Free Rubbed Out by Barbara Block

She’s a private person.” Kira clasped the gallon of milk to her breasts as if it were a baby. She searched my face worriedly. “So, is what I told you worth a hundred dollars or not?”
    â€œEnjoy the concert.” I counted out five twenties and put them in her hand. “Where can I get hold of Alima?”
    Kira hesitated. I reached for the money.
    â€œI can always take it back.”
    â€œShe’ll be at Le Bijou tonight around ten.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œI don’t know why I feel so bad,” Kira fretted.
    â€œI don’t either.”
    And I left her with her guilty conscience and went out the door. Flakes of snow drifted down under the lights. Two little children dressed in snowsuits stood with their faces turned up trying to catch snowflakes with their tongues, while their mother loaded groceries into the car. Zsa Zsa did that too. When I got home I’d take her for a walk.
    As I got in my car, I decided it would be interesting to hear what Wilcox had to say about his nineteen-year-old sweetie. And whether there was anything else he’d “forgotten” to tell me. His house wasn’t that far away from Wegman’s. I looked at my watch. It was conceivable he was home by now. I backed out of my parking place and drove over there.
    The lights were on. I parked in the driveway behind his Nissan. He hadn’t shoveled a path to his front door, and his footsteps were clearly visible in the snow. I added mine to his, climbed the two front steps to his porch, and rang the bell. He answered the door with a glass in his hand. He looked surprised to see me.
    â€œThat was fast,” he said. He slurred the words together. I wondered how many drinks he’d already had.
    â€œI have a few more questions. Can I come in?”
    â€œOf course. Mi casa es su casa.” And he bowed.
    The table in the hallway of his house was overflowing with unread mail and newspapers. The strains of opera filled the air. I didn’t know which one because I’ve never liked the stuff myself. I sniffed and caught a faint scent of unemptied kitchen garbage cans.
    â€œYou found something?” he asked, taking another sip from his glass. His jacket was off. I could see he’d added another stain to his tie.
    â€œIn a matter of speaking.” I nodded toward the glass. “After-work cocktail?”
    â€œA Manhattan without the cherry. It’s the cherry that makes the drink, but I seem to have run out. I’ll make you one if you want.”
    I shook my head even though I wanted one. Once I started drinking, I had a tendency to keep going and I still had some things I had to do. It was at least seventy in the house. I took off my parka. Wilcox didn’t offer to hang it up. I suspected his wife had taken care of the social amenities as I threw it on the banister and went into the living room. Wilcox trailed after me.
    The place was a decorator’s dream. Everything in the room had been color-coordinated. The needlepoint pillows on the sofa picked up the pattern in the drapes, which picked up the colors of the pictures on the walls. Even the colors of the picture frames on the fireplace mantel matched.
    â€œJanet spent a long time putting this room together.” Wilcox drained his glass and gestured to the coffee table, which was covered with empty beer and soda bottles, Styrofoam containers, and empty pizza boxes. “We’re not supposed to eat in here. She’d kill me if she saw this. I’m going to clean it up before she gets home.”
    â€œI’m surprised she hasn’t killed you already.”
    He went over to the bar and mixed himself another Manhattan. I noticed his hands were shaking slightly as he put another ice cube in his glass.
    â€œAren’t you going to ask me why?”
    â€œIs something wrong?”
    â€œDoes the name Alima mean something to you?”
    Wilcox took a big swallow of his drink.
    â€œShould