Over My Live Body (4 page)

There’s someone new with white hair sitting at the reception desk, his face hidden behind an open book. “How long have you been here? I ask him.

He puts his technothriller face down, looks up at me, then down at his watch. “About twenty minutes.”

“Did anyone call and leave this message for me since you’ve been here?” I dangle the message in front of him like a malodorous fish.

He squints at it and hands it back to me. “Where was this?”

“On the message board. I just got it. It wasn’t here a couple of hours ago.” I stash the note in my jeans pocket. “There hasn’t been anyone else covering, has there?”

“Not that I know of. You’ll have to ask Louise when she gets back from lunch. That should be around two.” He frowns and shakes his head. “I can’t imagine who would leave you a note like that, honey.”

I can imagine. A heavy-set guy wearing a dirty blue baseball cap. He knows my phone number. He knows where I work. Now he’s shown up where I work. It’s got to be him. This has to be more than a coincidence. I can’t have that many people calling me, following me, leaving me messages. I’ve seen him now. I can attach a Pillsbury Doughboy face to that disembodied voice that’s been leaving messages for me. A
name
, even.

Knowledge is power. The next time he makes one of those heavy breathy, static, chomping at the bit calls, I’m going to yank the reins. Hard. The prospect of stopping him in his tracks is comforting. I may be looking over my shoulder as I’m walking to get my falafel on pita sandwich, but at least I know who I’m on the lookout for. I’m sure I’d spot him if he were out here on the street stalking me. He’s nondescript. I may have seen him dozens of times before he made his presence known to me, but now that he has, I could single him out by body type even if he changed his clothes, even if he took off the baseball cap.

Anyway he’s not around. And there are lots of people out on the street, hanging out in the park. There’s safety in numbers.

Even when one turns out to be a hot number I just broke up with. I hear Ivan calling my name even before I see him, and all of a sudden there he is in the middle of MacDougal Street stopping traffic. Then he stops me. I look around to reassure myself that there’s no lack of potential witnesses.

Ex
cluding Curtis.

“You didn’t return my calls.”

“I was working.”

“I was worried about you.”

“Is that why you’re hanging around, breathing down my neck, almost like you’re stalking me? Because you’re
worried
about me?” I laugh nervously. “That’s very sweet, but you really don’t have to. Being stalked by one guy is quite enough. Oh, yeah, I found out who’s been calling me.” I smile, trying to be reassuring, mostly to myself. “Turns out it’s some guy I don’t think I ever saw before in my life. I didn’t recognize him, anyway. He came in the school this morning to look at the exhibit and was asking me to go out with him,  then he left me a note.” I pat my pocket and hear paper crumple.

“Let me see it.”

I dig it out, scraping my knuckle in the process, and hand it to Ivan.

“The guy even introduced himself to me. Said his name was Curt. Short for Curtis.”

“Well,
that
certainly narrows the field. Curtis what?”

“I asked him. He didn’t say.”

“Hold on to this,” he hands the note back to me. “Have you gotten more calls since last night?”

“When I got in, there were a few messages with no name on them. Louise even wrote that he wouldn’t leave his name. Just the usual ‘will call back’ checked off.”

“You talked to him. Did it sound like the same voice you heard on the phone?”

I shrug. “Less muffled. I’m not sure.”

He squeezes my arm as if to say “mine!” to Curtis or anyone
else
who might be hounding me. A guide dog leading his master is the only passer-by now, and even he’s not looking our way. “I don’t like this, Delilah.”

“You think
I’m
crazy about it?”

“I’m sorry if I didn’t take this seriously before. I don’t know what got into me.” His grip eases, but he doesn’t let go. “
Whoever
is doing this is a sick bastard. I want you to be careful.”

“I
intend
to be careful.”

“Don’t isolate yourself. Make sure someone knows where and how you can be reached, wherever you are. Maybe you shouldn’t model until this blows over…”

“I
have
to model. I need money to
live
on. And for supplies.”

“You’re just setting yourself up for trouble. This guy, Curtis or whoever the hell it is, saw you naked. He said so on that message he left you last night. Of course
you’re
not going to remember, you’ve posed for so goddamn many people…”

“This conversation, it seems, is turning out to have more to do with my modeling than my safety. We’ve been through this before. You can’t tell me what to do. You have no claim on me.”

His grip tightens again. “If this keeps up, if, God forbid, this gets worse, you’re going to have to go to the police. They’re going to ask you things like, where do you work, what do you do? What are you going to tell them?”

“The truth.”

“Look, Delilah, one of the cops who was in your apartment last night was chewing you out just for not having your shades pulled down. Do you really expect that they’re going to be terribly sympathetic to your plight after you tell them you make a living posing bare-assed all over the city?” He chortles. “They’ll probably just want a piece.”

“I may not even have to go to the police. I have a pretty strong suspicion who’s behind all this now. Once he knows that I know who he is and that I’m not interested, he’ll probably move on to other prey. Someone new who he figures he has a better chance with…”

“Or he may try a
lot
harder to get close to you.”

“I don’t want to think about that.”

“You’d better think about that, Delilah. You’d better think a
lot
about that, about what you’re going to do to protect yourself
now.
Last night you called the police on
me
. Like I would ever hurt you…”

“You did.”

Ivan groans.
”
Maybe you should have shown the good officers this infamous bruise of yours. Everyone else has seen it, what’s two more voyeurs. That tall one you were batting your eyelashes at probably would have been more than happy to kiss it and make it better.”

“You just said a few minutes ago you don’t know what got into you. Sounds to me like it’s never gotten
out
of you.” I begin to walk away from him. He reels me in like a fish, his last desperate catch of the day.

“If you don’t let go of my arm, I’m going to flag down the next cruiser I see”

“And I’ll tell whoever is driving it that we’re having a lovers’ spat and he’ll let it go.” He looks around. “Do you see anyone paying any attention? Do you see anyone reacting with concern for your welfare?”

“No, and that includes you.” I’m looking up and down the block for an NYPD cruiser to come to my rescue. They must be in the park making drug busts. All I see are yellow cabs.

“What are you talking about?” He mutters under his breath. “I
love
you.”

This kind of love I don’t need. I can feel the painful pressure of each of his fingers through the down-filled sleeve of my anorak. Even his stare bruises me. He mumbles on about wanting me to come back to his place, where I’d be safe, where he’d protect me. My mouth goes dry and my throat constricts. I’m cursing every cab that cruises by for not being a police car, for not being driven by someone carrying a badge and a gun, a cop who would see a distressed female in the company of a very good-looking, well-dressed guy and probably assume we’d had our car stolen or towed, a cop whose presence would defuse the situation just long enough for me to get away.

At least
this
time.

I don’t want to think about how many other times a scene like this may be in store for me.

Or Curt. I definitely don’t want to think about Curt. Curt is the least of my concerns right now. Until the next time he calls or shows up. Then I’ll get rid of him.

The devil I don’t know is safer than the devil I do.

A blue-and-white pulls up at the light on West 4th Street, and after I look around to make sure there are no cabbies around to confuse, I tentatively raise my hand to summon the car over to the curb. Ivan releases me promptly. I walk in front of the cruiser and over to the driver’s side. The window is already open. “Hi.” The officer places the cheeseburger he just took a big bite of back on its greasy wrapper on the passenger seat by his side. I wait for him to finish chewing. “Anything wrong?” I turn to point at Ivan. He’s not there.

“So I tell him ‘everything,’ I tell him everything that’s happened and that I want a writ to keep Ivan away. Otherwise I don’t think he’s going to leave me alone, and this officer says
very politely
that there really isn’t much I can do because I didn’t call the police on him when he
allegedly
hurt me. And anyway where
is
this guy? He left me alone just
now
, didn’t he; he took off, just like that. If he hurts me again or threatens to, I can have him arrested. He’d have to go to court and I could get an order of protection then. But not before, because I have no proof. Isn’t that great?” This isn’t exactly my idea of party talk. I take another sip of brandy and sink deeper into Morgan’s cushiony white leather sofa. His loft gives new meaning to the word sparse; there are more paintings than pieces of furniture in the living area. It’s the room that gets the least use, he once explained, taking me on a tour of the place after he and Vittorio moved in. The kitchen area is a lavish exhibition of every sort of apparatus anyone could ever want to have, including some I’ve never seen before. Pans of every size and shape hang from the wall and ceiling, pasta-making and pastry-making and cappuccino machines line the mosaic counter. His sleeping quarters consists of a king-size wrought iron bed. He’s got everything he needs here, including peace of mind and a partner who cares about him. More people are coming into the loft now, and I pull myself out of my near-fetal position. Me lying around looking catatonic isn’t likely to put many people in a convivial mood. I don’t want to spoil Morgan’s party.

“I ‘m still going to see if I can take civil action,” I say, holding out my brandy snifter for more. “That’s my only hope unless something
else
… develops.” I shudder. “But I can’t do anything about it until Monday when the courts are in session. And it’s basically my word against his. I’m a sculptor of slender body and slenderer means who has to pose nude in order to make any extra living money. Ivan works for a fat cat investment firm. Who’s the judge going to believe?”

“Get a good lawyer.”

“With what? My looks?”

“Seems like they’d suffice to
me
.”

This is one of those times I damn God for not making Morgan straight. I take another sip of brandy, then another. The paintings on the wall start to look even more abstract to me. If I have one more drink, the room, like my life, will start to spin out of control. And I’ll lose my appetite. I can’t afford to lose my appetite. This is a
dinner
party. I’m not likely to be able to feed myself this well for months. The aroma radiating from the kitchen is enough to make my stomach growl and make me think about something
other
than who’s going to be waiting for me when I go home tonight. I owe it to myself not to face potential danger on an empty stomach. I think of how participants in marathons eat platefuls of pasta the night before the run. My circumstances are probably going to require a whole lot more than carbo loading, but it’ll do for now.

“Tagliatelle en brodo,” Vittorio announces with the beaming pride of a parent delivering his own offspring.

“Dinner is served,” Morgan interprets cheerfully.

Morgan seats me to his left. He passes me a soup bowl and fills it to the brim. He passes me a basket filled with loaves of pannetone and focaccia squares, after which he passes the lasagna pan for people to help themselves. Next come the plates of veal piccata. I’m eating so much that I’m afraid I’m going to pass out. I can’t remember what I did with my brandy snifter. Every time Vittorio and Morgan look at each other, they glow brighter than the candles in the centerpiece. I can’t remember the last time anyone made me glow like that.

Vittorio uncorks the champagne I brought and sighs, “Ecco fatto!” as foam spews over the rim of the bottle like lava from Mount Etna. Morgan holds out long-stemmed glasses, two at a time, to be filled.

“I’d like to propose a toast.” Gary, one of Morgan’s friends, stands up behind his lover Abel’s chair and puts one hand on his shoulder caressingly.

He raises his glass of champagne with the other. “To Morgan and Vittorio. May they stay happy and healthy together for a very long time. May they be an inspiration to their friends here, gay
and
straight.”

“May no harm touch these two,” another friend says.

“May I find someone who looks and cooks like Vittorio.”

I take a sip from my glass. I wonder if I’m going to have room for whatever’s going to be for dessert. I wonder if a diced and sliced me is somebody’s idea of a just dessert. A person I don’t even know. Or somebody I know all too well. The sudden wail of an alarm outside coincides with the ringing of the phone and makes me jump. I feel the champagne bubbles go up my nose. Morgan pats my hand and refills my glass. Vittorio mutters “Scusi” and pulls his chair out with a screech. Morgan stiffens as Vittorio picks up the phone and babbles into it in broken English. He stretches the phone cord to the limit as his voice rises.

“I wonder who
that
could be,” Morgan says. “How can they have the nerve to call him
here, tonight.
What do they expect, him to drop everything and…”

I put my hand on his wrist. “He’s here with us, not there.”

The call doesn’t take long. Vittorio waves his hands at Morgan.

“Mangia, mangia,” he insists. “Is nothing. Bad connection. Wrong number.”

“He’s bullshitting me to make me feel better.”

Vittorio blows Morgan a kiss across the table. “
Later
I make you feel better.”