Free The Man Who Lived by Night by David Handler

checked out every jukebox within a ten-block radius.”
    “You romantic fool.”
    “You got that half right.”
    “Which half?”
    “Ssh.”
    We swayed slowly, cheek to cheek. She smelled of Crabtree and Evelyn avocado oil soap. Her smell. Also her secret—she won’t tell anyone she bathes in it for fear a beauty magazine will reveal it and she’ll end up smelling like every other woman in America.
    When it was over Nat Cole sang us “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.” Joe Williams did “In the Evening,” Mel Torme “Blue and Sentimental.” It was an uncommon juke.
    “I don’t mean to be indelicate, darling,” Merilee murmured in my ear, “but are you rising to the occasion these days?”
    “Try me.”
    She sighed. “I have.”
    “Try me again.”
    “I’m not so sure.”
    “Then why did you bring it up? So to speak.”
    Her green eyes twinkled. “A gal just likes to know these things.”
    We pulled up at her place on Cromwell Road a little after three. It was hidden from the road. To get there we turned in at a driveway, then passed under an archway, jogged around and found ourselves in a wonderfully private little cobbled mews of precious dolls’ houses. Hers was a cheery blue number with flowers growing in the window boxes. If she had mice they were doubtless singing ones.
    Our tail followed us in, then backed out onto Cromwell Road when he saw we were staying. He was in a taxicab now. Picked us up the second we left the pub.
    We sat there not talking for a while with the engine running and Lulu asleep in her lap.
    I broke the silence. “Going to invite us in?”
    She didn’t answer me right away. When she did she said, “No, I’m not.”
    “Okay.”
    “That’s it? You’re not going to argue with me? Paw me? Pant?”
    “Too old.”
    She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It isn’t simple, darling. There’s Zack …”
    “I know.”
    “There’s also the fact that you and I failed once before, and there’s no reason to believe we’ll do any differently now. I don’t want to live through the same pain all over again. I’m too old, too.”
    “I don’t come with a warranty,” I said. “I’m not a Hyundai Excel.”
    “And I’m not Donna Reed.”
    “Neither was Donna Reed.”
    “Good night, darling.”
    “Sleep tight, Merilee.”
    She woke Lulu up, kissed her on top of the head and got out. I watched her go inside of her house. So did Lulu, who scratched at the window and whimpered. I told her to shut up.
    The taxi was still there, double-parked on Cromwell Road about a hundred feet from the driveway, lights on, engine running. Waiting. There were two people inside of it. One was the driver. I couldn’t tell if the person in back was a man or a woman. Didn’t know what he or she wanted. Sure as hell didn’t feel like finding out just now, either.
    I floored it. Took the first right turn on two wheels, then took a left, then a right. I kept checking the rearview mirror but I really didn’t need to. I’d lost the taxi in two blocks. No way it could stay with the souped-up mini. By the time I reached the A-23 I was the only one on the road. Just me and the fog.
    It was the eleventh consecutive gloomy day since I’d arrived in England, and it suited me just fine.
    A click woke me.
    It was the sound of the door to my suite being closed. From the inside. The floor creaked in the sitting room. Someone was moving around in there in the darkness. Lulu growled softly from her perch atop my head. I muzzled her.
    A match was struck. I could see its wavering yellow glow through the open bedroom door. And hear a shuffling sound—the papers on my desk were being examined. The match went out. More footsteps in the darkness. Closer. Lulu tensed. Another match was struck. The things on my dressing table were being pored over now—the contents of my wallet, my money clip.
    I turned on my bedside lamp. “Can I help?”
    Violet stood at my dressing table. She wore a black Chicago