The Sergeant found what he had been looking for, pulled it up and out of the file, turned, looked down at Gillian, and slowly sat in his chair. “How is it out there,” he asked.
“Oh cold, definitely not London weather. Nice if you have time, which New Yorkers never seem to have enough of.”
“Can’t take a little snow. That’s why it’s so quiet in here today.”
“I’m sorry I took so long. I didn’t realize the office was this close.”
“I did,” the Sergeant said, softening, “but I figured if you’re paying upwards of two grand, you might as well enjoy every minute. And, like I said, I wasn’t on my way anywhere.”
Gillian was amazed at the tenderness that he exhibited. She was sure that she would be scolded for her lackadaisical approach to getting there. She watched his hands as he spoke, big ham fisted, rough knuckles. Had he been in many fights? Was he a family man? What did he get up to on his time off? His pressed white shirt barely concealed a tank undershirt that he wore, and the tank undershirt barely concealed a musculature as close to god-like as earth would allow. His broad shoulders created a line that ran to a tight waist and that big butt. His shoulder were not only broad but thick too––the starting point for thick arms, and biceps that continued down to his thick forearms, where his sleeves were rolled half way, until they squeezed at the skin and muscle. She thought again of Spokes and the tire changing incident, and the thick forearms. Just how did men manage to work in such a way as to create such musculature?
“So Sergeant, I take it you have some news about my husband?”
“At this point we don’t. He is missing, according to Scotland Yard. And there is no evidence of him crossing the ocean. We had detectives check out the plane, in fact scour it. So I am not sure if that is good news or bad news for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well right now you are suspected of foul play.”
“Someone thinks I made him disappear?”
“Your good news might be that you hid the body well. Your bad news is that you aren’t guilty but you are being implicated.”
“How odd.” Gillian had the rising hope that Edgar had fallen off the walkway at the airport and died a swift and short death on impact and that it would be a matter of days until they found him in a luggage cart or flat as a pancake on the runway, or perhaps he had had a heart attack in one of the washrooms and some negligent cleaner assumed he was taking an extra long crap. “So, do you mean I have to stay in New York?”
“And not at the Mandarin, in fact we have to keep you here. I have to place you under arrest. Someone will have to post bail.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“It’s not that bad. It’s not the Mandarin Oriental, of course, but our women’s quarters just got a facelift and you’ll be the only one in there, if you’re lucky.”
“This is absolutely––”
“––I’m sorry that’s the protocol in international situations like this.”
“But I’m from Brooklyn.”
“––and I’m from Mars.”
“Oh come on, I’m not bullshitting.”
“You talk pretty fancy for a Brooklyn girl.”
“I had an extreme makeover. What can I say?”
“You’re allowed one call.”
“Gee thanks!”
He paused, tapped his fingers, raised his eyebrows and looked straight into her eyes. “We can probably stretch that rule a little, seeing how it’s Christmas and all.”
“Who the hell am I going to call? My lawyer on Fleet Street? My rich husband to post bail? Oh right, he’s gone.”
“You can make this easy for yourself or hard. You’ve landed in a pot of honey as far as precinct offices, the others are taking most of our cases, and it’s not busy. And I’m here to keep you company.”
“That’s a bonus?”
“It can be.”
“I can’t post bail on my credit card, I don’t suppose.”
The Sergeant squinted. “In the meantime can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Real coffee or the police kind in a Styrofoam cup that comes with a donut?”
“No, we’ve got all the modern conveniences. I can even get you a dark roast if you like.”
“Cappuccino?”
“We’re not really that progressive, otherwise no one would want to leave.”
“Well a dark roast with milk, and not that dreadful coffee whitener, would suit me just fine. That’s very kind of you.”
“Egg nog?”
“No. I’d like to be able to get into my bikini, if I ever do get down south.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Supposed to leave tomorrow. I was going to see my mother today and then Edgar and I, oh, who cares.” Gillian fell silent. Once again the reality of her situation hit her. On the one hand she was facing the inevitable, a final reckoning, life without Edgar, and yet she was also missing the familiar, the tradition–-some nice meals with friends, the Christmas smells at her mom’s while Edgar was off doing business dinners and whatnot, somewhere on the periphery, and his warm body on the other side of the bed at the end of a long day; getting on a plane just as family started to drive you crazy and friends lost interest in you; jetting off to the south to sit in silence with or without Edgar, as he time shifted his endless conference calls. There was no sunning with him, only perhaps an activity, a tour, with others, a cocktail party as the guests of so and so or dinner with familiar regulars. Anything to avoid a romantic dinner out. Now after twenty odd years of that, there would be nothing but turkey sandwiches in the women’s lock up, if she were lucky. “So, can I go back to the hotel and get my stuff?”
“Good thinking, but no. We’ve sent someone over to collect your things. Don’t worry, it’s a woman, we do this all the time. This isn’t about torture, it’s just about finding your husband, and we can leave no stone unturned.”
“I’m a stone?”
“Far from it.”
For the first time since she’d sat down, she got an inkling that Sergeant McMullon may have ulterior motives.
“You’re being straight with me?”
“I said you could call a lawyer, or anyone.”
“I can use my cell?”
“Sure.”
“If I cared I would.”
“You don’t use your cell phone?”
“I just avoid them. Mine is always the one that goes off at the opera or ballet or at the movie or when someone is reading me the riot act, and then if it goes off it’s because the company is trying to sell me some extra minutes or Goddamn time or something, and coming over here, I have to get the right gizmo to put in it, and Edgar is always on his and I have grown to hate them, frankly.
“––maybe you can make it your friend.” Gillian noticed the Sergeant’s heavy eyes and how they had said so much in terms of his life experience. She could tell that he had seen it all and probably would never want to see it again, given the choice, he had almost, though not entirely, lost his faith in mankind.
“See if you can teach me. But I warn you I have an aversion to the things.”
“You’ll want to talk to your mom. It’s Christmas. And your friends. You’re a woman.”
“Well thank you for noticing.”
“Not much gets by me.” Again he looked up from under his heavy brow.
Gillian felt her heart skip a beat. “Do I detect a sense of humour?”
“I let it out occasionally.”
“Maybe you can let it out for Christmas.”
“Do you find me funny?”
“You’re civilized. I didn’t expect that.”
“You aren’t the regular shoplifting crack whore. So yes, you could say you are a breath of fresh air.”
“Well, as I always say, it is nice to be appreciated.” Gillian was torn between trying to get the hell out of the precinct office, have dinner with her mom, and then get on that plane to the sun, or to stay calm and hope that Sergean
t McMullon would read her The Night Before Christmas, before lights out.
There was no use calling Val or Randy; who wants to visit a police station on Christmas Eve. And the snow was a great alibi for not seeing her mother––midtown was tied up, the bridge was practically closed, people weren’t even last minute shopping, it was all a mess. She noticed that some literary type had left a few glossy novels in the waiting area, and some Christmas magazines, which, on closer inspection were a couple of years out of date, although the season was right, so she could be entertained for a while. The Sergeant led Gillian to her cell, she followed, which suited her just fine as she got to watch the amazing ass at work again.
The cell wasn’t bad after all, bright with light coming in from glass tiles at the top of the wall. White subway tiles with a green strip about half way up the wall, a bed built into the wall, a semi private toilet. “Bright,” Gillian said.
“Easier to keep an eye on everyone.”
“Clean too.”
“Sick inmates are no fun. They get sick, we get sick.”
“I like the alcove.”
“Nothing gets hidden under the bunks.”
“Thought of everything.”
“I can bring you lots of blankets if you like,” the sergeant said. “It’s actually the most comfortable place to sleep in the whole building. I sometimes use it when I’m on an overnight.”
Gillian wanted to say that she would do her best to share. But she didn’t want to scare off this massive specimen of New York’s finest.
“If you need anything, just call me, or Gretchen, the woman at the front desk. Use the intercom otherwise she won’t hear you. I’ll see if I can scare us up something to eat. In the meantime I’ll freshen up that coffee.”
“Thanks.” Gillian did her best to get comfortable in the alcove under the window. She plunked her bag in one corner, kicked off her boots and lay on her side. She found herself staring out into the hallway, the gate to her new accommodation open. A wave of sadness came over her. She thought of the men last night, as if it were all a dream. She remembered their touch, their caresses, the feel of their skin, their lips on her breasts, their individual scents––the dancers smelling of soap and cologne after their post performance showers, and Robert’s sweaty scent after a long shift. She longed for something like that, something that said we will protect you, comfort you, pleasure you, and make you feel like a queen. But it was all temporary, it was all fleeting, nice as it was. They were gone, like a dream. How could a night like that, or a feeling like that be sustained? She felt tears randomly come to the corners of her eyes, trail across her face, tickle her nose and ear, and then trail into her bag. She had to admit that for the first time in years, she felt alone, and acknowledged that she really had been alone for so many years. None of the go-getting, intermingling or forced hard-sell could mask the fact that she was desperately lonely. She fought the storm within her being, to be touched by anybody, against that storm to find a true connection. For now, she would have to be content letting her sexual energy find its equilibrium. Soon, the tears gave over to a soft steady breathing of sleep––recuperation from a long night of frolic––and Sergeant McMullon placed a blanket over her with more at her feet.
When Gillian woke, the light in the cell had changed; no more daylight came in from the glass tiles above. The room was lit only from light in the hallway. She heard a little noise from down the hallway, a radio playing the tinkling sounds of Christmas carols. She heard doors open and close, a chair scraped the floor, a photocopier or a printer, all signs that someone was nearby.
Soon Sergeant McMullon showed up with a few paper shopping bags. “What are you doing in the dark?”
“I nodded off, I guess.”
“Here I’ll put some lights on, don’t worry I’ll try not to make it too, too bright.”
“Good, I’d rather you didn’t see me with all this sleep in my eyes.”
“You look very beautiful, regardless, I can tell. Brooklyn’s finest.”
“So, Santa, what’s in your bag?”
“Uuum?”
“Your bags, the ones that you’re carrying. What have you got? If I were in London, I’d vote it’s fish and chips, but here in our dear old Big Apple I’m thinking something more like Chinese food? Am I right?”
“I wanted to surprise you, but you guessed it. Where should we eat?”
“Well we can either go out among the office cubicles, or your lunch room, or cosy in here. I’m getting used to this.”
“I’d say let’s eat here, much more––”
“Romantic?”
“Atmospheric. No chance of Gretchen joining us.”
“We’ll do an alcove picnic. I think there’s room for the two of us. A queen sized alcove, how do you like that?”
“Fit for a queen.” Sergeant McMullon sat on the edge of the alcove and removed his shoes.
“Good God you have big feet. They’re huge. They’re massive!”
He crossed his legs, pulling his feet close. “I’m a massive guy.”
“I don’t think there’s room for anything else besides your big feet! I’m not complaining, believe me. You know what they say about men with big feet––
“––big shoes.”
“––big shoes, you took the words out of my mouth.”
“Speaking of mouth, let’s put some food in it. I’m starving, and judging by the looks of you, you must be too. Here, have a confiscated beer.” The Sergeant pulled a beer from his bag. “We’ll toast a Merry Yuletide.” He snapped open two cans.
Gillian thought about the Cristal, the Dom, the Pol Roger, and now it was Old Milwaukee to tickle her nose. “Excellent vintage,” she said, and then took a swig. “So what have you got for our first course?” A small burp caught her off guard. “Excuse me!”
“It’s okay, we don’t stand on ceremony in here. I’m the only one who heard. Let’s start with some pot stickers.” The Sergeant opened a small box filled with dumplings, and placed it in front of them. “I love these guys.”
“You must have to eat a huge amount to keep yourself, you know, that size.”
“I like good food, try to avoid the donuts. You learn to after the first few years. Here.” The sergeant dipped a dumpling in a small plastic cup and then brought it to Gillian’s mouth.
“Mmmmm.” She tried hard to focus on the dumpling and not the huge hand that was so close to her mouth feeding it to her. Drops of sauce ran down her chin, which the Sergeant rescued with his thumb. Gillian hoped the thumb would be offered to her, but instead the Sergeant licked his own thumb. Then Gillian took the initiative to take her turn feeding the Sergeant, dipping the dumpling and then bringing it close to his mouth. She thought it was like feeding a giant, his prominent jaw and square white teeth. “Mmmm. So, what’s your story? What are you in for?”
“I think you know.”
“But really. Lost husband? They don’t just go missing like that.”
“He did.”
“It’s my belief that people tend to go missing if you don’t keep an eye on them, you know?”
“Sadly I think I do.”
“What kind of marriage was it? Was it a marriage? I see lots of women like you, usually trying to kill their husbands or get a fair settlement. Usually they aren’t smart cookies like yourself, from Brooklyn.”
“Really?”
“Manhattan to the core and they’ll do anything to cling to this piece of rock.”
“Well, since you ask, the long and short of it is that I guess I fancy myself an optimist and after about twenty years saw that that really wasn’t helping me. Did I knock him off? No. Did I hire killers? No. Did I know him after all those years?”
“Probably not.”
“No, so I guess you’re right, he just sort of vanished into thin air like people do when we aren’t paying attention. I guess Scotland Yard doesn’t buy my story.”
“You had a lover?”
“Not really.”
“Vague.”
“Well I had momentary lack of judgment, so my fidelity record isn’t untarnished. But that was years ago.”
“And why was that?”
“Let the record show I wasn’t getting any.”
“For how long?”
“Forever, practically.”
“Not a bit? Here try this.” The Sergeant had skewered some General Tao’s chicken on a chopstick and was holding up to Gillian’s mouth. “This is my weakness.”
“Mmmmm, that is good. About a million calories I bet. Who cares? No, not a bit.”
“So you’re kind of virginal.”
“Kind of? Hardly.”
“But you’ve been missing out for what, twenty years?”
“I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since I got on the plane three nights ago.”
“Coincidence.”
“What?”
“Hubby goes missing and within hours his wife is checking out the cockpit.”
“Who told you?”
“Really? You were?”
“Look, I had no idea he was gone but I must have sensed something on some level. I saw my reflection and realized there was no halo around my head and I was doing nobody any good by being faithful, not him, not me. Him being gone is just a coincidence.”
“And from the sounds of it a happy one at that.”
“But you don’t understand.” Gillian felt threatened, stupid, her throat choked up.
“It’s okay, don’t get emotional. I’m not here to judge you.”
“Well I wish you would, you’d see I’m innocent.”
The Sergeant put his arm around her. “I’m sorry, I truly didn’t mean to make you cry or to be insensitive or anything like that. Look, let’s keep eating, and I want you to drink your beer. It’s a special night, no matter where you are––
“Don’t you have a wife and kids to spend Christmas with?”
“We’re divorced, freshly. I get to see the kids tomorrow.”
“Divorced. What a mistake, for her I mean.”
Sexual Solstice (First Class Woman) Page 11
