Valentine (13 page)

Inside, the temperature matched the cold outside, and it took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. They were alone in the dingy, ill-lit room, with droopy flowers standing everywhere and more, slightly brighter ones behind the glass of the refrigerator that ran along the back wall. A pile of white boxes like the one Jill had received stood next to several cellophane-wrapped baskets on a shelf beside the front door. An ancient cash register peeked out from a riot of blooms on the crowded work table next to the curtained entrance to a back room. After a moment the curtain moved aside, and a small, plump, frowzy-looking Hispanic woman in a dark green smock came in. Her black hair was worn in a bun on top of her head, and her gold loop earrings
glistened. She stopped short, her eyes taking in the sight of the lovely young woman and the big middle-aged man in the center of the room. Then she summoned a smile to her overpainted face and came over to them.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “May I help you?”

Jill winced, nearly recoiling from the smell of gin. Then, as agreed, she let Barney do the talking. She turned to look at him, noticing that his right hand was buried in the pocket of his overcoat.

“I hope so,” the detective said, smiling pleasantly and stepping forward to place his bulk between the two women. “This lady’s name is Jillian Talbot. About two hours ago she received some flowers from this shop.”

“Oh,
sí
—yes. Talbot. That’s right. A dozen red Beauties. My very best, no?” The woman paused, her smile fading as she noticed the grim expressions of the two people facing her. “Is—is something wrong? You get the flowers, no? My Niño, he delivered them, yes? I—”

“Yes, yes.” Barney held up his large left hand to cut off her babbling. “The flowers were delivered. We just want to know who ordered them, and how.” He smiled again to reassure her.

Even so, the woman was clearly puzzled. She looked from one to the other of them, frowning. Then, apparently seeing no reason not to tell them,
she turned to the table and picked up a thick, battered receipt book. She flipped back a few pages until she found it.

“Ah, yes. Here.” She thrust the book toward Barney, who removed his right hand from his pocket and took it.

Jill stood next to him, reading. The yellow carbon copy of the receipt that had been given to the customer had the date and the order,
I DOZ. RED ABR
, in block letters. Under that, in the same hand, were her own name and address and the message for the front of the envelope,
TO MS. JILLIAN TALBOT, FROM NATE.
The price was written below this, and the instruction,
DELIVER ASAP.
The word
PAID
was circled at the bottom.

Barney handed the book to the woman and said, “Was this a phone order, or was the customer actually in the shop?”

The florist blinked. “He was here. He pay cash for the roses. Why do you—”

“So, it was a man,” Barney said, more to Jill than to the other woman. Smiling again, he asked, “Could you describe this man to us?”

“Describe?” The woman watched them now, her voice taking on an indignant tone. “What is this about? What you mean,
describe?
He say, ‘From Nate.’ Nate!” For the first time, she turned to Jill and addressed her directly. “Don’t you know what Nate looks like?”

Jill saw Barney’s right hand slide back into the pocket. Quickly, she pulled her wallet from her purse and rummaged through the plastic photo section in the center. She slid a recent picture from its sheath and held it up.

The florist stared, then squinted as she leaned forward to study the snapshot. “Who is that?”

“That’s Nate,” Jill said.

“No,” the woman said, shaking her head until her gold hoops slapped her face. “That is not the man who was here.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jill muttered, returning the wallet to the purse.

Barney, his hand still deep in his pocket, leaned toward the woman. “Tell us about the man who bought the roses.”

“
Ay!
” the woman cried, now more fearful than outraged. “I run a nice shop, the best flowers in the Village!
You
tell
me
what this is all
about!
” She looked wildly around as if for help, but they were the only three people in the shop. Her son, Niño, was obviously out delivering flowers.

“It’s about
this!
” Barney yanked his hand dramatically from his pocket. He clutched a clear plastic Ziploc bag, which he held up in front of the woman’s face. She emitted a piercing scream and fell back against the counter, overturning a vase of lilies. The
water splashed down onto the floor as she cowered against the table, grasping it for support.

“Madre de Dios!”

The face and paws of the enormous dead rat were pressed against the plastic. Its clouded eyes bulged, staring, its mouth open as if to scream. The dull gray fur was matted with dried blood, and the long silver tail was coiled nearly twice around the circumference of the bag. That was the only way Barney could fit it in when he’d picked it up from the floor of Jill’s living room.

The florist was completely sober now. Certain that she was alone with two crazy people, she slumped against the work table and burst into tears.

“Stop it!” Jill cried to the detective, pushing him and the ghastly object away from the woman. “She’s obviously not involved.”

“I had to be sure,” he said, retreating to the other side of the room. He slipped the bag back into his pocket.

Jill approached the weeping florist, took her gently by the arms, and lowered her into the folding metal chair beside the worktable. She knelt before the woman and took her hands in hers.

“Listen to me,” she said as softly as possible. “I’m sorry if we frightened you. That—that thing was in the flowers your son delivered to me. It fell out when I opened the box.” The woman opened her mouth
to protest, but Jill pressed on. “Don’t worry; I don’t think you or your son had anything to do with it. I’m not holding you responsible. But you see, Mrs. . .”—she glanced at the name tag on the smock—”. . . Mrs. Sanchez, someone has been playing some very nasty tricks on me. A man. You’re a woman, Mrs. Sanchez; you know how crazy some men can be. This man is bothering me because he—he wants me, you understand? He’s crazy.” She tapped her own forehead. “
Loco en
—umm—
cabeza
. I am very frightened.” She pointed to Barney. “That man is a private detective. Please, please help us.”

Mrs. Sanchez stared at Jill a moment, then glanced over at Barney. With surprising dignity, she rose to her feet. She reached down to pull Jill up from her kneeling position.

“He was tall,” she said to the detective. “Nearly as tall as you, but not big. Skinny. Long blond hair, down to shoulders. Dirty hair. He smell bad. Filthy jeans; dirty plaid shirt; an old gray coat with holes in it, and stains like dirt. He have—” She held her hands up to her chin, searching for the word.

“A beard?” Jill prompted.

“
Sí
—yes, a beard. Like he don’t shave in three, four days. His eyes were blue, very pale, and funny-looking, like he was on drugs. When he come in the shop I get scared. I think he is a bum, or a thief, yes? He maybe hold me up. But he ask for a dozen red
long-stem Beauties, and he pull out a hundred-dollar bill. So I take the order. He takes paper from his pocket with the name and address.” She turned to Jill. “Yours. He asks for an enclosure card, and I give him one. He takes a pen and writes something, and puts the card in the envelope. I don’t see what he write. He ask me write ‘To Ms. Jillian Talbot, from Nate’ on the envelope, and I do. I give him change. He leave. That’s all.”

Barney came back over. “What happened then?”

“I fill the order and make up the box.”

“And you put it—where?”

She pointed at the shelf next to the door. “There.”

“How long was it there before Niño delivered it?”

“I don’t know, maybe an hour.”

“And in that time were you ever out of this room?”

“No—yes! Yes, I go in back to make a—a cup of tea.”

With a twist, Jill thought.

Barney grunted. “How many times?”

“Cómo—?”

“How many times in that hour did you go in back to make a cup of tea?”

“Once. No, twice. Twice.”

“And at either time did anyone come into the shop?”

Mrs. Sanchez stared at him. Then she sank slowly down onto the chair. “
Dios mío!
I forgot all about it!”

Jill knelt once more before the woman.

“You forgot what?” she whispered.

The woman pointed past Jill’s shoulder at the top of the front door. “The bell. The second time I was in back, I heard the bell. But when I come back through the curtain, nobody is there. I think maybe they start to come in, then change their mind, you know?”

After a moment of silence, Barney said, “Just out of curiosity, did Niño leave with packages to deliver just before the man came into the shop?”

The florist watched him, her eyes widening. Then, apparently speechless, she nodded.

The detective grunted again. “Gave him plenty of time. . . .”

As the two women watched, Barney went out through the door to the street. He turned around and slowly pushed the door partly open. The bell remained silent. Moving carefully, he reached his arms through the door and picked up the nearest box awaiting delivery on the shelf. He pulled the box open as far as its green ribbon would allow and put one large hand in among the stems. Then he closed the box, replaced it on the shelf, and withdrew his arms through the opening. The bell tinkled once as
the door snapped shut. He stood on the sidewalk, looking in at them. He executed a small bow.

The florist buried her face in her hands for a moment. Then she raised her head and looked at Jill.

“I think I’d like a cup of tea,” she said. “A cup of
real
tea.”

Jill grinned at her, murmured her thanks, and hurried out of the shop.

He stood on the other side of Fourteenth Street, watching Jillian Talbot come out of the flower shop to join the detective, Barney Fleck. He wondered what had been said inside; he hadn’t dared to get any closer than this. That detective was no fool.

A chill wind whipped down the wide street, and he huddled in his leather coat. He watched the two take off at a fast pace, heading west, the private eye talking and gesturing with his hands, the woman listening as she struggled to keep up with him.

Keeping distance and crowds between himself and them, he followed.

“He was watching,” Barney said.

“What?”

“He staked out that flower shop. He knew her every move, right down to her frequent trips behind the curtain. How close the boxes were to the door before Niño delivered them. He knew everything.”

“What are you talking about?” Jill stopped, out of breath, and put her hand on Barney’s arm to stop him in his tracks. They stood on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Fourteenth Street, the only stationary objects in the milling throng.

Barney grasped her arms. “Your friend. Valentine. He chose that florist very carefully.”

Jill pulled the tiny envelope from her purse and read the card again. A shaky hand, block capitals, written with Mrs. Sanchez’s blue ballpoint pen.

“Okay,” she conceded. “But she said he has blond hair and a beard. And his eyes were blue. I don’t remember Victor Dimorta very clearly, but I definitely remember dark hair and dark eyes.

Barney rolled his eyes. “My God, Jill, give me fifty bucks and about an hour, and I could pass for an Afro-American. So could you, for that matter. Besides, we don’t know it’s Dimorta.”

She stared at him a moment, aware of the people passing by. She drew closer to whisper. “You’re right. But I want you to check him out anyway.”

“Of course. You just be careful.”

“I will,” she promised him. “Now I have to go make dinner. I have people coming over.”

“Okay. But I’m seeing you home. No arguments.”

Barney stepped out into the street and hailed a cab. Just before she stepped into the car, Jill turned to him again.

“Why a rat?” she asked.

He grimaced. “I don’t know. Unless it was some sort of message. Maybe Valentine thinks you’re a rat.”

She shuddered as he held the door for her.

He watched them go. Then he pulled the crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, the one on which he’d scrawled the name of the bar in Chelsea some four blocks from here, and the name of the man he was to ask for there. He checked his cash: yes, he had enough.

Several times in the past two weeks, after Jillian Talbot was safely in bed for the night, he’d left the little room on Barrow Street and wandered around the Village and Chelsea, stopping at every seedy tavern he found. In each, he would position himself at the end of a bar, nursing beers and listening to the conversations around him. On his fourth expedition, he’d gotten lucky.

He was on his second Budweiser in the dark grotto near the meat-packing district on West Street, just
about to give up and find another likely spot, when the fight had begun. Two big, leather-jacketed men, one white, one Hispanic, had exchanged words. The argument—something about a woman named Rosa—had escalated in volume, and soon every biker, dockworker, and minor felon in the place had gathered around to watch.