Over My Live Body (15 page)

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Authors: Susan Israel

BOOK: Over My Live Body
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“What’s up?”

I glance up at Louise. She takes the hint and goes over to the coffee station. I tell him about the call I got from Curtis and the news report about Majesty Moore and the mysterious
display items
that I heard about
right after
the call from Curtis. “I called the Sixth and talked to some Sauer-puss who was just
tremen
dously unhelpful. I called back this morning, but Rubenstein was out sick. So I guess that means
you
won’t be able to talk to him about what happened last night…right?”


I
can get through to him,” he assures me. “I already spoke to the desk sergeant. Your
ex
, it turns out, wasn’t able to ID any of the pictures they showed him there; nothing came close to the drawing
you
did. I tried calling him too
,”
he says, “It seems he didn’t show up for work today and there was no answer at his place. Have you heard from…”

“No, thank God, and I hope I don’t
!

“Morgan?”

I look upward. “This hasn’t got anything to do with Morgan. This has to do with
me
. I called everyone you told me to call and nobody was able or willing to help me and now
you’re asking me, have I heard from
Mor
gan? Well, I’m scared shitless, Detective Quick, and it’s
not
Morgan I’m scared of. I’m scared
for
him, but not of him. Your investigation must really be going nowhere if you’re still after Morgan. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Meanwhile, whoever
did
kill Vittorio is still out there and so is Ivan. So is Curtis, and I’m scared.”

“I ran a first-name last-name computer check on Curtis and all I found out so far is that there are a
lot
of Curtises out there. We’ll see if we can narrow down the list of those with priors who match up with his description and MO. Maybe we can come up with an outstanding warrant on him too, but I have to warn you, with what little we have to go on, all of this is a long shot. We don’t even know if his name, first
or
last, actually
is
Curtis. He may be using an alias. I should have the drawing you did dropped off to me by four. I ordered that a copy of it and a description of him be sent to the CATCH unit uptown. They may be able to match it up to a picture there, ID him
that
way.” He pauses. “I’m doing what I
can
, but…”

“I’m
not
worried for nothing.”

“No,” he says, “I don’t think you are. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have some information. Are you going to be there all day?”

“Until later this afternoon.”

“Then you’ll be home?”

“No. Working uptown.” For Heidi Obermeyer’s class no less, an experience to be enjoyed under normal circumstances. Thinking of how Quick would react to my portraying a Biblical Delilah makes me blush. “Over on East Twenty-first…”

“You should be all right there,” he reassures me in an In The Know tone. “Just remember what I told you about keeping the windows covered so nobody can see in.
Insist
on it.”

“How long before this…catch unit gets back to you?” I’m picturing a line-up of cops wearing protective masks and oversized mitts crouching in wait for something big to come their way.

“It depends,” he says. “I hope I’ll be able to find out something before my tour ends tonight, but sometimes it can take days and we don’t know yet if there’s anything in their database on him
to
find out.”

“Where are you?” I’ve been talking to him so much lately that I feel he’s in the same room with me even when he isn’t.
Like last night.
I blush again. “I mean, how do I get in touch with you if I
need
to?”

“I’m in Manhattan,” he says, a signal for me to forget about 718 for now, but not much else; he could be
any
where. He could have been at the pay phone on the corner of Fifth Avenue
all this time,
waiting for me to hang up, giving me time to go to my studio before he storms in here to take Morgan in for more questioning. I can only hope
he’s
the one who’ll be asking the questions, if and when it comes to that.

“I’ll be in the clay studio,” I tell Louise, “but if anyone
else
should ask, you haven’t seen me.”

Louise nods. “Right.”

I look over my shoulder, wondering who
has
seen me. Most of the time I was with Morgan I was off guard, looking at him, not for who else might be around, who might be lurking in doorways, following us here. The only person I anticipated seeing was Quick, and just the
thought
of him being here chased all the bad guys out of my subconscious.

Nobody is in the studio. Nobody is there to see me pick up a spare fettling knife, zig-zag saw and sabre saw and drop them in my roomy side pocket. They have light wooden handles, and under normal circumstances, when my hands aren’t sweating and shaking, they’re easy to hold. The test will be if I can keep my hand steady enough to use them if somebody should suddenly lunge at me.
Just tools of my trade
, I can say in my defense,
I’m a sculptor
. Before getting to work on my clay figures, I scoop up a cut-out tool sheathed in what looks like a test tube and drop
that
in my pocket too.
Just in case
.

26

I don’t know what kind of progress Quick is making with his investigations. It’s after three p.m. and the only dents I’ve made in my sculpture are a few shallow impressions with a mold knife. I don’t trust myself to be able to cut any deeper. I may need to deploy that energy later, out on the street. I reach into my pocket and reassure myself that the small bulge that the sculpting tools make next to my right thigh doesn’t look suspicious. When I walk, they sound like lipstick cases lightly clicking against each other, not overly metallic.

Nobody is sitting behind the reception desk when I leave. As I walk down Eighth Street, I practice reaching for and letting go of those light wooden handles, stopping only when I pass two uniformed cops standing in front of the Astor Place subway entrance. I feel their eyes trailing me as I walk on toward Third Avenue. I feel like I might as well be carrying a loaded .38, like those things jiggling against my hip are bullets.
Potentially dangerous weapons
is what they are.
I jam my hands deep into my pockets and pick up my pace. I look over my shoulder only after I get across the street and see them still at their post, blatantly checking out the shapely little ass of a girl with spiked green hair. I take a deep breath and strut the rest of the way to the bus stop. While I wait for the M102, I feel the point of a blade lightly prick my thigh through the layer of scrubbed denim. A blue-and-white whizzes by, its siren screaming, and I turn to the right to hide my cache as if
that’s
what the fuss is all about. When I turn back to my left, a M102 heralds its arrival with a loud hiss. I step aside to wait for the door to open and glance to my left and gasp.

There’s Curtis behind the tinted glass of the bookstore entrance watching me, waiting for me to get on this bus so he can get on too, so he can follow me to my destination, so he can–
God, what does he intend to do to me
? My hands grip the handles of the sculpting tools in my pocket. I feel like I’m traveling blind, not able to see which tool is which, not able to know which one will do the most harm. My first choice would be to go for his eyes with the zig zag saw, if I could keep
my
eyes open long enough to do the deed.
So he can’t see what he’s coming after.
But chances are I’d only have one shot at one eye, and unless he’s already blind in the other, that’s not going to be much help. The fettling knife or sabre saw could draw blood;
just how much
hinges on how much of a chance I have to strike before he springs on me. The cut-out tool, pointed at
just
the right place, could puncture an artery.

“You getting on this bus or ain’t ya?” the driver snarls at me.

“No, no…sorry,” I back away from the stairs and wave the bus away. I start walking north up Third Avenue, then spin around like I’m spotting a dancing step. As expected, Curtis barges out of the bookstore once I’ve gained about a half block on him. My hand grips the handle of one of the tools so hard that my knuckles throb.
I don’t know what I’m dealing with here
. I don’t see any uniforms on the street now. I wish to hell I did. It’s the beginning of rush hour and I just passed up the last non-rush-hour bus and I’m sure going to be late getting to this class.
If I get there at all
.

I run up Third Avenue gasping for breath, looking over my shoulder to see how fast Curtis is catching up to me. I track his distorted reflection as it bobs from window to window, coming closer. Nobody pays any attention except when I bump into them. “Hey, look where you’re…”

A gaggle of gum-chewing girls glare at me. I dart around them and trip on the curb and into the street. A taxi careens around the corner, brakes screeching. The driver screams something that sounds like “Bint!”, whatever
that
means, and babbles on incomprehensibly when the cab stalls, blocking eastbound traffic. I don’t dare look back until I get across the street. A clot of people at the curb momentarily blocks movement around the stalled taxi. I’ve lost sight of Curtis. Big blob that he is, I doubt that he can squeeze through, but I keep moving, just in case, my fingertips still brushing against the light wooden handles in my pocket. I take a time out before the next cross street to catch my breath and spot Curtis’ stained Browns parka reflected in the window of a greengrocer halfway down the block. The light is with me this time, and I run the full length of the next block, bumping into more people, not looking back at all until I reach the curb and stop to catch my breath.

He’s gaining on me.

Maybe he once played for a team called the Browns or he’s a wannabe on that score too. I’ve underestimated his athletic prowess; this man can
move
. I sprint across East Thirteenth Street. in the path of another approaching taxi. Brakes shriek. I can’t make out what
this
driver calls me. In an effort to avoid me, he erringly swerves toward me and his dented fender scrapes against my leg before I can make it all the way across. Another fever pitch of horns echoes behind me. I hear the crunch of metal hitting metal. More horns.


Stop
her!”

I don’t know who’s doing the shouting and I’m not turning back to look because I can tell by the diction it’s not the cabby who’s in close pursuit, who I need to trip up. My leg smarts where the cab hit me. I can imagine the bruise in the making. What I need is some ice. And there it is, right on cue, right in front of me, a greengrocer’s fruit stand packed with ice, perfect little uniform cubes crammed around plastic cups filled with fruit cocktail. I scoop up a handful as if I’m going to press it against my throbbing calf and cup my hands in a funnel. The ice slithers through and out on the sidewalk in Curtis’ anticipated path. I grab more ice and start throwing it, one handful after the other, creating a hailstorm underfoot. Passers-by rush around the squall. Some look at me warily; some don’t dare.
It’s not me that you need to worry about
, I want to scream,
it’s him
. I see another M102 bus approaching the corner.
This is it, my only chance, I’ve got to get on that bus now
. I take a deep breath and the biggest armful of ice I can grab and heave it in front of me just before my retreat. Grapes and giant chunks of chilled pineapple fly through the air too. For added insurance, I grab a banana propped on the other side of the stand, quickly strip its peel, and toss it as Curtis comes closer. He starts to skid. I don’t wait for him to fall. I scamper to the curb and jump on the first stair of the bus just as the door starts to hiss and closes behind me.

“You crazy, girl,” the bus driver admonishes me. “You know that?” By talking to me like this, I know he knows that I’m not crazy enough to take a weapon out of my pocket and start slashing at him.
Not that I couldn’t if I wanted to.
Maybe my behavior reminds him of something he’s familiar with, a victim he knows. A sister. A wife.

The passengers avert their eyes, looking every which way but at me, like I’m not there. The driver looks at me nervously until I drop the exact change in the coin box, then figuring a fare is a fare, he directs his attention to the traffic ahead and ignores Curtis’ dirty scraped knuckles banging on the door. The Korean grocer is there now too, waving his fists as the bus cuts away into the next lane.

“Thanks,” I tell the driver. He ignores me. I edge away from the front of the bus and slide into an unoccupied handicapped seat, grimacing enough to make it seem legit.
My calf really could have used some of that ice.
Even if Curtis waits to board the next uptown bus, it’s rush hour and the M102 makes limited stops during rush hours. My eyes skim street signs as they flash by so I can get off before the bus overshoots my stop. I don’t want to have to do much backtracking. When the bus whizzes by East Twentieth Street, I get up and hover near the stairs just as it swerves to a stop at Twenty-Third. I wait until the door opens with a hydraulic wheeze and jump off, then turn to the bus driver to thank him one more time; he continues to stare straight ahead and the words get caught in my throat. I cough as the departing bus discharges exhaust in my face and back off, batting away the noxious fumes with both hands. I spin around and walk back toward the building on East Twenty-First where Heidi Obermeyer and her students are expecting me, where for two hours I can safely strip myself of my clothes and my defenses.

I’m already starting to unbutton my coverall as I walk into the studio, ready to mumble an apology for being late. My fingers yank off a button when I see Heidi Obermeyer in front of the window wearing a black vinyl peek-a-boo get-up that so cleaves to her that it makes her look like she’s wrapped in cellophane. These students, given a choice, would probably
much
rather draw
her
.

“You’re out of breath,” she proclaims, oozing concern. I can tell by looking around the room that this condition isn’t unique to me, just the mad chase down Third Avenue that it took for me to get here. The other spellbound students ogle her eagerly, waiting for her to bend over or stoop. She’s used to the attention; she’s knocked herself out to get it and now she’s accepting it as her due and blissfully ignorant of it, or at least
pretending
to be. She puts her hand on my arm as I step out of the coverall . As expected, there’s a huge all-the-colors-of-the-rainbow bruise on my calf. My shaking fingers go to work on the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons on my jersey.
Nobody in the room is even looking at me.

What about somebody
out there?
There are no shades to draw, no partitions to pull in front of the picture window.
What a picture this makes.
The floodlights that Heidi has clamped onto several easels in the room are arranged like candles adorning a centerpiece, and
I’m it
. I fall to my knees ready to assume a reclining position, hoping that that will make me not visible to anyone in the building next door, that all any peeping Curtis can see is plastic-coated Heidi slinking from easel to easel. I settle into an
a la Ingres
pose, my right foot crossed over the massive bruise on my left calf, my head looking over my shoulder, more wary than come-hither.
Can anyone out there see me?

Heidi sashays up to me during my first break.

You seem up-taght
,”
she drawls, the gold stud at the tip of her tongue still making her sound like she’s deep in the heart of Texas.

“I had a little problem getting here,” I tell her. “Some guy who’s been harassing me followed me.” After I’ve pulled my jersey on, I look out the window again at a tier of fluorescent lights shining on bobbing heads. I can’t make out any of their features; I wonder if any one of them can make out mine. “I wondered if he could be over there…”

“Not lahkly. Just a bunch of randy cops in training. That’s the police academy for the city of New York over there. Don’t pay them any heed. They lahk to
look
, that’s all. Ah’d say you couldn’t be
safer
raght about now.”

It’s later that I’m worried about, and even now I don’t feel cavalier about the surveillance, even if it
is
by New York’s soon-to-be-finest. Quick had to
know
about this; he
wasn’t
just thinking about
Curtis
when he suggested I insist that the windows be kept covered.
I would, but there’s nothing to cover them with
. It’s one thing to be looked at by artists who paint a bowl of fruit with the same detachment and quite another to be slavered over like an overripe peach. I don’t feel comfortable with this and it apparently shows. “You’ve moved,” several of the artists in the class complain when I get back into the pose. “You weren’t so hunched over before.”

I gesture to my injured leg. “Sorry. I guess the pressure is getting to me.”

“Oh my God, how’d you get that?” Heidi huddles over my leg, twisting her barely covered butt toward the exposed window. She cups the welt on my calf with the palm of her hand caressingly, mirroring the way I imagine those gawking in the building next door would spoon her buttocks after gleefully unwrapping her.

I wince. “While I was trying to get away from that guy I told you about, I got bumped into by a cab. I wasn’t looking where I was going. I just had to keep moving.”

Nobody in the room has stopped drawing. My guess is that Heidi has become a dominant part of the picture, a handmaid offering supplication. She rises slowly, then struts to a cabinet at the far side of the room and bends again as she reaches for something on a bottom shelf. She’s wearing a black lace thong under this get-up and bends over just enough to let everyone in the room know it. She comes back with a grungy fuzzy pink blanket and wads it between my legs. “Does that feel bettah?”

I prop myself back into the original pose and concentrate on the adjacent white brick building as one light after the other flicks off. They remind me of winking eyes. I wonder how many recruits are still there in the dark staring into this studio with relish, maybe justifying their voyeurism by convincing themselves that it’s part of the job, live theater training them how to recognize vice. I bet more than one trainee has had his hand in his pants by now. By the end of the class, all of the lights are out but I can’t help but wonder if somebody’s still home over there, waiting for a last flash of naked flesh. I crawl to a blind corner before climbing to my feet to dress myself. Heidi sidles over to me, a worried look on her face, a strand of her purple streaked hair standing up on end as if electrified. “Ah you going to be okay? Do you need some protection?” I hope she’s not thinking about going out and calling over some of those recruits.

“I’ll be okay,” I say, not sure whether I’ll be okay at all. I grab the handles of my sculpting tools in the palm of my hand and show them to her. “I brought these with me.”

“By the time you get those out of your pocket, that guy’s hands will be in your pocket and wherever
else
he wants them to be,” she says. “Ah can get you something bettah. A gun. A nahce little LadySmith. It’ll fit snugly raght in there.” She points to my fanny pack. “Ah carry mine with me all the time.”

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