Two Much! by Donald E. Westlake Page B

perfect partner for a parlor psychology conversation; it put her right directly to sleep. “Yeah, that’s probably what it means, all right,” she said. “But who I want to be friends with is me. Would you see if you can find Carlos, tell him to make me my usual?”
    I’d been looking for an excuse to go inside, and here it was. “I’ll do it myself,” I said, and absolutely bounded to my feet.
    She squinted up at me in the sunlight. “You know what I drink?”
    Did I? I couldn’t remember if Bart had ever been introduced to Liz’s drinking habits or not “I’m not sure,” I said.
    â€œIt’s an easy formula,” she said. “One glass, one ice cube, vodka to taste.”
    â€œComing up,” I told her, reflecting that Bart was apparently not worth being given the line about a big wet kiss, and hurried inside.
    All right. Many things were lined up against me, including the fact that I didn’t actually have a twin brother, but here and there were some small factors on my side—principally, at this point, the Kerner’s telephone system. Not only were there three separate lines, there were also extensions all over the apartment, including a long-corded one in the living room. Already I had seen Nikki several times carry that phone out to Betty on the terrace to answer an incoming call. So Liz would stay where she was, and there just might be some hope after all.
    The kitchen was empty. The extension there was a white wall phone, and like all the others it had a row of plastic buttons on the bottom for selecting which line you wanted to use. It also had a long cord, so one could tuck the receiver in between ear and shoulder and hold a conversation while walking around.
    Fine. I picked up the receiver, tucked it, and pushed the button for the first line. It immediately lit up, as would the same button on all the other phones in the apartment, showing that this line was in use. Unfortunate, but unavoidable. Quickly I dialed the number for the second line and then, while the phone company did its mumbo, jumbo of clicks and computer notes, I walked across the room to the cabinets and picked out a glass. I was turning toward the refrigerator when simultaneously the receiver said, “Bdrrrrrrrrp,” in my ear and all the phones in the house, including the kitchen phone, said, “Ting-aling-aling.” No, I’m a liar; the phone in Betty’s room would not be saying, “Ting-aling-aling.” At her special desire and request, it would be giving a really sickening birdcall, all tiny whistles and trills. If I was going to live around here very long, I’d have to give that phone poison some day.
    I opened the freezer door and carefully selected an ice cube, and Nikki came bobbling in to answer the phone. “—the sleeves as soon as—Hold on,” I said to the phone, and to Nikki I said, “I’m on the phone to my tailor. Catch that on one of the others, will you?”
    â€œWe,” she said, and headed away again.
    â€œLater,” I told her derrière, and crossed the kitchen again to the cabinet containing the liquor. I got the vodka out, the phone rang a second time, and Nikki answered: “Kairnair rezeedonce.”
    â€œLiz Kerner, please.” I opened the vodka bottle while Nikki told me to please wait on.
    Time passed, click. “Hello?”
    â€œLiz? You’re in town?”
    â€œOh, it’s you,” she said. “Where’d you have lunch—Philadelphia?”
    â€œCopenhagen,” I said, that being the name of a local restaurant. “What are you doing off-island?”
    â€œSlumming. Why don’t you come take me out tonight?”
    Because Betty and I were going to a special honeymoon dinner tonight at The Three Mafiosi, one of New York’s hundred-dollar-a-plate restaurants, that’s why. “I’m afraid I can’t baby,” I said.