Urge to Kill by John Lutz

me.”
    “Gonna open the door so I can deliver these, get you to sign for them?”
    “Who are they from?”
    “I don’t know.” He opened the box and held it so she could see inside. Pink roses. Lush and beautiful against soft white tissue. A dozen of them. “There’s a card, but it’s inside an envelope.” He shifted his weight and glanced at his watch. “Listen, lady, I don’t blame you for being scared. Hasn’t been that long ago a white florist’s box meant a dangerous killer to most of the women in New York. But I ain’t no serial killer. This is on the level, and I’ve got lots more deliveries.”
    “Of course. Just a minute.” She closed the door, then went to where she kept tip money in the kitchen and got two one-dollar bills. She went back to the door and removed the chain, then opened the door.
    These are from him. They must be!
    She accepted the flowers and tipped the deliveryman, who gave her another smile and left, his descending footfalls clattering on the wooden stairs. As she closed and relocked her apartment door, she heard the street door down below
whoosh
open, then close.
    After laying the box on the kitchen table, she opened it and fumbled to remove the small white envelope attached to a stem with a white ribbon tied in a bow. She opened the unsealed flap and withdrew the stiff white card, holding it to the light so she could make out the handwriting in dark blue ink.
     
Sorry I had to leave early.

Last night was too wonderful

not to repeat. I’ll call you soon

to see if you agree.
     
    There was no signature.
    A weight lifted from Hettie, and her headache magically disappeared. She still didn’t know his name, but he’d call, surely, or he wouldn’t have bothered sending flowers. Maybe he was married. Wanted by the police. On the run from the Mafia. She didn’t care. She’d be waiting for him with open arms, not to mention legs.
    Don’t think that way, whore.
    But she was grinning, immune from insults even from herself.
    She found a tall glass vase for the flowers, and after arranging them, hastily placed them in the center of the small Formica table. Then she put some coffee on to brew and plodded back toward the bathroom to shower.
    The needles of warm water on her breasts rekindled her desire.
    Of course it would be nice if she had his name, but you took what you could get in this mixed-up and too-often-disappointing world. He’d already revealed so much of himself to her that eventually he’d tell her his name. She could wait. Hettie was patient, and maybe on the very edge of a love affair like none she’d ever known.
     
     
     

18
     
     
    The late-morning sun beat down on Queens from a cloudless sky, shortening tempers as well as stark shadows. Already the temperature was almost ninety. As she drove, Pearl watched the people on the littered sidewalks, reading their faces and body language. Some of them trudged along looking beaten and resigned. Others scowled and swaggered, with fixed glares suggesting they were near the breaking point. Heat and the city.
    Pearl was driving a dusty black four-door Ford. To anyone with a knowing eye it was obviously a city car.
    A middle-aged man with a stomach paunch straining the silky material of a blindingly violet shirt glanced over at her from the sidewalk and frowned.
What the hell are you doing here, in my neighborhood?
Pearl gave him her dead-eyed look, but he continued to stare, unimpressed, as he absently unwrapped a piece of candy or stick of gum and tossed the wrapper on the sidewalk. That irritated Pearl. She considered stopping the car and bracing the arrogant bastard for littering. And that shirt must be in violation of some ordinance.
    Forget it. Bigger fish to fry.
    She turned up the blower on the car’s air conditioner and made a left turn. In the rearview mirror she caught a glimpse of the guy in the luminescent shirt standing and staring at her with his fists on his hips.
Prick.
    Pearl pulled the car to the curb