Kiss of Death

I’D MADE AN appointment with a woman on West 190th Street for seven o’clock this morning. I couldn’t show up an hour early, so I found a diner in the neighborhood and ordered breakfast.

A middle-aged waitress with dyed platinum hair and lipstick that reached beyond the natural shape of her mouth didn’t want to serve me coffee.

Something in my caffeine-deprived attitude told her not to mess with me this morning. She poured from the “strong-stuff ” urn, and I ordered orange juice, scrambled eggs, and crisp bacon.

Having triumphed in the caffeine battle, I agreed to have the fruit with my eggs. Smirking like a winner, she headed for the kitchen to place my order.

Because I’d never been pregnant, it hadn’t occurred to me before, but now I wondered about something. How did the millions and millions of people whose mothers smoked cigarettes and drank alcohol, whose mothers ate fried potatoes instead of fresh fruit, who drank coffee and water that wasn’t bottled—or, heaven help them, drank water that came from a tap—how did all of those people grow up to be healthy and productive? And how did generations before our current age of enlightenment survive while breathing in secondhand smoke and eating red meat and white sugar?

The waitress brought my breakfast, and it was very good. She even refilled my coffee cup—after I’d asked her twice.

AT EXACTLY SEVEN A.M., I stood at the entrance to an apartment building on West 190th Street and pressed the bell button next to the name “Harrison.”

“Oh, yes. It’s the second one past the fire hydrant—the gray Buick Skylark. Take a look. I’ll be right down.”

The ad in the paper had said the car was a 1998. I couldn’t tell one year from another, but it didn’t matter. The paint on the car was a bit faded, there were a few little nicks and scratches but no distinctive marks that might cause someone to remember it. I examined the tires. The tread on them was worn, but the tires weren’t bald. They would serve me well enough for as long as I needed them.

“What do you think?” The woman had come up behind me while I was running my fingers over the surface of the tires.

“Hi, I’m Adele Harrison.” She was in her fifties, with a narrow frame and a head that was a little large for her body. Her brown hair was cut short and shot through with gray. Her complexion was pitted with old acne scars, but her eyes were lovely: large and pale blue, with naturally thick lashes.

“It was my husband’s. He passed away last year. I wanted to keep it, but I just can’t afford the insurance any longer. It’s in good condition.”

“Seventy-nine thousand and something. My husband worked in New Jersey and drove it to and from work. He bought it new, and said it was the most reliable car he’d ever had.” Her voice full of sarcasm, she added, “When they stopped making Skylarks, he said it was because they were too good, that people kept them longer than the car people wanted.”

I nodded as a signal of shared irritation. “It’s like lipstick. As soon as I find a shade I like, they stop making it.”

Adele Harrison took a key from her pocket and unlocked the driver’s side. She flipped the button that unlocked the other doors. “Get in,” she said, as she walked around to the passenger side. “You can see how it drives.”

I piloted the Skylark up one street and down another without detecting any problems. It was a simple basic car, and operated smoothly.

When we got back to her apartment house, we saw that her old parking spot had been claimed by a new Honda. I eased the Buick into the space in front of the fire hydrant.

“Well . . . my brother said it was worth six thousand dollars . . .” She stated this so hesitantly, I was sure she didn’t believe what she was saying, but instead was trying to trick me into paying an inflated price.

According to the used car ads, other vehicles of this age and type, with lower mileage, were being offered at four thousand, sometimes less. I was willing to let her think she was taking advantage of me, because I didn’t want the paperwork trail there would be if I went to a dealer.

Although I was prepared to overpay, I didn’t want to raise her suspicions by seeming too eager. “That’s a little higher than I’d hoped.” I heaved a sigh of regret.

An instant smile lighted her face. “Okay. If that’s all you’ve got, I’ll let you have it for fifty-eight hundred, in cash.”

Adele Harrison pulled the key out of the ignition and practically leaped out of the passenger seat. “The pink slip is upstairs—I’ll go get it.” Her greed apparently blinded her to the possibility that I might have an ulterior motive for overpaying.

I took fifty-eight hundred dollars out of my wallet. When she returned, I counted the money into her hand. She gave me the key to the Skylark and turned over the pink slip.

“I signed on the back,” she said, showing me that she’d transferred ownership. “I’m going to cancel the insurance this morning so I don’t have to keep paying.”

Now that she had the money I’m sure she didn’t care what I did. For the sake of the charade, I assured her that I would register the car in my name and buy my own insurance right away.

I had been ready for that question ever since I decided on this phony pregnancy disguise. “Late August.” To be polite, I added, “Do you have children?”

“Two. They’re both grown. Enjoy them while they’re little—you never know how they’ll turn out.” Her voice held a note of melancholy.

After filling the Skylark’s gas tank, I headed south toward the George Washington Bridge, to begin my 445-mile trip to Belle Valley. Unless the car broke down, I’d be there by late this afternoon.

I wasn’t worried that either Adele Harrison or the waitress in the coffee shop would remember me, because by late tonight, “Charlotte Brown” would cease to exist.