And Michael began wondering how many numbers he could roll before a seven came up and killed them both dead? Michael had never in his life won a nickel in a Saigon gambling house, but he’d kept rolling number after number out there in the jungle, never sevening out while everywhere around him brief good friends were dying.
“Tough point,” he said.
“Very,” Connie said, and smiled. He smiled back.
Harry was whispering to the dice again. This time I buy the farm, Michael thought.
“Sugah, we need a six and a four,” Harry whispered.
It was almost ten o’clock.
On the television set, Andy Williams was saying good night to everyone, wishing everyone in America a Merry Christmas. Michael paid no attention to him. His eyes were on Connie and his six hundred and forty bucks were on the blanket.
“Two fives, baby,” Harry whispered to the dice, and shook them gently in his fist, and opened his hand and said, “Ten the hard way, sugah,” and the dice rolled out and away toward the wall.
On the television screen, the news came on. The headline story was a bombing in Dublin, but no one was listening to it.
One of the dice bounced off the wall.
A three.
The second die hit the wall.
Bounced off it.
A four.
Shit, Michael thought, there goes my taxi.
“In downtown Manhattan tonight,” the male anchor said, “motion-picture director Arthur Crandall …”
Michael looked up at the screen. “… was found shot to death in a rented automobile. Police report finding a wallet in the car, possibly dropped by Crandall’s murderer. It contained …”
Everyone around the blanket was looking up at the screen.
“… sixty-three dollars in cash, several credit cards, and a driver’s license identifying …”
“Good night,” Michael said, “thank you,” and began walking toward the door across the room.
“… a man named Michael Barnes, who the Hertz company confirms rented the car at Kennedy last Fri …”
Michael closed the door behind him.
The same man was still behind the stainless steel table, stuffing fortune cookies.
“Have a nice holiday,” Michael said.
“The down of white geese shall float upon your dreams,” the man said.
The door opened again.
“Wait for me,” Connie said.
It had stopped snowing.
She was wearing a short black coat over the green dress. The red rose was still in her hair. Black coat, black hair, green dress and shoes, red rose—all against a background of white on white. The silent night Andy Williams had promised. Still and white, except for the flatness of the black and the sheen of the green and the shriek of the red in her hair.
“You’ve got trouble, huh?” she said.
He debated lying.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ve got trouble.”
Their breaths pluming on the frosty air.
“Come on,” she said, “I’ve got a limo around the corner.”
He thought that was pretty fortunate, a rich Chinese girl with a chauffeured limo to take her hither and yon in the city. He didn’t want to go anywhere in this city but out of it. Straight to Kennedy, where he would catch his plane to Boston and Mama, or else try to get a plane to Florida. Get out of this rotten apple as soon as possible, call his lawyer the minute he landed someplace. Dave, they are saying I murdered somebody in New York, Dave. What should I do?
Hushed footfalls on the fresh snow. Everything looking so goddamn beautiful. But they were saying he’d killed somebody.
The limousine was parked outside a Chinese restaurant on Elizabeth Street. Long and black and sleek, it looked like a Russian submarine that had surfaced somewhere on an Arctic glacier. There were Christmas decorations in both front windows of the restaurant, all red and green and tinselly. The building up the street seemed decorated for Christmas, too, with green globes flanking the—
“Hey,” Michael said, “that’s a …”
“I know,” Connie said, “the Fifth Precinct. Don’t worry about it. Just get in the back of the car the minute I unlock it.”
She hurried ahead of him on the sidewalk, struggling through the thick snow in her high-heeled pumps while up the street a Salvation Army band played “Adeste Fideles,” and a man with a microphone pleaded with passersby to be generous. It was a little past ten-fifteen by Michael’s watch, but the streets here in Chinatown were still crowded with Christmas Eve shoppers. He watched Connie as she stepped off the curb, walked around to the driver’s side of the car, and inserted a key in the lock. She opened the door, nodded to him, and immediately got into the car. He came up the street swiftly, stopped at the back door on the curb side, opened it. He got in at once, closed the door behind him, and said, “Where’s the chauffeur?”
“I’m the chauffeur,” she said.
“This is your car?”
“No, it’s a China Doll car.” She turned on the seat, looking back at him.
“China Doll Executive Limousine Service,” she explained. “I’m one of the drivers.” To emphasize the point, she settled a little peaked chauffeur’s hat on her head. The rose seemed suddenly incongruous. She handed him a card. Everyone in this city had a card. The card read:
CHINA DOLL
EXECUTIVE LIMOUSINE SERVICE