

"Never mind these," he said. "Just come as you are. You look lovely, simply smashing."

She smiled again. "By the way, thank you for the picture," she said.

"The picture? Oh, yes, the picture. My welcoming gift. But then, it was somewhat presumptuous to assume you would like a picture of me in my Sunday best."

"Not at all. It's absolutely adorable. I put it on the mantelpiece. Next to Herbert Hoover."

"Allison, you are most considerate. It warms an old man's heart to be received this way." He stared at the picture. "I do think that's my better side, don't you?"

She nodded.

"Now, now!" he said, his grin receding into his weather-beaten face. "Let us go. My surprise is waiting."

She reached over, grabbed the door key off the convenient nail, shut the door and walked up the long flights of stairs. The little man bounced joyfully, several steps behind her, humming an unidentifiable tune. They reached the fifth floor and stood in front of his door. At the base was a mat that read "Welcome." On the door was a Christmas wreath.

"Allison," he cried excitedly, "I want you to close your eyes and promise not to peek until I tell you that you may!"

"I promise," she agreed reluctantly.

"Stand right there," he commanded as he opened the door. He grabbed her arm and pulled her over the threshold. "Now!" he yelled.

She opened her eyes.

Chazen's living room was decorated for a celebration. Streamers hung from the ceiling; helium-filled balloons floated next to the walls.

The living room was the same size as hers, except in the reverse, hers being an A apartment, his a B. There was no bedroom, only a sleeping alcove. The furnishings were dilapidated. Along the wall next to the entrance were bookshelves, partially filled with books but mostly covered by tiny plants, which made up only a small part of Chazen's collection. The apartment, apart from the furniture, resembled a botanical garden. In each of the corners and on either side of the kitchenette were baby palm trees that stretched from floor to ceiling, spreading their leaves and branches along the walls. Various shrubs were interspersed among the chairs and tables; almost everywhere stood flowerpots and boxes containing assortments of colorful plants. And raised above all the others on a marble platform near the window was Chazen's prize fern, an award winner. Picked off a mountainside in the high Andes in Central Peru, cultivated in New York under the most unfavorable conditions, but thriving under his care. Beneath the plant was an engraved plaque detailing the history and relevant characteristics of the prized Filicale. And there was another sign which warned "Hands Off."

"Surprise!" shouted Chazen, flinging a streamer into the air.

Everyone turned to look at the new arrival.

The large table in the middle of the room was covered with a white tablecloth. Scattered among the plates were noisemakers and party hats; there were several bottles of wine, some soda and a large bowl filled with potato chips. In the center of the table was a big black and white birthday cake with seven candles, topped by fluffy cone-shaped tufts of sugar. Jezebel, bedecked in a tasseled birthday hat and red silk scarf, sat at the head of the rectangular table on an elevated chair facing the guests: three elderly women, a younger girl of about thirty and a man of thirty-five or perhaps forty.

"It's Jezebel's birthday, so I thought we'd celebrate."

Chazen led Allison through the jungle to the table.

"Here's your hat, two noisemakers, some streamers and your chair."

"Thank you," she said, smiling. She certainly had not expected this. A birthday party for a cat! Maybe Chazen was right, maybe his surprise would make her feel better.

"Mortimer," he cried.

The bird chirped from high on a fern branch.

"Come to Papa," he commanded sternly.

The bird fluttered its wings, flew off the shrub and landed on his shoulder.

"Say hello to Allison."

Mortimer arranged several feathers on his right wing and chirped at Allison with a dignified arch of the head befitting a host.

"Hello, Mortimer," she said awkwardly.

"Good," Chazen cried proudly. "I've been planning this party for a long time. Caught Jezebel completely by surprise while she was shuffling in the litter. But I wouldn't have considered it a success without you."

"That's very sweet of you, Mr. Chazen," Allison said appreciatively.

Jezebel purred.

"She says hello also, but for some reason she's been reticent to speak the King's English. I do think she has a cold. I hope you understand."

"Of course."

"I want you to meet my other guests." He placed his hand on her shoulder. Everyone, this is Allison Parker. She just rented apartment three A."

Allison looked down the table.