I jerked my head toward the door and started out. She followed me. We walked across the lobby and into the cocktail lounge. There was a bar with stools along the left wall. In the rest of the room were couches and easy chairs grouped around low cocktail tables. We got a grouping for two in a corner near the big windows that opened out onto the courtyard. In the summer there were umbrellas out there and tables and jazz concerts on Wednesday nights. Now there was a huge Christmas tree and the residue of vigorously removed snow. People walking from the shops to the hotel hunched stiffly against the cold.
The waitress came by. Jill ordered a double vodka martini. I had a beer. When she came back with the drinks she brought two dishes of smoked almonds. I nodded toward the bartender. He nodded back and gave me a thumbs-up gesture.
Why two? Jill said.
Bartender knows me, I said and took a handful of nuts. Jill took a long pull on her martini. She looked at my glass.
Beer? she said.
Very good, I said.
You dont have to be a wise guy, she said. Her eyes were only a touch red now, and her make-up was all back in place. Her eyes were the color of cornflowers.
I know, I said. I do it voluntarily.
She drank another third of her martini and with only a third left her eyes already began to flick about looking for the waitress.
Aside from the doll hanging, I said, what instances have there been of harassment?
She drank the rest of her martini, and again her eyes flicked around the room. I looked over at the bartender, who saw me and nodded. Jill shook a cigarette from the pack shed placed on the table and put it in her mouth and leaned toward me. There were matches
in the ashtray. I lit her cigarette, blew out the match and put it in the ashtray. I put the book of matches beside her cigarettes.
What instances of harassment have there been? I said. When interrogating a suspect, cleverly rephrasing the question is often effective.
I think this is harassment, Jill said, her eyes searching for the waitress. We have a nice evening together and you just want to talk about icky business.
Icky business is my profession, I said. Tell me about the harassment.
The waitress arrived with another double martini. Jill said, Ah.
The waitress looked at my beer, saw that it was nearly untouched, and went away. Jill dipped right in. I waited. Jill looked at me with her lovely innocent cornflower-blue eyes. I crossed my legs and tossed my foot a little to pass the time.
Phone calls, Jill said. Mostly phone calls.
From a man?
Yes. There was surprise in Jills voice, as if only men would ever call her.
Whered the calls come?
You mean where did I get them?
Un huh.
On the phone in my mobile home. Here, at the hotel.
Theres been enough press about this show so that anyone would know you were staying here. How about the mobile home. How would he get that number?
I dont know. How, for Christs sake, would I know?
Is it listed?
She shook her head in disgust and flapped her hands in front of her, the cigarette smoking in her right one.
Spenser, I dont know about stuff like that. I dont know if its listed or not. Some gopher takes care of that. Ask Sandy, or the UPM.
UPM?
Unit production manager, for Gods sake. Why didnt they get somebody who at least knows something about the business.
Whats the name of the unit production manager?
Bob, Jill said. She was well into the second double martini.
Bob what? I said.
Jill flapped her hands again and shook her head. You think I memorize lists of names? I have to memorize sixty pages of dialogue every week. I dont have time to get chummy with every member of the office staff.
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, I said.
Wheres that from? Jill said.
Some play, I said. What did this caller say when he called?
Different stuff. Sex stuff, mostly.
Like what? I said.
That a turn-on for you? Jill said. Having me talk about it?
Sure is, I said. This whole conversation is more exciting than dinner with Jesse Helms.
Jill frowned beautifully, a lovely vertical frown line appearing briefly between her eyebrows and smoothing out at once.
Whoever he is, she said. Mostly this guy told me what hed like to do to me when he got me alone.
Abusive? I said.
She was sipping her martini now; apparently the edge of need had softened.
Actually, she said, no. It wasnt, it was more, you know, ah, romantic.
Romantic?
Yeah, lovey-dovey. Except he used all the dirty words. But he used them, like, romantically.
I nodded.
And you dont, I suppose, have even a guess as to who he might be? I said.
If I did, you think I wouldnt have already told you? What kind of dumb jerk question is that?
The kind if you dont ask, you feel like a fool when it comes out that you should have asked.
No, I dont know the guy. I dont recognize his voice. I dont have any idea who he is.
Any letters?
She shook her head. The martini was gone. She gestured at the waitress.
No.
Get any recordings of his calls?
No.