He didn’t like it, not for any special reason, just because he didn’t like me moving so far from his orbit. It’s not so much that he wants to control me, I’ve realized recently, but because he needs the reassurance of being able to touch me. He finally agreed to my program, on the grounds that I call him—“Regularly, doll, not just once a week when the spirit moves you”—and only hung up when I promised.

My sandwich and coffee were waiting for me, but I looked up Tonia Coriolano in the directory. While my coffee cooled she apologized profusely, but she had no vacancy. Normally to oblige a friend of a lodger she might allow them to sleep a night on the living room couch, but even that was occupied right now.

Lisa waved an arm at me and gestured at my table. I nodded. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I looked up Mrs. Polter and didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed to find her listed.

She answered on the ninth ring. “Yes? What do you want?”

“A room, Mrs. Polter. I’m V. I. Warshawski, the detective who’s been around lately. I need a place to sleep for a few nights.”

She gave a rasping laugh. “Men only in my house, honey. Except for me, of course, but I can take care of myself.”

“I can take care of myself, too, Mrs. Polter. I’d bring my own towels. It’d be for three nights at the most. And believe me, none of your lodgers will bother me.”

“Yeah, but what about—ah, what the hell. You paid for the old guy’s room and he never used it. I guess you can sleep there if you want. No more than two nights, though, you hear? I got my reputation to think about.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said smartly. “I’ll be by around ten-thirty to leave my things and get a key.”

“Ten-thirty? What do you think this is, the Ritz? I close up shop—” Again she cut herself off. “Oh, what difference does it make? I usually stay up until one in the morning looking at the damned tube, anyway. Come on by.”

When I got back to my table, Lisa brought me fresh coffee. It pays to be a regular.

31

Creeping Up on a Plant

I walked up the dark, narrow staircase behind Mrs. Polter, my feet tripping on the torn linoleum. In deference to the remembered smell I’d brought my own sheets as well as towels, but memory couldn’t compete with the reality of grease and stale sweat. A cheap motel would have been ten times cleaner and more private.

Mrs. Polter’s arms brushed the walls of the stairwell. She stopped frequently to catch her breath. After bumping into her bulk on her first rest I kept a good three steps between us.