Jack in the Box

Leeza covered her semi-naked body with her skinny white arms. “You had me scared to death,” she said. “I thought you were trying to kill him.”

“You were just a bit premature,” Max said for me.

Leeza’s baby blue eyes glanced from Max to me and back again as if she couldn’t remember what she’d just seen. It reminded me of goldfish—they’re so dumb that they can’t retain a memory for longer than three seconds. That’s why one shouldn’t feel sorry for fish in tanks. Each swim through a plastic skull is like their very first time (I picked this up on the Learning Channel).

“You don’t think that Max and me...” Leeza said aghast in my direction. “Nothing happened, Wanda. I swear. I got sick at the restaurant. Max said it was all right.”

I turned to Max. He said, “You don’t trust me at all, do you?”

“I guess I was right,” I said to Max. “That makes me feel an iota of happiness underneath this mountain of anguish and betrayal.” I sighed. “Being right all the time is such a burden.”

“I don’t know how you stand the strain,” Max responded.

Leeza fidgeted. “I think I better put some clothes on.” She pranced through the kitchen and living room toward the bedroom—her butt didn’t jiggle once. Then she stopped and said as an afterthought, “Max didn’t see me naked at all tonight.”

“Comforting,” I said as she disappeared in the bedroom.

Alone again, Max gathered me in his arms and kissed me, his lips like lightning bugs buzzing along my neck and collarbone. I could tell he was hot. For one thing, he was denting my leg. He also made tiny chirp sounds that remind me of birds. He breathed in my ear, “Nothing turns me on more than your trusting heart and understanding nature.”

“Spare me a tire,” I said and pushed him away.

I picked up the knife. Little black cat hairs clung to the red smears. I placed the weapon back in the towel for a closer inspection when I could see straight. I turned to Max and belted him one across the kisser. He recoiled from the force of my blow. “You cheating bastard,” I said, to the point.

Max recovered quickly. I’d left an angry red mark on his chin. It looked like it hurt. I felt a twinge of pity. Max said, “She ate a bad oyster. She got sick. I never even went into the fucking bedroom after she did— I’ve been pacing between your unpacked boxes for the last five hours waiting for you to get home.”

“How come the lights were off when I came in?”

“I didn’t want the light to bother Leeza.” The living room light did filter into the bedroom. I wasn’t convinced.

I asked, “Why was she eating oysters?”

“You’ll have to ask her—she ordered them.”

“Because she wanted to get revved up to seduce you.”

Max said, “I guess that would explain why she also ordered Spanish fly, rare steak, peaches with cream and figs for dessert.” I could tell by his twitching eyelid that he was being ironic.

My paranoia was showing. I considered the possibility he was telling the truth. As a detective, it was my obligation to see things from more than one angle. I felt the blood settle in my veins. My breathing slowed. I looked at Max. His nostrils flared slightly and his green eyes were squinty with concentration. I was often surprised by how much my words and actions affected Max. “You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” I tried. I shouldn’t have slugged the lug.

“You look like shit when you’re apologetic.”

“You know I look adorable.”

“That knife on the table really adds to the appeal, Lorena.”

I smiled. When the abused wife, Lorena Bobbitt, out off her cheating husband’s penis, the women of America rejoiced. Anyone named John Wayne deserved a (cut to the) quick lesson on how to be nice to women anyway. Too bad for him he had to get his education at the expense of his unit. Lorena Bobbitt should have cut off his fornicating head. “What’ll you give me to put the knife away?” I asked, happy to wheel and deal.

“I’ll go down on you for an hour,” he traded.

I accepted. Leeza, meanwhile, had emerged from the bedroom fully dressed. She clutched her gym bag strap in her fist and announced she was leaving. “I’m intruding,” she said. “I feel much better now, so I guess I’ll go. I’ve got to be at the convention in a few hours anyway. Maybe I’ll get breakfast. A nice, hot, three-hour breakfast.” She looked anxiously at Max. Í She seemed pathetic. I didn’t mind.

“Have a nice meal,” I said.

“You don’t have to go, Leeza,” Max offered.

“No, it’s okay,” she said with a smile. “I’ll see you around anyway, Max. At the club.”

What club? my eyes asked Max. A light of recognition flicked in his brain and he exclaimed, “Holy shit, that’s right. You’re going to be working at the Western Athletic Club. Wanda, Leeza’s going to be working as an aerobics instructor at the gym. Maybe she can help you.” I nearly punched his ribs. Like the world needed to know about my case.

“Are you looking for a personal trainer?” she asked me, appraising my body. An inside source wouldn’t be a terrible idea. I could make something of this if I played my cards right. I relished any chance I got to exploit others. I should really ask her to stay. Be hospitable. I had my own selfish needs to consider.

I smiled big and said, “Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.” I can be both near- and short-sighted at the same time. One of my little bar tricks. I’m also good at sucking a cherry through a straw.

Leeza split. Max crushed me against the fridge and we kissed. I felt a flood of dread for a second that he’d smell the cigarette on my breath. But when he pulled back and said, “Whew, Cuervo,” I knew I was safe. We jogged into the bedroom and he dove underneath the covers. I did a little striptease action and joined him. Max slipped his arms around my thickish waist. Leeza’s was small. I could snap her in half like a twig. Max lapped my neck. Compared to Leeza’s ropy throat, mine must have felt mushy. I pushed Max away—not something I do often. I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around my knees. “Honey-bunny,” I said, my back to him. “I’m fat.”

“You’re not fat, Wanda.” He sounded exasperated. Off in the distance, I heard Syd puking. She pukes constantly in the summer. Hairballs or bulimia, we’ll never be sure.

“How can you be attracted to a woman like Leeza,” I asked when Syd finished, “and then be attracted to me?”

“You know this story. I went out with her because she liked me. We were compatible. Everyone drummed it into my head that I was lucky and that she was beautiful. I was also twenty-five at the time. I wasn’t exactly a fully-formed adult. Now I know what I really want, and I want you. Right now. So please shut up already.”

“You proposed to her,” I reminded him. “You must have loved her.”

“What difference does it make?” he asked.

He proposed to her; she’s skinny. He hasn’t proposed to me; I’m soft and voluptuous. “Nothing,” I said quietly.

Max sat up in bed. “Nothing, huh?” he asked. “ ‘Nothing’ usually means I don’t get any sleep—not that I have all night anyway.”

“Excuse me while I dab a tear from my eye,” I mocked.

“Look, Wanda, if you want to lose weight, why don’t we fuck it off?”

Max, dear bunnyhead, was full of bright ideas. The only exercise I got was in bed with him anyway. I said, “Deal. Where should we start?”

“We can start by strengthening our tongue muscles.”

“The tongue doesn’t have muscles. It is a muscle.”

“Correcting me is not a turn-on, Wanda,” Max said. “Do you want to talk, or do you want to burn calories?” I wanted to talk. Just kidding. We proceeded to tongue-lash each other clean in a very dirty fashion. When I came, a flash of blue exploded behind my eyes.

Afterward, I did some math while Max snored. There are 3,600 calories in a pound. The average sex act burns about 150 calories (I learned this on “Oprah”). My sex with Max, however, was extremely energetic so I’ll jack that number up to an even 200. Therefore, eighteen bouts in bed will burn up one pound of fat. But—the big but—one load of Max’s mighty fluid contained approximately 60 calories (from Cosmo). Ergo, if I blow him and swallowed once every three sessions, I’d have to have sex with Max about twenty times to burn one pound of fat.

If we had sex twice a day, every day, it would take three months to lose the necessary ten pounds without having to strap on some Lycra G-string leotard. (Or give up my tequila and/or one-Snickers-a-day habit. Not an option.) Inspired by my new sex-weight loss plan, I poked Max to wake him up. He wouldn’t budge, so I started sucking on his dick. That got him up all right. Three months, and counting.

Alex Beaudine doesn’t walk. He sidles. He sways. If you couldn’t see his bright orange Chuck Connor high-tops, you might think he was on wheels. I’d called Alex after Max left for work and told him to meet me at the office with any info he could scrape together about Jack Watson. When Alex rolled into the Do It Right Detectives office that Wednesday morning at around eleven o’clock, he brought two cups of iced coffee, a cup of ginger tea for me, and some decent vibes. It was a pleasure to watch Alex settle into the plush arm chair I have for clients. He stretched out his legs and deposited his rubber heels on the corner of my desk. He smiled at me—gummy, with a hint of teeth—and said, “This place is a sty, but you look well plucked this morning.”

Sty, my eye. The Do It Right Detective Agency wasn’t neat—that much I was willing to admit—but what’s a few dust bunnies and a full garbage can between friends? The square-shaped office was on the fourth floor in a nearly deserted office building overlooking fabulous Times Square. I had an orange carpet with decorative cigarette burns and wraparound windows (when the soot wasn’t too bad, I had a great view of the 100-foot Sony TV on the NewsdayBuilding). The big oak desk with one wobbly leg was the command center. Everything I needed was within my reach: the telephone, answering machine, a bottle of Amaretto in my bottom drawer, a stockpile of tampons, a change of clothes, a bunch of matchbooks to flip into a hat and the hat. I used to keep a carton of cigarettes in my top drawer, but I don’t anymore. Like a phantom limb, sometimes I still reach for them.

Alex stirred his ice coffee with his middle finger. He wiped it off on his jeans. I said, “You know where the vacuum is.”

“Let me ask you this: Would straightening up harm you in some way?” Alex asked. “Really, I’m curious. Would it cause an allergic reaction? Maybe temporary blindness or might you grow hair on your palms? Because I would never want you to suggest an activity that could jeopardize your health. You mean too much to me.”

Smart guy, that Alex, has a problem with dirt. He’d never call himself compulsively anal. That’s what he’s got me for. I said, “I’ll clean up later.”

Alex laughed and sipped his coffee. “I’m not going to fall for it this time, Wanda. I can sit here and have a meeting and not be distracted by that overflowing garbage can, for example. Or the inch of dust on the filing cabinet. Or, what is that mess on the carpet?” He pointed over my left shoulder.

I was afraid to look. “Forget the mess, Alex.” I briefed him on the case: Jack Watson, dead Barney, wild Ameleth and rubber-made Janey. Alex had heard of Ameleth. He had also found out a thing or two about the ill-fated tennis career of Jack Watson.

He said, “About Watson—I called my buddy Estoban at the Upper East Side Racquet Club. I’ve got some hot gossip,” he said. “Very hot.”

“Hotter than a tamale?” I asked. Alex rarely disappointed me.

“Steaming hot.Sizzling hot.”

I almost broke a sweat waiting for him to start yapping. Have I mentioned that my office doesn’t have an air conditioner? “Spill already.”

“Okay,” he started, rubbing his palms together. “Little Jackie Watson was a tennis prodigy. By the time he was fifteen, he was New York State champ-When he was seventeen, he beat McEnroe in a minor tournament. McEnroe threw a temper tantrum and spat in Watson’s face after the match. But still, Little Jackie-—that was his nickname if you haven’t gathered by now—”

“I gathered.”

“Little Jackie persevered. After being baptized by McEnroe effluvium, he went from being a corner to having arrived. Almost arrived, anyway. He kept up good play for a few years, but he never quite made it to championship level. He was still young, and he just might have become the next great American tennis champ. But tragedy struck.”

He sipped coffee. Examined his fingernails. “Will you get on with this?”

“I was pausing dramatically.”

“Like anyone cares, Alex. Just tell the goddamn story.”

He stared at me while mentally counting to ten. I could practically see the numbers roll by. Alex hated to be told what to do. It was one of the reasons we broke up. “As I was saying,” he started, “after winning a Wimbledon match against some low-ranked French scrub, Jackie attempted to leap over the net to shake his opponent’s hand. He’d done it a million times before, but on that day, his ankle didn’t quite clear the net. Jackie came tumbling down like London Bridge. He broke his right arm in ten places. By the time it was healed, he’d taken himself off the circuit. The official reason was that his arm hadn’t healed properly and that he’d never regain the strength he needed to play for big money. By twenty-one, Little Jackie’s career was over.”

“Stop calling him Little Jackie. It gives me the creeps.”

He rolled his eyes. When he finished, his brown Pearls settled on whatever mess was on the carpet behind me. He fidgeted for a second like he was Waging some internal battle. Then he calmed down, sipped his iced coffee and continued. “According to Estoban,” Alex said, “the real reason Watson dropped out was because he didn’t have the balls to pick himself up and get back in the race.”

“That’s life, as Frank would say.”

Alex nodded. “So Watson moved back to New York. After a few years in seclusion, his money ran out. He took a job at the Upper West Side Racquet Club last year to give tennis lessons to yups. He’d been off the circuit for a while, but his name still had some cachet. He insisted that he only instruct the beginner classes, and he never really played any hardcore matches. He just lobbed a few easy shots and nobody got hurt. Including him.

“Then, last September, when the U.S. Open Tournament was being played, the manager of the Racquet Club decided it’d be a good gimmick to have the staff play a round-robin tennis tournament of their own. The club members could bet on a staffer for free lessons—the money went to some charity—and the winning players would get trophies. The manager thought it would be a good promotion for the club. And it was. Everyone covered the tournament— including the Daily Mirror. Of course, Watson was the odds-on favorite, even though he protested his participation to the last minute. In the first round of the tournament, Watson got his ass stomped by a five-foot-one, forty-year-old female massage therapist. He ran out of the place in tears and never came back. Not even to pick up his last paycheck.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why would he lose on purpose?” Maybe he threw the match because some Mafia dude had bet against him.

“When I heard this story,” Alex said, “I immediately wondered if some Mafia guy bet against him like in old boxer movies.” Among his many talents was Alex’s ability to read my mind. If only we played bridge. “But this wasn’t any big-time tournament,” he explained. “There weren’t any cash prizes—just lessons, free facials and massages. It was for show, not

for bucks.”

“Maybe some don had a severe case of blackheads,” I prompted.

“When Jackie—Watson—ran out, he also lost his contract to teach tennis. So he was again out of luck and out of money.”

“But I still don’t get it. Why would he freak out like that?”

Alex shrugged, not really listening. He was staring at the full garbage can. I smiled, inside. I’d give him five more minutes before he’d break down and start cleaning. “Estoban gave me his theory about Watson,” Alex said finally. “Jack had a mental block and forgot how to play tennis. Kind of like when Eric Clapton got in that bad car accident and forgot how to play guitar? Jack knew he was supposed to know what to do, so he would walk through a few lessons. But when it came time to actually play a match, he choked.” The whole story was so sad, it made me want to help Jack more than ever. I wondered if women have taken care of him his whole life. There was something about him that was just so helplessly boyish. Even I felt an obligation to protect him.

“So what caused this mental block?”

“You’re the detective,” Alex said, rising from his chair. He stretched. Then he began circling the room. It took every fiber of strength in his body not to swoop down on that wastebasket and clean.

I stood and said, “Bathroom.” My bathroom is down the hall. I left the office to take a leak. I’d give Alex his privacy. For him, cleaning up is an intensely personal experience.

The bathroom was intended to be communal, except none of the other offices on the floor were occupied. I did my thing and crept back toward the office. I peeked inside and caught a glimpse of Alex on his hands and knees, vacuuming. Dear, predictable, reliable Alex. If he’d been ready to commit and I’d been easier to live with, we might be married right now. Then I never would have met Max. I perished the thought, and barged inside.

Alex continued vacuuming without acknowledging me. I sat down at my desk. When he got to that area, I waited for him to ask me to move my feet. Finally, he said, “You take terrible advantage, Wanda.”

“What of it?” I asked.

“You’re a slut and a whore,” he said. We smiled at each other.

“For a neat freak, you sure talk dirty.”

Alex rubbed the large attachment under my desk. “I’ve got a brilliant idea—not that all my ideas aren’t brilliant,” he said over the sucking sound. “I volunteer to go undercover. I will wear gym shorts and a T-shirt that shows off my bulging pectoral muscles. I’ll wear tube socks and cross-trainers. And, I’ll wear sweat bands on my forehead and wrists.”

“Yeah, but what’s in it for you?” I asked. Alex rarely does anything without an ulterior motive. “Like you’ve got bulging pectoral muscles.”

“We’ll see how the ladies of the club feel about them,” he said, revealing his motive.

“Fine with me,” I said. “The last thing I want to do is surround myself with impossibly toned women in skimpy outfits all day long. Like I need that kind of ego boost.”

“Boost?” Alex asked pointedly. I wanted to slug him. “I’ll work out with Max. I’m sure he can show me a thing or two. He can point out a few of the more compelling attractions. About exercising, I mean.” That comment knocked around my brain like a ricocheting pool ball. Alex sometimes makes me so mad. I said, “How come you get jealous of Max all the time, but he never, ever gets jealous of you?” I regretted my retort immediately. I’d much rather ignore the weirdness of the situation—still working with Alex, I mean. We broke up two years ago for Christ’s sake—and he dumped me. The room was silent for a moment, except for the klink of the vacuum sucking up a few stray paper clips. I allowed myself to think about how jealous I got about Max and Leeza. Then I pushed the guilt from my mind.

“Okay, you’ll pretend to be a new member at the club,” I agreed. “We should probably pay for the membership. Jack doesn’t need to know every move we make.” I generally hated to lay out my own money as expenses, but I didn’t have a choice in this case. Besides, I wasn’t completely convinced of Jack’s innocence. I liked the idea of having one up on him. I’d rather have two. I wondered if Leeza would even think about helping me. Probably not after the way I treated her.

“Okay, Alex. Max does get jealous of you,” I lied. “But only because you’re a slut and a whore.”

“You wish,” he said, smiling. I felt a lifting of tension. The vacuuming now done, Alex put the machine back into the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. He then pulled out the rag and can of furniture polish.

I got his attention by taking the murder-knife-bundle out of my purse. I was surprised to see the stacks of hundred-dollar bills underneath it in my bag. How could I have forgotten? I snapped my bag tightly ' shut and put it on the floor, under my chair. I dropped the knife towel out on my desk and unwrapped it. The blade shined brilliantly in the office light.

Alex began lovingly dusting my desktop as if a genie would rise from the top drawer to grant him three wishes. He asked, “The murder weapon?” I nodded. “Plunged through the heart, right?” I nodded again. “Poor bleeding bastard. Any fingerprints are long gone, right?”

I nodded. Maybe Jack did know who owned the knife and had purposefully destroyed evidence. “No logo,” I said about the knife. Ergo, I had no way of finding out what store the knife might have come from.

“Fuck logos,” Alex said. He stopped dusting to come inspect the knife more closely. “I think, yeah, j White wood handle. Deep seration.” Alex ran the edge across his thumb. “Sharp as the point on your head. It’s the Bjornskinki bread knife. I’ve got a whole set.”

“The what?”

“The Bjornskinki.From Ikea. I’d know this knife anywhere. I had to special order it from Sweden.” Ikea is a Sweden-based discount furniture/housewares chain. For some reason, New Yorkers have found the two nearby stores (one in Hicksville, Long Island, the other in Elizabeth, New Jersey) to be the new consumer-mad Meccas. I’d never been. I get most of my furniture off the street. No matter how inexpensive, Ikea can’t be cheaper than free. But millions of others go every weekend to one of the stores, via the buses out of Port Authority or the train from Penn Station. I guess I’d have to go out there to investigate this knife. I was secretly glad for the excuse. My sleuth’s curiosity made me wonder what all the hubbub was about.

“I ordered at the Elizabeth store,” Alex announced. “I’ve be happy to go back and check this out.” He was practically panting. Alex was primarily a domestic animal. Housewares turned him on. We’d had some fun, actually, with his honey spool.

“Do all wizard chefs do things like special order bread knives from Sweden?” I asked.

“They do if they’re serious about slicing bread,” he responded.

“And if I said that you can seriously slice bread with a two-dollar knife from the neighborhood hardware store, you’d probably tell me I just don’t understand.”

“Why even have these conversations, Wanda?” he asked.

“Maybe the killer special ordered the knife for the sole purpose of slicing Barney.”

“The killer would have been better off with a two-dollar blade from the hardware store.”

“Unless the killer stole it from someone,” I suggested.

“A frame?” he asked.

“No, a knife.”

The phone rang. I cradled the receiver on my shoulder and said, “Do It Right Detectives. If you’ve got the dime, we’ve got the ear.” Alex took the opportunity to polish the answering machine.

It was Jack. “Wanda—I’ve been arrested. You’ve got to help me.”

I stood up. Not sure why, I sat back down. “Take it easy, Jack. Where are you?”

“In prison.In Brooklyn Heights.”

There was no prison in Brooklyn Heights. A holding tank or two, sure. But if you want prison, you’ll have to venture to other boroughs. Queens, for example, had Rikers Island. Manhattan had the floating prison barge on the East River. “Did they take you to the courts?” I asked. The court building for all of Brooklyn was at Town Hall right on Cadman Plaza in the Heights. It was in those courtrooms that John Gotti was sentenced to life.

“Yes, yes, you’ve got to get over here,” Jack cried. “And bring the money.”

I hung up. Alex had a questioning look in his eye. I said, “Our client has been arrested for murder and he wants me to bring his money back.”

“Does he know we don’t give refunds?” Alex asked, as aghast as I,

“I guess not.” I bit a pencil. I usually think better with things in my mouth. “Alex, as a man who cheats regularly on his girlfriends, do you ever have any feelings of remorse?”

Alex said, “I’d rather talk about the money.”

“Spare me a quarter.”

“I never cheated on you.”

I scoífed. “I know for a fact that you cheated on me at least once.”

“Is that a Wanda fact, or an actual fact?” he asked. “No, let me answer. It’s a Wanda fact which means true as long as you think it’s true. My dearest heart, not once did my jade stalk enter the gates of another lucky locust during the entire year we lived together. And if you think that Max is cheating on you, you’re even more insecure than I thought.”

“If Max was cheating, I’ll have to kill him,” I said. “And you’ll have to help me as a penance for screwing around on me all those times while we were going out.”

Alex sighed deeply. I wondered if he’d sprung a leak. “Call the club,” he instructed when he’d tired of my little game. “See if they’re open today.”

I dialed the number for the Western Athletic Club. I don’t think it was Janey who confirmed the fact that they were indeed open. I supposed the upstairs suite was blocked off, but otherwise, why shouldn’t the club be open for business? I asked if the Cut Me store was also open, and I was informed that it was, despite the fact that its owner had been stabbed to death the night before. Heartless, but convenient for us. Alex would need workout gear.

“I’ll spring our client if possible,” I said. “And you’d better get yourself some decent exercise clothes.” Alex’s jeans and faded T-shirt didn’t quite measure up to the high-style elastic-wear I’d noticed people strutting around in at the club yesterday.

Alex sighed again. “I’ll stop by my apartment and get some running shorts, or won’t that do?”

I wanted company on the subway ride. “That won’t do. We’ll go shopping in Brooklyn Heights. Client expenses. And I might pick up a few things for myself.”

All settled, we closed up the office. Alex and I took the stairs to the street. A breeze carrying the scent of boiled hot dogs mingled with the odor of hot tar. Exhaust billowed from buses and cars on Broadway. Spilled garbage glistened in the June sunshine. Times Square was at its most pungent in summertime. It was also at its slickest: posters of ice cream in storefront deli windows seemed to melt right onto the asphalt, bare shoulders dripped tiny streams of sweat and air conditioners rained down from on high, drizzling reconstituted water onto our unprotected heads, A cool drop splattered on the back of my neck, oozing down my back. It felt swell.

The three thousand dollars Jack gave me was now nestled safely in my underwear. The knife went back in my purse. Alex and I rode the Number 2 train out to the Clark Street station in Brooklyn Heights. The ride took about twenty-five minutes. I was convinced that some of the passengers had X-ray vision the way they stared at my lap. Not to be daunted, I returned the stares.

Alex, a Lower East Sider, wasn’t one of the majority of Manhattanites who thought Brooklyn was some far-off dark continent. He even knew something of the neighborhood. I liked not having to point him in the right direction when we got out of the subway. We walked the three blocks to the Western Athletic Club. I left Alex about a half block away. I didn’t want the steroid experiment doorman to see us together. It was possible he had a brain. Alex promised he would be careful and take all the necessary precautions. The last thing he wanted was a pulled muscle.

I power-walked all the way down to Court Street. It’s called Court Street because that’s where the Brooklyn Municipal Courts were. The precinct was also located under some scaffolding by the big marble and limestone City Hall building. As I approached, a handful of cops in brown uniforms emerged from the building. Brownies (aka the Shit Patrol) are responsible for dispensing parking tickets. The one time I’d been inside the court building was to contest a fifty-five-dollar parking ticket I’d got on a rental car. The brownie who wrote it out claimed I’d parked only eight feet from a hydrant. But I’d counted ten of my own feet to measure. (My hoofs are, uh, kind of large for a girl—but you know what they say about women with big feet. Big hearts.) I even took a Polaroid shot of my foot against a ruler to show that it was indeed eleven inches long. Though the judge was impressed with my visual aids, he “adjudicated” that I had to pay up in full. Apparently, the law requires you to park fifteen size eleven Doc Martens away from a hydrant in Gotham City. I promised to mail in my check—forgot to.

Feeling like an outlaw, I approached the front desk at the 18th Precinct. I told the sergeant behind it that I needed to speak to Jack Watson, former tennis star and alleged murderer. The cop’s bushy gray eyebrows went up when I said murderer. She buzzed me through. She pointed across the room, but it was all a blur. I apologized and put on my glasses. That’s when I noticed Detective Falcone sitting at a desk in the back of the room. She was alternating between drags of a cigarette, sips of coffee and bites of what appeared to be a Reuben sandwich with gobs of Russian dressing.

I licked my chops and walked over. She put her sandwich down when I got to her desk. She kept on smoking and drinking coffee. A string of her stringy hair dipped into the Styrofoam cup. She didn’t seem to care. We made eye contact. The clarity in her mud-colored eyes made me feel uneasy for a moment, like she knew something about me even I didn’t know. “Mallory,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you.” The seat of her chair wasn’t visible with her hips spilling over it like that.

I had a sudden premonition: Was this dumpy, sloppy, saggy woman what I’d become in twenty years? Substituting the brown strings for my luscious red curls (they’ll always stay that color—Mother Nature, meet Miss Clairol), was Falcone the ghost of Wanda future? The thought sent a chill up my spine like a monkey up a rope swing. For women, being smart didn’t cut it at fifty any more than it did at twenty-nine. Harsh, but it’s the sad, unfair truth. I relied on my looks. If I lost them, I didn’t think I’d be able to do this for a living.

“Jack Watson called me at my office,” I said quickly to get my mind off my fears.

She nodded and smiled. “He’s in the Brooklyn Detention Center on Atlantic Avenue. I sent over a pastrami on rye for him, but he wouldn’t touch it.”

“Too fatty,” I said, and immediately felt embarrassed. “I meant the sandwich.”

“I assumed so, Mallory. Because if you were talking about my body, I might get upset.” Her eyes darted across my face. I didn’t see a hint of emotion anywhere on hers.

I felt myself blush. This woman made me uncomfortable in an unfamiliar way. “Well, if he doesn’t want it, I’ll have it.” I fiddled with a red tendril. “I like pastrami.” When in doubt, eat.

Falcone watched me closely. Her stare made me feel worse. Finally, she said, “Pull up a chair, Mallory. Let’s discuss your friend Jack Watson.” I sat down. I checked with my hands to make sure my hips hadn’t engulfed the entire seat of the chair like hers had. I had a solid half-inch of space on either side, thank God.

Falcone said, “Forget about the sandwich. I already gave it away. Should I order something for you?” She picked up the telephone on her desk. I noticed she had the phone numbers of a few local restaurants on a strip of tape stuck to the receiver.

Reconsidering, I shook my head. No food. Ever again. At least not when I was around her. “Let’s just get down to business,” I said. “I don’t have all day.” I could always get nicer from there.

Falcone frowned and leaned back in her chair. She took a long, slow drag on her cigarette and said, “I, on the other hand, have all the time in the world. This stack of paper isn’t really piled on my desk.” She patted the sloppy, high stack. “Let’s just have a calm relaxed discussion about Jack Watson. He’s been arrested. He was rude to the arresting officers. He’s in for a while. I’m not really sure what I can do for you, Mallory.”

“You can start by giving me one of those cigarettes.” I regretted asking as soon as I did. She rummaged in her desk drawer and handed me one. I accepted. I fired my first cigarette of the day. It tasted gross. I hate menthol. I squashed it out. I didn’t give her an explanation. “Next you can tell me exactly what Jack’s in for,” I said. “He was with me at the time of the crime.” In theory, at least.

“Are you saying you’re an accessory?”

“I am an expert at accessorizing.”

“I can tell.” She cocked her head at my outfit. Jeans, a tank top, no belt, no jewelry. I was completely accessory-less. “If you were present at the time of the crime, then I hope for your sake you tried to stop him.”

“I knew exactly what he was doing, and I was fine with it. What’s the big deal? Don’t tell me jogging on the Promenade is a crime in New York now.” (Not that it would affect me if it were.)

Falcone eyed me through her green, minty smoke. I heard once the menthol flavor comes from ground glass particles sprinkled on the tobacco. “You think Watson was arrested for the murder of Barney Cutler?”

Doy. “No, I figured you arrested him for his banana wedgie.”

“Watson was arrested for attempting to break into the Western Athletic Club at five o’clock this morning. He made a hell of a racket, and he broke a window. We picked him up when we got a disturbing-the-peace call. And you’re saying you were there?”

I had to shift in the chair. The money was digging into my abdomen. “Why are you handling this?” I asked. “Unless homicide in Brooklyn Heights has to keep busy with residential disturbances.”

“When my prime suspect starts smashing windows at the murder site, you better believe I’m going to get involved.”

She was pissed off now. Enough to scare me a little. “I want to talk to Jack,” I said.

She slowly nodded and put out her cigarette. Before she answered, she lit another. I imagined those tiny glass particles tearing her throat. My lungs hurt just watching. She said, “His bail hearing will be tomorrow.”

“I still want to talk to him today.”

She picked up the telephone and turned her back to me. I watched smoke rise above her head. The air got thick with it. I followed its movements as it danced upward, brushing the ceiling above her desk. It seemed like a darker yellow than the rest of the paint job. For the first time, cigarettes seemed genuinely disgusting to me. I’d been a smoker for twelve years. I swallowed my small epiphany and tried to listen in on Falcone’s conversation. Before I pricked up my ears, she was hanging up. “Okay, Mallory,” she said. “Jack has been screaming for you since he was brought in. You’d think he’d want a lawyer, wouldn’t you? Any idea why he’s so hot to talk to you?”

The money—I guess he thinks he can buy his freedom or something. “Just lucky I guess.”

“Something tells me that the word lucky has nothing to do with you.” Little did she know. Falcone stood. Her skirt waist dug into her belly. It looked painful. I owned two skirts myself that dug into my belly. But they were years old. With a couple weeks of intense dieting... I stopped the thought in midformation. The last thing I needed was more anxiety about my weight. I stood, too, happy to notice my jeans were loose around the gut. I still wore 501s, had yet to cross into the land of Easy Fit.

I followed Falcone through a maze of offices and cubicles toward the back of the building. “Two blocks that way,” she said, pointing toward Atlantic Avenue. “They’re waiting for you.” I knew where the Detention Center was. I’d walked past it many times. Smack in the middle of Atlantic Avenue’s Little Persia (where to go to find Arab grocers and Koran reading rooms), the center loomed largely between a curio shop and a spice store. Falcone turned to go, but first said, “I’m not amused by your client, Mallory. I think he killed Barney Cutler, and I’m going to make the charges stick. If I were you, I’d cut my losses. Today.”

I smiled brightly and walked away from Falcone into the bright sunshine. Who the fuck does she think she is, I wondered. I don’t respond meekly to threats. The two-block walk to the center was uneventful. I passed no tempting shops, and no one I imagined fucking.

The Detention Center was a squat gray building, from the outside resembling a giant Skinner box. I found the main entrance and told the guard at the front desk my name. He led me past a locked steel door. Another armed guard waited for me. She leaned against a locked door of bulletproof glass.

“I’m here to see Jack Watson.”

The female guard asked the other, “Should I put them in a room?” A room with a two-way glass, no doubt.

The chubby guy guard glanced at me to see if I knew what she meant. Then he said, “Just let her into his cell.” He left me alone with the female guard. She had a big, slightly cockeyed bun in her hair. She tilted her head funny. Around her hips, she wore a .45 pistol. I was impressed by its size. The weight on her hip made her walk funny, too.

She led me down a long row of jail cells. They had no beds-—just toilets and benches. Most were vacant. I tried not to stare inside the cells as I passed, not wanting to inspire a jailbreak. Jack was at the end of the row. He sat on his wooden bench with his face in his tanned hands. When he heard the click of the door unlatching, he looked up. His cheeks were streaked with tears, his eyes red and puffy. The muscles in his jaw twitched.

“Here I am,” I announced with a big smile. I walked into the cell. It was nice and cool.

Jack waited for the guard to leave before he said, “Wanda, thank God you’re here.”

“I guess you’ll need your money back for bail, huh?” I asked.

“It’s unlikely Ameleth is going to pay it after I beat up her club.”

I shook my head. “What were you trying to do?”

“Get inside.”

“And using your key would have been too easy?”

“I know this will sound nuts, but I forgot I had it.” He probably suppressed that information because he wanted to damage the club. His wife had an affair there, she blamed Jack for the murder. His life pretty much sucked and he needed to take out his aggression. “It makes some sense. Twisted, but legit.”

“I wouldn’t have done anything if Ameleth slept at home,” he said.

“She didn’t go home?”

“When I got there, the place was empty. I was upset, so I ran back to the club. I assumed she was staying there. So I tried to bust my way in.”

“You’d do better to think of ways to bust yourself out. Of here, I mean.”