Free Single White Female by John Lutz Page B

alone!
    She remembered the phone call she’d received earlier, the man who’d hung up on her. Might both callers have been the same person? It was possible, but she knew the odds didn’t necessarily favor it. The city was full of sick people who regarded telephones as a means of erotic stimulation, Allie told herself. Any single woman in this city could expect that sort of phone call now and then. It was as much a part of life in Manhattan as being approached by panhandlers or getting cursed at by cabbies.
    Yet there was a familiarity about both calls that chilled her. The man—or men—had used her name. Casually called her “Allie.” Not “Allison”—“Allie.” Old chums. More than chums.
    She grimaced and wiped her hand on her skirt, as if contact with the phone had soiled it.
    Jones was such a common surname that she’d used her first name in the phone directory instead of merely her initial, as was the custom of most single women who wanted or needed to be listed. Allie had been uneasy about it at the time, and would have preferred an unlisted number precisely so she could avoid the kind of sick and random call she’d just received. But because of her business she needed to be accessible. An unlisted number might cost her accounts and income. She couldn’t afford it.
    Returning to stand before her mirror, she told herself whoever had phoned almost certainly wouldn’t call again. Probably a sicko hunched over a public phone and running his finger down the directory pages, calling whichever female names appealed to his perverted sexuality. Maybe right now he was making the same kinky suggestions to some woman whose name began with K , a woman he’d never met. No need to worry about a sorry individual like that, whose sex life depended on Ma Bell. Allie made herself smile out at the world from the mirror. A philosophical, confident smile.
    But as she attempted again to work the earring post through her earlobe, her hand trembled so that it was almost impossible to do.

13
    Other than a massive Hispanic youth in shorts and a black muscle shirt, Allie was the only customer in Goya’s. Apparently the restaurant didn’t do much morning business. On the other hand it was past nine o’clock; she’d slept late, then decided to eat a quick breakfast out before her appointment at Fortune Fashions with Mayfair’s secretary. She’d pushed the obscene phone call as far from her thoughts as possible.
    Goya’s was cool. The air conditioner and ceiling fans were toiling away despite the briskness of the morning. The young guy in the shorts and sleeveless shirt ought to be shivering instead of sitting there calmly sipping what looked like a Pepsi and gazing out the window. His leather jacket was slung over the back of the chair next to him.
    Graham Knox, the skinny waiter with the jug ears and bushy black hair, took Allie’s order, then returned a few minutes later with her bagel with cream cheese and coffee. He seemed to be fighting back a grin as he placed the order before her on the table. Good cheer was like pressure beneath the skin of his face.
    He began to walk away, hesitated, then turned back. A neat pivot. He said, “I know simply being your neighbor gives me no claim on your time, but . . . well, I’ve gotten some good news and I guess I just have to share it with somebody. Business is slow and you’re here and we are neighbors, so you’re it, Allie. You mind?”
    Allie set the bagel back on its plain white plate. What was this about? Had Graham hit the lottery? “I don’t mind at all. I like hearing good news, even somebody else’s.” She smiled, which Graham took as a signal to put on his lopsided grin. He looked like an amiable puppy when he did that. Allie liked this sincere and friendly man with the protruding ears and intent dark eyes.
    He did an embarrassed little dance. “It happens I’m a playwright, and I’ve been working on a script for over a year. Way over a year, actually. And