The Swamps of Jersey

I took the cordless phone into the bedroom. Falcone said, “He’s running, Mallory. I have to assume he’s running to you.”

I checked the closets. No Jack. Just a few suits. I also saw a piece of paper taped to my side of the hanger rod. It read: “Fill me.” Max’s little jibe to get me to unpack. “He’s not here, Falcone,” I said. “If you want to send someone over to make sure, go ahead.” I checked under the bed. I found nothing but a dried hair ball.

Falcone said, “A cruiser should be arriving at your place in any second.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I said, “not that I need it.” Max came into the bedroom and raised his eyebrows at me. I waved him back into the living room. He didn’t move. I looked out the window. Sure enough, I could make out some flashing blue lights up the block. No siren. I mouthed to Max, “Get rid of Freddie.”

Max whispered back, “Get Syd a teddie?” I rolled my eyes. I pointed into the living room. Max got it and left the bedroom.

“Mallory?” the phone asked. “What’s going on over there?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I had a cramp.”

“Feel better?” she asked.

“Not really.” Why had Jack done it? Running was like an admission of guilt. But guilty of what? Disturbing the peace? Big patootie. “How’d he do it?” I asked Falcone. The cruiser was on my block now, slowly swimming toward my building like a shark.

“He claimed to be having a claustrophobic seizure, and flung himself on the cell floor, twitching,” she said.

A claustrophobic seizure? “I guess he needed his medication bad,” I tried.

“Medication for a condition that doesn’t exist,” she retorted. “Jack did a fine job of scaring the guard to death. He threw himself into the bars. Bloodied his nose. Officer Martinez got backup, but when the guards entered the cell to restrain him, Watson karate kicked each of them in the solar plexus and then sprinted out of the Detention Center. He’s fast, the guards tell me.”

Assaulting police officers.Escaping jail. Jack was in bigger trouble than he could possibly imagine. I can see the Daily Mirror headlines now: Double Fault for Former Tennis Star. I hoped he was all right.

The buzzer fzzzzzed. “You’ll have to excuse me,” I said politely. “Some unexpected guests have arrived.”

“They’ll shoot first, Mallory.”

“Just as long as they ask questions later,” I said. “My landlord isn’t going to like this.”

“Too bad,” she grunted. “For the last time, Mallory, stay out of this. Leave Ameleth Bergen alone. Her business doesn’t concern you.” Then she hung up.

I looked at the dead receiver. Had we been talking about Ameleth? I sulked back into the living room. Max sat on the couch, nervously stroking Otis. I cocked an eyebrow. He said, “Freddie’s gone. What the fuck is going on here?”

“You didn’t hear the buzzer?” I complained as I opened the door to let the cops in. Syd ran inside. I nearly tripped.

“First day with the new legs?” Max asked by rote. “And who the hell is buzzing us at twelve-thirty on a school night?”

“The Avon lady,” I said. “Or your mother.” The buzzer sounded again. “In a second,” I yelled and ran downstairs.

There were two of them: uniform dunderheads with greasy hair and big necks. Freddie was nowhere in sight, so I figured he’d made it around the corner. I said, “I’ve just warmed the toddies. Come on in.” They sneered.

Max and I stood in the kitchen while the cops combed our apartment. I didn’t mind. A sweeping would have been better. The one with the hairy nostrils even checked the fridge.

I asked, “You ever hear of an ex-cop named Ergort?” This inspired squeaks of laughter.

He yelled to his comrade in the bedroom, “Hey, Frankie. This broad wants to know if we know an ex-cop named Ergort.”

The cop called Frankie swaggered into the kitchen. He checked the fridge, too. He tittered with his buddy and then said, “Yeah, I know him. Scrawny wuss. Got beat up by a female perp and quit. Toothpick jerk-off.”

I said, “The guy I know has boils bigger than you.”

“Must not be the same asshole,” Hairy said. He helped himself to a beer. “You got any Brooklyn Lager?”

“I keep cases of it down at the corner store,” I said. They each guzzled a Rolling Rock. “So the Ergort you know was a real wimp?” I asked again. I found it hard to believe that there could be two ex-cops from Brooklyn named Ergort.

“You got any pretzels?” Frankie asked. I shook my head. He then thumped Hairy in the chest and said, “Nothing here.” He turned to me. “We’re not going far, so if Watson comes over here, he’s dead.” Then they left without thanking us for our hospitality. Well, they simply will not be invited again.

Max locked the door behind them. He seemed distracted. “Let’s go to bed,” he said. We counted two cats and then went back into the bedroom. Knowing that the cops had picked through our stuff made me slightly queasy. Or maybe I really was getting cramps. While we were undressing, Max said, “Break-ins. Visits from the police in the middle of the night. Is this what it’s always going to be like?”

“I saw your cute sign in the closet.”

“I hung it up there two days ago, Wanda.” We slid under the covers. Max’s skin was soft and warm, as usual. We spooned.

Max rolled away from me and onto his back. “So Watson busted out of jail and the cops came over here to look for him.”

“I honestly have no clue where he is.” Max sighed and put his hands behind his head. He didn’t look sleepy. “You hate me,” I said. He didn’t say anything. “Just like you to not comfort me in my time of need.”

He laughed at that. “Comfort is the last thing you need, Wanda.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?” I asked.

Max rolled over to face me. He smoothed down my hair and kissed my forehead. “Jack ran because he’s a murderer. Why else would anyone run? Find him and turn him in. This whole case is making me nervous. And now you’ve got innocent bystanders involved.”

“Leeza,” I hissed. I got a flash: Leeza strapped in a rack. I was standing in front of her, slapping her rosy cheeks over and over. I smiled.

Max watched me. He asked suddenly, “What’s the name of the big account I’m working on?” I had no fucking idea. I felt a wave of guilt, which was exactly what Max wanted.

“The Isaacson account?” I tried. I remembered that it sounded Biblical.

Max smiled and hugged me. He said, “I want you to start unpacking this shit tomorrow. And this weekend, we’re going away together. I don’t care what reason you come up with to stay in New York. If I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you, I will.” I got another flash: Max, carting me like a sack of svelte potatoes, and throwing me down on a grassy knoll somewhere in New England. I kissed him on the knuckles.

He said, “By the way—it’s the Jacoby account.” We were quiet for a few minutes. Max started to snore in his familiar wheeze. I lay awake feeling like a heel. So I can be self-absorbed. But Max’s banking stuff was a killer to feign interest in. I vowed to get up in the morning when Max did. I wanted to shower him with love and affection. And I needed an early start at finding Jack. I had no intention of turning him in. If he was guilty, I wanted to hear it from him. And then I’d skin him with a grapefruit spoon.

I woke up when Otis and Syd had a claw fight on my chest. I was happy to see that Syd was getting out of the bathroom more. Max’s side of the bed was already cold. As cold as anything gets in June without airconditioning. Time check: 10:30 A.M., Thursday morning. Shit, I thought. I missed cuddling Max by two hours. I tried to cuddle Otis, but she’d have none of it, being busy terrorizing Syd.

I took the cordless into the bathroom and called the precinct. I couldn’t reach Falcone, but whoever answered the phone said she left a message for me: Watson was still at large. She also wanted me to come to the station by the end of the day or she’ll hunt me down, too. Syd jumped in the sink while I brushed my teeth. I felt a kinship with her suddenly. I bent to kiss her little head, but got a blast of her breath. Have I mentioned that Syd has chronic gingivitis? Her mouth was ghastly. I wondered if it’d be better after a little Colgate brushing, so I dabbed some toothpaste on her orange gums.

She hissed, spit and scrambled out of the sink like her tongue was on fire. She darted under the couch in the living room. I found a flashlight and turned it on her. Her little orange lips were foaming with white lather. I would have laughed, except she took a swipe at me and caught me on the tip of my nose. It bled. I made a mental note to pick up a tube of poultry flavored toothpaste at the pet store.

I returned to the bedroom. I had to burrow in some boxes, but eventually I found a cute little sundress from French Connection that would go perfectly with my purple and blue bruises. My shoulder and ribs were still sore. I couldn’t find any aspirin. I settled on a few snorts of tequila. I felt all warm and toasty inside. Then I split like a beaver.

The day was sunny. Good thing I wore a sundress. The subway ride to Manhattan was uneventful. My dress wasn’t long enough to cover my butt when I sat down. Good thing I wore underwear. I wondered if I could contract any diseases from a subway seat, and then remembered that I was impervious to human strains.

The Number 4 train pulled into my stop—Grand Central Station—about twenty minutes later. I headed toward the Do It Right office in Times Square. A few early lunchers and late commuters sprinted around, fanning themselves with newspapers, trying to cool off and avoid staining their work clothes with perspiration. Along Forty-second Street, on the sidewalk bordering the Public Library and Bryant Park, vendors set up stands selling hippie beads, tarot cards, bootleg CDs and tapes. Three years ago, the only vendors in Bryant Park sold drugs and urine in bottles. The city spent a few million taxpayer dollars to clean the place up. And now, every spring—prime outdoor season—the city puts up big tents in Bryant Park to house the New York designer fashion shows. Of course, unless you’re a designer, fashion mag editor or department store retailer, you can’t get in to see them. That’s what I love about Manhattan’s public parks. Either you don’t want to visit them, or you can’t get in.

Despite my dress, not one guy made any comments along the ten-minute walk. With every year, the amount of street harassment I get drops. I find this puzzling because my breasts haven’t. Dropped, that is. I stuck them out and walked the last half block to the Do It Right office. A bum lay in his own spilled Boones Farm in the vestibule of my building. He said, “Nice stack.”

I said, “Bless your alcoholic heart.” I walked up the four flights of stairs to my office. I wasn’t planning to stay long—just make a few calls, find out when the next bus left Port Authority Terminal for the Ikea outlet in Elizabeth, New Jersey. It’d be useless to use the phone to try and find Jack. If he had half a brain (even one-quarter a brain), he’d be long gone.

I reached my floor slightly breathless. If it wasn’t for the broken elevator, I’d get practically no exercise at all. I was just about to fit my office key into the lock when I heard a small moan from inside my office. It didn’t sound like one of the mice who lived there. Their moans were smaller and squeakier.

There was no sock on the door handle, so it couldn’t be Alex with some chick. We’d made rules about this kind of thing: The sock was my idea. He kept a clean sheet in the filing cabinet. That was his rule: You had to replace or clean the sheet after every use. No problem for me. The few times I’ve had spontaneous sex on my desk, I’ve never thought to use the sheet anyway.

Another moan seeped under the office door. It didn’t sound like Alex either. I palmed Mama and flung the door open.

Jack Watson was asleep on my desk, his shorts and T-shirt dirty from soot and sweat. His blond hair stuck to his forehead like yellow seaweed. His socks and sneakers were black with grime. Blood was caked under his nose and on his forehead. Despite the sight and the smell (bad), my heart thumped with relief. He was safe. Stinky, but safe. Then I reminded myself of the late-night visit from the cops and the utter stupidity of his breaking out of the joint. I slammed the door shut.

Jack started awake and fell off the desk. He looked up at me with sleepy, swollen eyes. He seemed totally dejected. I felt a wave of pity. I said, “You better have a lot more money hidden somewhere. My fee just doubled.”

“The door was open,” he said. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

I closed the door behind me. The room got a lot smaller. I strode across the cigarette burned carpet and flung open one of the windows. The smells of melting asphalt and boiled hot dogs from outside was a relief.

“Aren’t you impressed? I got out, Wanda,” he crowed. He crawled onto his feet.

“Don’t you dare sit down,” I said before he lowered himself into the cushy arm chair I keep for clients, the one piece of furniture I actually cared about. He stood upright and grimaced. He put a hand on his back and stretched. “I couldn’t take another minute in that cell,” he said. “And you were supposed to bring the money back that night.”

“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall,” I said. “Clean yourself up and leave your clothes in the Dumpster in the hall.” I found Alex’s sheet in the file cabinet under B for boff. I threw it at him. “And fuck you for blaming me. I was busy getting my ribs broken.”

“You got in a fight?” He seemed concerned.

“Like you care,” I said. “Go, before I call the cops.” I searched in my desk for something Jack could wear. I found a pair of leggings—Gap black—and a T-shirt with tiny flowers on it from J. Crew. I also came upon a pair of rubber flip-flops I bought when Max and I went to Jones Beach one day last summer. I put sunblock on every inch of my alabaster (white, gleaming) skin, save for the tops of my feet. They got so sunburned that I couldn’t put on my Vans without dying a thousand deaths. Jack might have a masculinity crisis, but these clothes would have to do.

While he was, I hoped, peeling off the top layer of his skin, I called for the Ikea bus schedule. We had an hour—perfect. Falcone would never look for Jack in Elizabeth, New Jersey. I’d keep him out of her clutches for the afternoon, but then what? Turn him in? Be done with him and this case? I flashed to the sight of his wild eyes when we found Barney in the Jacuzzi. Then Jack’s heaving body when he hurled. I would figure out what to do with my fugitive later. In the meantime, I put $2,500 in my office file cabinet under R for retirement.

Jack returned from the bathroom with the sheet wrapped around his slender hips. His bare chest was dusted lightly with blond hair. I could have scrubbed my socks clean on his stomach. If I scrubbed socks. He lifted his hand to scratch his neck. I watched the sinew work in his arm. I said, “When’s the last time you gave Ameleth an unsolicited back rub?” I handed him the clothes. “Or cooked dinner for her?”

He fingered my girly vestments. “I can’t wear this stuff in public.”

“Afraid for your fans?”

He seemed embarrassed. “I’m plenty romantic. Ameleth knows that. She just got distracted.” I wondered how Ameleth could get distracted by Barney after seeing Jack near naked. But, I supposed, Barney’s big money talk might pull green wool over anyone’s eyes. I considered telling Jack about Barney’s alleged pimphood, but reconsidered. Jack didn’t top my list of people to share confidences with.

I fished around in my purse and gave Jack my pair of two-dollar Batwoman sunglasses. “Just get dressed and let’s go. We don’t have all day.” I turned away from him. He went behind my desk to dress in semiprivate.

“I haven’t heard you congratulate me yet,” he said. “I was amazing in my escape, outfoxing those idiots at the police station. And once I was free, I ran and ran. Like the wind. I was loose, free, life in my blood. It’s exhilarating to break the law. I recommend it. The only bad part was having to hide out under the Brooklyn Bridge for a few hours. I had to lie down in some sludge. The mile sprint over the bridge at midnight was heaven. No one was around. I felt like the last man on Earth. I hope you don’t mind that I slept on your desk. You should really do something about that short desk leg.” What about hitting him over the head with it? I mused. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“New Jersey.”

“Good. No one who matters will see me in this getup.”

Having grown up in the Garden State, I took this slight personally. “Would you rather we went back to Brooklyn Heights?”

I heard him groan. “Wanda, these leggings are too tight,” he complained.

I turned to look. The sight made me think of bunches of grapes in Korean deli fruit stands. “All the better to see you, my dear.” The T-shirt tugged across his chest, too. “You look like a tart,” I commented. “It’s Times Square, you’ll blend.”

The homeless drunk was gone by the time we got downstairs. No one commented on my dress or Jack’s getup as we hailed a cab. We took it to Port Authority. I was careful to get a receipt. We picked our way through the throngs of Hare Krishnas and deadbeats to the ticket buyer lines. Jack complained that he had to go to the bathroom. He went. I waited on line. Even for midday, the station was packed with people. A family of European tourists with rucksacks stood in a circle to my left. They were checking a subway map and jabbering in German. I estimated forty minutes before at least two of them were swindled—tourists were easy targets for scams. I turned to see how much progress my line made. Not much.

I turned back to the Germans. A couple of teenagers walked by. One skillfully squirted ketchup from a bottle on the back of the father’s pants. The other one tapped the man on his shoulder and pointed to the stain. The father dropped his pack to examine himself, and the squirter snagged the bundle and ran. Needless to say, the other family members couldn’t catch him with fifty pounds of miniature Empire State Buildings strapped to their backs. The old ketchup scam. I almost felt sorry for them.

A six-foot tall black hooker walked by just as the family was regrouping. The German jabber was loud and excited. Sensing something was up, she asked if she could help. The mother took one look at her nose ring and pretty pink dress, and spit on her candy-colored pumps. The hooker politely slipped off her shoe and wiped what she could on the mother’s David Letterman T-shirt.

I smiled. I liked New York in June. Jack joined me on line just as the Germans slinked off, beaten, to the Roy Rogers on the corner of Forty-second and Eighth Avenue. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You’ve got toilet paper stuck to your flip-flops.” He actually checked.

Jack said, “I was propositioned in the bathroom. And I probably caught some disease from the urinal.”

I sighed. Even I knew not to use the urinals at Port Authority. I thought of the long bus ride. Finally, our turn came at the ticket window.

They were only a few bucks each. I got receipts. I checked the time: too close for comfort. We had to dash to the gate. Jack beat me, even in his flip-flops. It was the middle of the morning on a weekday; the bus was nearly empty. The driver grunted good morning to us, and then gave Jack the fish-eye. I said, “What, you’ve never seen a former tennis pro before?” The driver ignored me. We took a seat in the back.

The ride took forty minutes. I asked Jack about Freddie Smith. He didn’t know him. During our whole conversation, Jack sporadically tugged at the leggings. Two Upper West Side yuppie housewife types sat across from us. The one with the frost-job poked the one with the nose-job in the arm. Frosty then pointed at Jack as he wrestled with his package.

I asked him, “Remember when we found Barney, you got us drinks from that little bar fridge. You didn’t happen to notice anything that didn’t belong?”

“Like what?” he asked. “These tights are constricting.”

“I don’t really know. I guess I’m picturing a test tube or some pills.”

“Nope, just the usual—beet juice and tomato juice.”

“The leggings aren’t the problem,” I said. “But that dick of yours. We’ll just have to do something about that. In fact,” I continued, “just think. Once the operation’s done, you can wear leggings every day.” Frosty, who’d been eavesdropping, gasped.

“What operation?” Jack asked.

“Forget it,” I said. The view out the window on the New Jersey Turnpike wasn’t what most people would call God’s country, unless smoke-spewing factories, polluted marshes (Jimmy Hoffa’s final resting place), and the miles of shimmering tar highways were divine. The traffic was spotty, and the air-conditioning in the bus didn’t quite filter out the sulfur smell coming from the Tuscan dairy factory outside. We passed the exit for my parents’ old house in Short Hills. I hadn’t been back since they moved to Florida five years ago. I didn’t miss it. Elizabeth, our destination, was only a few exits away. I scanned the passengers on the bus again, looking for tails. Everyone seemed clean—or uninterested. Except, of course, for Frosty and Nosy, now fixated on Jack’s incessant fiddling.

We pulled into the massive Ikea parking lot at high noon. The tar moved under my feet as we walked toward the squat, turtle-shaped, blue-and-yellow warehouse. I had the Bjornskinki knife in my purse. I hoped that there weren’t hundreds of weirdos like Alex who’d special order bread knives from Sweden. Jack caught some stares from the strictly suburban crowd. The cityfolk usually just come out on weekends.

A kid, maybe nineteen, in a blue apron with the store logo slapped across his chest approached us when we entered the store. He said, “Hello! I’m Branford.” He smiled, revealing shiny new braces with rubber bands. I grimaced. Branford kept on grinning despite his metal mouth. He was perkier than my breasts. Not an easy trick.

“Cutlery,” I said, hoping he’d just point.

“Kitchen utensils are on the main floor. But you’ll have to walk through living room and office furniture studios to get there.” A nice technique. In the event that I was pining for, say, a coffee table or a new desk, I couldn’t help but pass by.

“Do you deliver?” I asked Branford.

He was staring at Jack, who grew uncomfortable with the attention. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Bedroom furniture is on the second floor.”

Jack said thanks to the kid and turned to go. Branford frowned. “Pardon me, sir. Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Jack shook his head. A crackling fuse went off behind Branford’s eyes. “Yes!” he almost screamed. “You’re Little Jackie Watson. I can’t believe this. You’re my idol! I’ve had posters of you on my walls for years.” He paused, smiling radiantly. “I’ve spent hours fantasizing about meeting you. And to see you now,” Branford said, beaming. “Dressed like this. It’s like a dream come true.”

“A wet one,” I whispered to Jack.

“That’s very nice,” Jack said to Branford. He put his arm around my shoulder and steered me away. Our pace made me glow. I had forgotten that Jack really was a celebrity. He said, “That kid was trying to pick me up.”

“Were you tempted?” I asked.

“Of course not!” he cried. “He thinks I’m gay because of these stupid clothes. I knew this would happen.”

I grabbed an oversize cart like everyone else, and we wheeled it inexpertly along the cart track painted on the floor. There was a wide selection of wood furniture—the kind I like. Jack seemed impatient with my stop-and-go search for a coffee table. At one Point, he hid behind a big red leather couch. I said, ‘It’s not that bad.”

“Have you ever known the pressures of celebrity?”

“So you’ll be outed in Elizabeth, New Jersey. That is a sorry fate.” I was heavy with the irony.

Jack fumed. His anger rose from his head in waves. “Why don’t you just shut up?” It occurred to me that the day in jail might have unhinged desperate Jack. He skulked off down the path marked on the floor with two bright yellow lines. I had to push the cart at a good clip to catch him.

But a vision in oak stopped me and my cart dead in the track. It had short lathed legs and a thick hunter-green stained top. I whipped out my mental tape measure and estimated that it would fit quite nicely in my living room. The price tag read two hundred dollars. Dirt. I sat on the table. I lay down on it. It was big enough for our purposes. I closed my eyes to imagine it. I opened them to see a small gathering of people looking down at me. Branford broke through the crowd.

“Ma’am,” he started. “Are you ill? Do you need a doctor?”

Only months ago, I was generally called Miss. “I tripped over this table and hurt myself,” I tried for a discount. “I hope I won’t have to sue the store for damages.”

Branford’s lips tensed. “Where exactly does it hurt, ma’am?” he asked.

“My ankle,” I whined, lifting it up for his inspection. The crowd started to disperse. Good, I thought. Better to work on Branford alone.

“It looks okay,” he said uncertainly.

Jack came sprinting toward us, leaping over tables and shopping carts like a blond panther. He was a stunner in motion. Branford noticed, too. He dropped my ankle with a thud.

Jack stopped on a dime. He said, “Wanda, you’ve got to come quick.”

“What?” I asked, seeing the excitement in his eyes.

“Just come on.” Jack snagged my wrist and pulled me to my feet. I tried to pretend my ankle was tender, but it was no use. We rushed up the ramp to the next level. Jack told me to shush, and led me beyond stacks of plastic colanders and salad bowls to the cutlery section.

We were safely hidden behind boxes of two-hundred-piece starter sets before I asked, “What’s all the excitement? Forks on sale?”

“Look.” Jack pointed, careful not to let his finger protrude farther than the boxes of lobster steaming pans. I followed his finger. Two women were talking at a counter. One woman’s back was to me. She had straight brown hair and a tight ass in jeans. Her tank top showed off the taut back of her arms. The other woman, behind the counter, had a fluff of gray hair piled high on her wrinkly head. She was punching keys on a computer and nodding. She groped for something on the counter without looking away from the computer screen. Her free hand held aloft a shiny, sleek object that reflected the track lighting: the Bjornskinki bread knife.

Grandma examined the knife and punched a few more keys. “We already knew they sold the knife here, Jack,” I chided.

“Look at the customer,” he said. As if on cue, the thin brunette picked up the knife herself and tested the serration on her thumb. She turned profile and made an abrupt chopping motion, splitting the air. Jack drew in his breath so loud that the brunette turned in our direction.

“Molly,” I whispered. The waiter/drug pusher from the Slimmy Shack.

“She must be the killer,” Jack decided. “Let’s get her!” He took a running step. I stuck out my foot to stop him. He fell on his face, cracking my sunglasses. All the customers within earshot jolted at the sound. I dragged Jack back behind the boxes by his flip-flops.

“Billy,” I said loudly. “Stop climbing on the woks.” It was a terrible cover. Molly would spot us now for sure.

After a few seconds, I dared to take another peek. I breathed out when I saw her back. Grannie finished processing the order. Molly took her receipt and left. I wondered briefly if I looked that good going. I doubted it. A wave of insecurity swept over me like brushfire. I reminded myself that it was unZen to compare myself to others.

I said to Jack, “You okay?” He grunted. I helped him to his feet. I squared him off to face me and said, “Tell me I’m a babe.”

He said, “I’ve got plastic in my eye.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?”

Jack did a double take. “I’m saying nothing except that if you trip me like that again, you’re fired.”

I turned away in frustration. No wonder Ameleth wanted to divorce him. The computer lady had left her post and was helping another customer. I checked to make sure Molly was gone and went over to see if the computer information was still up on the screen. It wasn’t. I stepped behind the terminal to try and call it up. 1

“Excuse me,” someone said. I smiled and turned, ft was Grandma. I pulled the murder knife out of my pocketbook. Before I got a chance to ask her if it was the same knife, she screamed. Maybe I shouldn’t have held it over her head like that. I tried to calm her down, but a small crowd gathered. I hoped there weren’t any hero types nearby. I dropped my knife hand and started protesting my innocence.

“What now?” boomed the now-familiar voice of Branford. “Put that knife down!” I dropped it on the floor. Branford picked it up, adding perhaps the hundredth set of prints to the handle. He looked around for Jack. I didn’t see him either. Fuck, I thought.

Branford said, “It’s okay, people. Nothing’s wrong.” He squinted at me. The crowd dispersed. This was probably the most thrilling shopping day in Branford’s history at Ikea. I said, “I’m not going to make any sudden movements.”

Branford slapped the flat blade against his palm. “I think I’d better call the manager.”

I said, “Only if you want to see my gun, too.” The older woman swooned. Branford’s face turned white.

“What do you want from us?” he begged. “We’re just simple nonviolent wholesalers.”

“You recognize this knife?” I asked Grandma.

She took the blade from Branford. She inspected it and nodded. “It’s the same one,” she said, and pointed at the sample Molly’d just handled. She gave the knife back to me. I buried it in my bag.

“You have to order it from Sweden, right?” I asked. She nodded, and then finally said, “It’s made with a top-secret Swedish method of tempering metal. It’s very expensive—three hundred dollars for this one knife. The whole set costs over a thousand.” I wondered where Alex got that kind of money to chop vegetables. Then again, he wondered where I got the money to buy Donna Karan cashmere socks.

“I need to talk to Branford alone,” I said to Grannie. That was fine with her. She scooted over to the shower curtain display in two seconds flat. “I need a record of everyone who’s special ordered this knife or the accompanying set in the last year,” I said to Branford.

“Or what?” Branford asked, regaining some composure.

“Or I’ll shoot to kill that ceramic pasta server.”

Branford seemed confused. He said, “You’re a cop?”

“A lawyer,” I lied, thinking that more threatening.

“Perhaps we should discuss this in the store manager’s office.”

“Fine with me,” I said. “I’ll be sure to mention to him or her that you practically drooled all over my client—Mr. Watson. I’m sure your manager will appreciate the personal interest you show in your customers.”

Branford swallowed hard. He growled a bit and stalked behind the counter. He hit some buttons on the computer, and in a few seconds, paper started spinning out of the printer. “This is a personal favor from me to Jack.”

With the info in my hand, I said, “Branford. I think Jack might really like you. He thought you were cute. I’d watch that phone.” I winked. Branford nearly fell off his feet. I giggled as I walked away. There’s no greater torture known to man (and woman) than waiting by the phone.

Jack was in the plants section, behind a large ficus tree. We had what we wanted and we were leaving. Jack complained that Molly was in the lamps section and we could take her down on the Oriental rugs if we acted now. I told him if he wanted to walk back to New York, that was fine with me.

We caught the 1:00 bus back to Port Authority. Jack dozed on the ride. I wasn’t sure if we should go back to Brooklyn Heights or try to contact Alex from my office. Jack wanted to sneak back into the club to find Ameleth. He wanted her to know he was all right. I overruled that suggestion. I promised we’d hit the Herman’s sporting goods store on Forty-second and Sixth so he could get something to wear.

While Jack napped, I checked the printout from the Ikea computer for any familiar names. The only two I recognized were Alex Beaudine and Molly Mahoney. I wondered why Molly would want to kill Barney. Was there a connection? Jack stirred and then settled. I tried to picture it: Molly, gripping the handle like a lover, slamming the knife into Barney’s chest. Her thin-lipped smile and big plans of paradise. I shook it off. I dosed myself. Visions of coffee tables danced in my head.

We made it to the Herman’s all right. Jack took a few pairs of parachute material sweats into the dressing room. I hung around the discount Rollerblades racks for a few minutes, then wandered over to examine the skiing equipment. What was keeping him, I wondered. Sporting goods had little appeal to me, except for the cool goggles. After a few more minutes as Superfly, I got a bad feeling. I barged into each dressing room. In the last was a shoplifter stuffing a baseball glove down his pants.

Jack was gone. I ran out of the store and into Forty-second Street. The sun made distortion waves. The bright light blinded me. I wished I had my Batwoman glasses, even broken. I thought I saw a blond man running toward the subway. I ran for the train, too. I hopped on the Number 2 bound for Brooklyn. I got off at the Clark Street station—only two blocks from the Western Athletic Club.

Ergort stood outside like a cigar store Buddha in blue bike shorts, breathing hard like he’d just pumped some major iron. He had a golf ball-size boil on his cheek. I tried to get around him, but he stopped me. “I got instructions to keep you out.”

“From whom?” I demanded.

“Who cares?” he grunted. His arms hung from his shoulders like sides of beef.

“I care or I wouldn’t have asked. And obviously you care, or you wouldn’t be following the orders.” My logic dumbfounded him. His eyes went from comfortable and calm to raging in seconds. “You don’t, perchance, suffer from violent mood swings?” I asked. Ergort’s boil throbbed.

I said, “I see you’ve not quite mastered the art of conversation. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an appointment.”

Ergort took a step toward me. I got the idea that he’d very much like to introduce my face to the brick facade. Two men in tennis shorts walked up the street. They smiled at Ergort as he held the door open for them. I smiled wide and slipped an arm around one of the men. He nicely escorted me across the threshold. I was in. I wouldn’t love facing Ergort when I had to come out. I’d worry about that later.

Janey was at the reception desk. I said, “Janey. How’s tricks?” I saw her give Ergort the okay sign. He ducked back outside.

Janey smiled sweetly and said, “You’re not supposed to be here. The police are periodically checking the club. Detective Falcone asked that we keep you away for a while.”

“Jack hasn’t been caught, then,” I said. “Not that you’d turn him in.” We stared at each other for a second. She broke the gaze by putting her foot on the counter. She stretched.

“I hear you had a talk with Freddie Kruger last night,” she dared.

“We discussed the finer points of sensual massage.” I leaned forward to see if the upstairs key was hanging from its peg. It was. Ameleth must have returned it.

“You and Freddie talked about some business matters of mine,” Janey said, her head resting on her kneecap.

“You mean how you’re the Aerobics Madam?” The elevator dial blinked five, four. It was coming down. I could grab the key and run for the elevator just as the door opened. “Is Ameleth upstairs?” I asked.

Janey switched legs. “Don’t involve her in my business. She doesn’t know a thing about it.”

“Nevertheless, I need to talk to her.”

“She’s not here.” Janey lifted her chin and looked me straight in the eye. “Special discount this week for private detectives who know too much. Six-month membership. Free.” The elevator dial blinked, three, two. Janey was too twisted in her stretching position to try and stop me.

I said, “You’re pretty funny, Janey. But looks aren’t everything.” The doors opened. I grabbed the key and made a run for it. The mirrored doors closed just as Janey flung herself against them. I fit the key in the hole, thinking briefly of Max, and whizzed to the top floor suite. I wondered why the cops weren’t at the club waiting for Jack. I also wondered how he could get into the suite without a key (unless there was a key I didn’t know about).

The elevator doors characteristically whooshed open. Jack sat on the white couch, his head in his hands. The leggings I’d given him were ripped at the knees. Tiny dots of blood were congealing around scrapes on his legs. I said, “The cops are coming.” I wondered how he managed to slip into the club during Ergort’s watch.

He looked up. The expression on his face was grave. “It’s happened again, Wanda.”

At first, I had no idea what he meant. Then he gestured with his head toward the Jacuzzi room. I swallowed hard and walked toward the door. I heard none of the gurgles of swirling water. I held my breath and stepped inside.

The lights were on, but at first I didn’t see anything. I had to go farther into the room to peer into the tub. With each step, I saw more of the picture. First, a naked ankle, then a leg (attached), a torso. The body—clothed in a leotard and short shorts. She rested on the bottom of the drained Jacuzzi. Her cheeks were blue and swollen. She’d clearly been beaten. My blood turned to slush. I could feel it thicken and struggle to push through my heart.

It appeared Leeza Robbins would never step-aerobicize again.