Quarrel with the Moon Read Free Page B

building was 18 stories high and occupied one-quarter of a block. It had a shabby grandeur and had only survived because it had been proclaimed a landmark (albeit minor) by the City of New York. A pair of winged gargoyles stood sentinel at the entranceway. Perhaps they were guarding the aged doorman who slept inside on a once-elegant, rococo chaise.
    For once Josh was pleased that the doorman was not alert and fulfilling his duties. He continued sleeping soundly as his tenant, escorted by the two policemen, walked across the marble tiles to the elevators beyond. They stepped inside and the gilded birdcage of an elevator noisily began its ascent. Josh glanced nervously at the policemen, hoping that would change their minds about escorting him to the door, but they ignored his silent entreaties.
    The elevator jolted to a stop and the men stepped off. There were two apartments on the penthouse floor, and the hallway was in much better condition than the lobby of the building. Josh and the other penthouse occupant had chipped in to have the walls repainted and the floor recarpeted. They had purchased Victorian brass ceiling fixtures and mirrors in ornate frames for decoration. As Josh was fumbling with the three different keys which it took to gain access to the apartment, the door opened.
    The police, startled, took a step backwards. Cresta Farraday was an astonishing-looking young woman. A model by profession and a very successful one, she was five feet, ten inches tall. Her bright hair hung around her face like a hood of silver-gold cloth. Her eyes were huge and a brilliant green, but smoldering rather than cold, like emeralds on fire. Her nose was narrow and had an insouciant tilt at the tip. In contrast, her mouth was broad and her lips full and sensuous. Perhaps her skin was her most arresting feature. It was golden and made her appear as if her veins ran with honey.
    Cresta was dressed in a white satin gown cut on the bias which she had obviously worn for the evening, for now it was wrinkled. Her face showed anger, worry and something else. Perhaps weariness of a situation which had occurred before.
    Cresta flashed her eyes, first at Josh, then at the policemen. "Josh, what's this? What have you done?"
    Bullins was the first to regain his composure. Officer McCafferty, his mouth hanging open like an unclosed drawer, continued to gape. "Ma'am, is this Joshua Allen Holman, and does he live here at 200 West Seventy-Seventh Street?"
    "Well, yes," she replied, her voice rising. "What has he done?"
    "Nothing, ma'am. He just ... lost his way."
    "And his shoes," McCafferty added with a grin.
    Cresta looked down at her lover's feet. "Were you robbed, Josh?"
    Josh uncomfortably shifted his weight and replied in a barely audible voice. "I was running in the park."
    "Running in the park!" Cresta exploded. "For Christ's sake, now I've heard it all!"
    Embarrassed, the cops look another step backwards. "Well, ma'am, we have to go now. We just wanted to see him home safe."
    "Thanks, officers." Cresta replied vaguely. Then Josh stepped inside and she slammed the door.
    While they were waiting for the elevator, Officer McCafferty remarked, "I don't know why he'd want to go running with something like that waiting at home, do you?"
    Bullins shook his head. "Well now, Mike, I've never claimed to understand people and their relationships."
    Inside the apartment, Josh made his way down the long hall and turned to the kitchen. He threw off his jacket and went to the refrigerator. His mouth was dry and he wanted a beer. He opened one and was drinking it when Cresta entered.
    "Haven't you had enough alcohol for one night?" she asked with a sharp edge to her voice.
    He swung around. "Why don't you just go to bed, Cresta?"
    "No. No, I'm not going to bed. I want to fight!" She ran at him and began beating her fists against his chest. "Damn you! Damn you to hell!" Josh pushed her away, and her pent-up tears burst forth. "I've been up half the night