Free Cold Day in Hell by Richard Hawke Page A

like they were doing, someone tapped her on the shoulder from behind.
    “Hello there.”
    Robin wheeled around. It was Marshall Fox. He offered his hand.
    “The name’s Fox.”
    Robin realized she was blushing mightily. She hoped it didn’t show in the moonlight. Fox made a show of guiding her hand into his and giving it a small squeeze.
    “This is where you tell me
your
name. My name, your name. Then we’ve had what is called a communication.”
    Robin withdrew her hand. “I’m…My name’s Robin Burrell.”
    “It’s good to meet you, Miss Burrell. Though I feel like we’re old friends at this point, don’t you?”
    “I meant to thank you before.” She indicated the patio.
    “Jeremy? Hell, don’t mention it. By tomorrow that gin sponge won’t even remember it happened. He won’t remember a damn thing about the entire party. Which, now that I think of it, might not actually be such a bad thing. Tell me the truth, hasn’t this party been boring the pants off you? I’m dead serious, I can think of three thousand places I’d rather be. I love Gloria and Alan and all that, but this just ain’t really my kind of orgy.”
    “I’ve never been to one of these parties,” Robin stammered.
    “Well, you don’t want to make a habit of it, trust me.”
    “People seem to be enjoying themselves.”
    As if on cue, low moans rose from the couple in the hammock. Fox’s eyebrows rose. “I suppose they are. It’s a regular bunny farm around here, isn’t it? How about you? Are you enjoying yourself?”
    Robin felt the color rising again to her cheeks. “I’m not supposed to enjoy myself,” she said. “I’m the hired help.”
    Fox asked, “So where do you hail from, Miss Burrell?”
    “I’m from Pennsylvania originally. New Hope. But I’ve lived in Manhattan the last six years.”
    “Do tell. What part?”
    “Upper West Side.”
    “Jews and Commies, I know it well. Which are you? Are you a Commie?”
    “Me?” She laughed. “No.”
    “Jew?”
    “I’m a Quaker.”
    “Quaker? Good Lord woman. I love thou people’s oatmeal. Upper West Side, huh? Ever since I hit town I’ve been an Upper East Sider myself, though the fact is I ran away from home a few months ago. Maybe you heard. You probably have. My so-called private life seems to have taken up residence on Page Six these days. Now I guess I’m a Jew
and
a Commie.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Upper West Side. I’m holing up on Central Park West.”
    “I’m on Seventy-first,” Robin said. “About halfway down from the park.”
    “You don’t say.” Fox touched her lightly on the arm. Robin could have sworn she felt a tiny electric shock. “How sweet is this? You’re practically the girl next door. You and I should meet up in the park sometime and walk our dogs together.”
    “I don’t have a dog.”
    Fox made a face. “I thought all of Manhattan’s beautiful women had dogs. We’ll have to do something about that. I’ll tell you what, New Hope. May I call you New Hope?”
    Robin laughed. “If you want.”
    “I want. Listen, New Hope. Maybe I can come by your place sometime and you can take
me
out for a walk. How does that sound? Forget the dog. Walk the Fox. What do you say?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t think you—”
    Fox clapped his hands together. “Good. Excellent. I like this. This is good. You know, I’ve been hanging out with the wrong sort of people long enough. This will be good. So when are you free?”
    “I’m not sure if—”
    “Tuesday?” He put a hand to his ear. “Is that what you said? Good Lord, I’m free Tuesday, too! What are the chances? Now, please don’t go getting yourself another dog between now and then, dear New Hope. I happen to be well trained, but I do still bite. Sometimes. Maybe you can do something about that for me. We’ll have to see.”
    Up on the patio, one of the guests let out a peal of laughter that sounded exactly like that of the Wicked Witch of the West. Fox glanced over his