Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “I’m here to help you, nothing more.”

  “Well, you’re not helping. As a matter of fact, I’m feeling uncomfortable and tense.”

  “I’d like to help you.” His eyes slithered over me like a long, moist tongue.

  “No hidden agendas, Dr. Twain, no bullshit and no games. I thought you could help me with my nightmares, but if there’s anything else on your mind, I’ll see to it that—”

  “I assure you, my intention is only to help you.”

  I glared at him before we stepped apart. He was a living contradiction—big, handsome, powerful, and yet afraid of tiny germs. “Let’s hope that’s so. One lick of the lips and you’ll be back in therapy for the rest of your life.”

  “I rue the prospect.”

  Yeah, rue this! The freak was getting off. “So, shall we go back to doctor-patient, or am I out of here?”

  Twain stood. He looked deeply into my eyes while touching my arm gently with his gloved hand. Careful, Twain, my cooties might jump out and bite you. He was such a damn contradiction, the body of Tyson Beckford and the neurotic trappings of Woody Allen. He directed me back to my chair. “Please, sit down.” I didn’t move, prompting him to add, “Please, if you sit down, I will too.”

  God knows why I got back into that chair. Twain was so damn intriguing. I didn’t know whether to smack him around or tear his clothes off. Doesn’t that mean I’m conflicted? Damn, I was getting sucked deeper into the whirling vortex of psycho-dementia. Sucked, now that was an interesting choice of words—what else has he had germicidally treated?

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. I assumed that as a New York City detective, you were accustomed to being spoken to directly. Apparently I caught you off guard.” Twain lowered his head. “I didn’t mean to.”

  Punish me, Detective. I’ve been a bad boy. Is that what he was thinking? I’ll bet that Twain’s head was just filled with dirty little thoughts. The prospect of looking into them excited the hell out of me. “Let’s move on then. I’ve got miles to go before I sleep,” I said.

  “Reciting Frost?”

  “Yes, Frost. Even a cop can enjoy poetry.” And you took the road less traveled, didn’t you?

  “I love Frost.” Twain’s eyes lit up as he spoke. “There, you see, we’ve found common ground.”

  Just barely. I smiled.

  “Fine, let me come clean then. I don’t take on many new clients, Detective. I’ve got to have a real desire to help someone before I become engaged in anything new. A new client has to be really . . . extraordinary.”

  “And I—”

  “Detective Chalice, you’re as extraordinary as they come.” He smiled strangely, like a child about to divulge a deep dark secret. He was almost giddy as he sat down in his chair. “I have a Venus obsession.” A single tear rolled down his face and disappeared behind his dark mask.

  “Humor me, would you, Doctor?”

  Twain opened his drawer. He had a wad of Kleenex in a Zip-lock bag. He removed one and resealed the bag before drying his face. “It’s terrible,” he said between sniffles. “I’m drawn to women and yet—”

  “I get it, forbidden fruit. You want women but you’re afraid. So, why me?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? You’re magnificent.”

  “And Nigel wants to be a bad boy?”

  “But can’t.”

  “Why don’t you hire an escort? You don’t look like you’re starving.”

  “Please, don’t be absurd. It’s not just your beauty. It’s your complexity that intrigues me.”

  “So, you’re helping me because you think I’m beautiful and nuts.”

  “Birds of a feather.”

  “This is too funny to be true.” I stood and began to stride around the room. “Is this for real?”

  “Even the clients I agree to see are on a six month waiting list. I saw you in a matter of hours.”

  Jesus. “How lucky can a girl get?” Twain opened his center desk drawer and took out a folder. He spread its contents so that all the newspaper articles he had clipped were visible. I eased forward and took hold of the folder. Twain had clipped all the articles related to my current investigation.

  “Ninety percent of what I know about you, I learned from these articles. Of course, I guessed about the relationship between you and Detective Lido. Needless to say, you did not dispute the claim. I’m the only one who can help you, Stephanie. I’m the only one.”

  I don’t know why I didn’t walk out, but I didn’t.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Becoming unstable. It always pissed me off when my computer flashed that warning. I now understood what it meant. I was glad that I had promised to help Ma do some baking. Activities like creaming and sifting are therapeutic, churning and steaming are not. Always remember that when you’re in the kitchen. Twain had turned out to be a handful and not in the way I had hoped. He was a phobic, drugged-out English shrink with a crush on Yours Truly—Just what I needed in my life. Swell.

  “Friggin’ apples are hard as nails,” Ma swore, expressive as always. She was wearing her taupe housecoat. Taupe is for baking, green is for money. Ma’s big on color association. She had a vault key pinned to the green one, remember? I wonder what she had pinned to this one, a paring knife and a photo of Graham Kerr? Remember him, the Galloping Gourmet? I think Ma still had a hankering for his schnitzel. Well anyway, she was in the taupe housecoat, bearing down on a Cortland with an apple corer, mercilessly gouging out the center. Personally, I didn’t feel too centered myself, but the hell with that now. We’re baking, right? Let’s put mental illness aside for the moment.

  I was preparing the streusel topping which consisted of four sticks of butter and a full package of brown sugar. Brown sugar? Damn it. Everything brought me back to Twain. I didn’t like being out of control; I’m as anal as they come. “My God, Ma, ya think there’s enough sugar in this recipe? I hope you’re not planning on eating any of this.”

  “It’s apple pie, Stephanie. What’s wrong with apple pie?” Ma swore under her breath. I didn’t hear her comment, but it sounded like a doozie.

  “It’s not apple pie; it’s a friggin’ candy bar with a few chunks of fruit thrown in.” I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel which was older than I was. Ma never throws anything out. “How many times do I have to warn you to stay away from sweets?” She swore under her breath again. She looked out the window, trying to ignore me. I gave her a nudge on the hip.

  “Hey! Watch it, I’ve got a sharp knife in my hands.” She slapped my hand away and swore one more time. “What’s good to eat, Stephanie, nothing?”

  “Forget it. Want help with your apples?” I walked over to my bag and took out my backup piece. I had the Para-Ordnance .45 Light/Double Action out of its holster in a jiffy, ejected the clip and emptied the slide before Ma could see what I was doing.

  “Here!” I stormed over to her and put a peeled Cortland on her head. “Hold this,” I ordered. I hid the gun behind my back. As she accommodated my request, I took two steps back and aimed at the apple, well, slightly higher, actually, well out of harm’s way. “This is ever so much better than that old coring tool. How many apples you got left? I’ve got a full clip.”

  “Stephanie!” she shrieked. “You’ve gone crazy. What the hell are you doing?” She looked a little pale and shaky, but what the hell. What did it take to make a point around this place anyway?

  “This is gonna be great. So much faster too.”

  “Oh my God. You’ve lost your mind.”

  “No, really, Ma, I’m a crack shot. Should I just do the apple or would you like a little off the top?”

  “Cut it out, Stephanie. It’s not funny.”

  “What’s the difference, Ma? You’re killing yourself anyway. At least you won’t be torturing me with a slow, agonizing death. What’s the expression, two birds with one stone?”

  Ma glared at me and I glared back, will against will. Who would blink first? A couple of seconds passed. It seemed lon
ger. I put down the gun. “What am I gonna do with you, Ma? I already lost Daddy. Do I have to bury you too? Jesus, Ma.” I began to mist up. “I’m only twenty-eight.” Damn that Nigel Twain. Here I am in the prime of my life. Stephanie Chalice: cop, hero, independent woman, child. I felt so damn tired.

  “Hey, what’s up, Stephanie?” Ma walked over. My head was lowered in despair. She had to crane her neck to get a look at my face. “Let’s sit down and talk.” She took me by the arm. “Come on.” We walked over to the sofa and plopped our fannies down. The sofa still had those awful protective plastic slipcovers on them. They had yellowed and cracked with age. A plastic shard caught me right in the ass.

  “I’m all right, Ma.”

  “You’re full o’ shit, you’re all right. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Midlife crisis.”

  Ma snickered. “You’re only twenty-eight. What gives?” I guess I smirked at her remark. “That’s better. Now spill it.”

  “I’m all right. Don’t you ever get a little gloomy?”

  “Gloomy? Yes, I get gloomy. I don’t impersonate William Tell with a sidearm.”

  “I’m expecting my period, that’s all.”

  “So take some Midol, for God’s sake. Don’t tell me this is PMS. My daughter doesn’t get PMS.”

  “Do so. I’m just so naturally bitchy it’s hard to tell the difference.”

  “You can do better than that.” She gave me a few moments and when she saw that I wasn’t going to talk, sighed and then slapped her leg. “I give up.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. “I’m here when you want to talk. No appointment necessary.” She stood up and reached for my hand. “I’ll scrape the damn topping off the apple pie. It’ll kill me, but I’ll do it.”

  I gave her a little girl smile and then stood up. I threw my arms around her and gave her a kiss. “Love ya, Ma.”

  “I love you too, honey.” Suddenly her finger was in my face. “Pull your piece on me again and I’ll put you over my knee. Got it?”

  We hugged for a long time. It restored me. I wasn’t going to burden her with my loony problems: the nightmare, the homicidal maniac I was tracking, or the misguided adventures of Nigel Twain. Enough shit had fallen on her in her life. I had to figure this one out by myself.

  I wondered if I would have spilled it if my father had been the one beseeching me, cop to cop. I looked over Ma’s shoulder. The Cortlands were turning brown.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I went to the salon the next morning. Shakira blew out my hair and did my makeup. That sort of thing always lifts my spirits. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, I paid seventy-five bucks for what usually costs me nothing. It was still cheaper than a session with the shrink and it accomplished the same thing; I swear.

  Shakira was an absolutely gorgeous Hindu woman, four-foot-eight and in the same weight class as Tweety Bird, who chanted when she spoke. She had either attained a level of spiritual enlightenment not accessible to Occidentals, or Jorge, the salon’s proprietor, was doing her, and I’m not talking about the permanent wave in her hair. In any case, I’d only seen that kind of euphoria on the faces of those induced by narcotics. I don’t care how much Deepak Chopra you read, meditation alone will not make you that happy.

  I was smiling as I entered the station house. I had been checking myself out in storefront windows along the way as I walked. I was doing the skirt thing again, the sluttiest I could get away with on the job. I had been thinking about Gus all morning. Shoot, did I say Gus? I meant Lido. I was thinking about sequestering Lido away for a nooner. I had never been prone to this type of behavior before, but now that I’d seen him naked . . . Anyway, it was good for my emotional state, seriously.

  I had picked up two Frappuccinos on my way in and slid one across Lido’s desk. He caught the look on my face, checked the Mariah Carey outfit. “Oh shit!” He smiled. “So it’s gonna be that way.”

  “Cold drink on a hot day, Lido. Get your mind out of the bedroom,” I whispered.

  “Right!” he replied sarcastically. He bit the end of his straw and slowly stripped the paper off of it. I was in a bad way; even that got to me today. He took a short drag and ran his tongue along his top lip, playing it to the hilt.

  “Don’t we have to be in forensics?” I barked. Gee whiz, what’s wrong with a girl wanting a little something-something? Get over yourself, Lido! Men!

  Aaron Kurtz was a born-again cop. He’d actually abandoned the Hasidic community to become a forensic specialist. It started with a small ammo shop in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, and then a few night classes at John Jay. He got so wrapped up in forensic study that he traded his tallis for a microscope.

  “Good to see you, Detective.”

  I smiled. “Back at you, Kurtz.”

  Lido gave him a high five. “Looks like you put on a few,” Lido commented, slapping Kurtz on the belly.

  “Donuts,” Kurtz replied. It was true. Cops were lazy. My dad used to say that cops would reach for the closest woman or donut. Maybe that’s what I was doing with Lido, validating the law of proximity and frequency. Dad used to say that if two people were put in the same place often enough, they’d eventually end up in bed together. Great, there was something else to think about. Perhaps I should mention it to my bacteriophobic, LSD-experimenting, wannabe criminologist shrink. Nah, forget it. I was better off having Shakira blow out my hair. It was cheaper and less complicated.

  “So, what ya got for us, big fella?” I asked.

  “Come take a look,” Kurtz offered. He waddled off. My God, he was wide. He looked like Humpty Dumpty from behind.

  Kurtz picked up a long-barreled weapon and cradled it gently in his two oversized hands. “It took me a long time, but I finally found a match.” He handed it to Lido. “Feather 9mm RAV,” he continued. “The markings are dead-on. Only a long-barreled instrument like the RAV 9mm could produce the unique rifling marks I found on the slugs taken from the tramcar and basement crime scenes. I fired it through the homemade silencer. It was one hundred percent the same.”

  “You sound sure of yourself.”

  “Absolutely sure! In addition, the metal fibers and yellow filaments found on both gunshot victims match the materials the silencer was made from: tennis balls and steel wool.”

  “Brilliant work.”

  “Thanks,” Kurtz said. “Let’s move on.”

  “Can we trace the weapon?” Lido asked.

  “Perhaps, but it will take a long time. The RAV 9mm is available by mail-order in all fifty states. They sell these things like hotcakes. Every wannabe commando has one. Great target machine: light, accurate, breaks down one, two, three. These findings will help you convict, but you’ll have to find your perp some other way.”

  “I’ll add the information to our computer search all the same,” Lido said. “You never know.”

  It pissed me off. Our perp was still in the driver’s seat. We didn’t know anything he didn’t want us to know. Twain had offered to help, but I had declined. Perhaps I shouldn’t have looked a gift horse in the mouth. Perhaps it took a freak to catch a freak. I was starting to get a little crazy, but nowhere as crazy as Twain, and by the time I could reach that level of dementia, New York would be a ghost town.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lido and I banged egos all day. It got in the way of us being cops, which was the last thing I wanted to happen. “Proximity and frequency,” my father’s words kept reverberating in my head; two good-looking young people in the same place all the time. I was determined to be a cop first and a woman second, but for those of you who are female, you just go and try.

  Lido met me outside the stationhouse. “Hey, I’ll buy you a beer.” Lido had the most incredibly brown puppy-dog eyes. You know the kind I’m talking about, the kind you can’t say no to.

  Lido took me to a place called Café Remy, a Latino club down by the South Street Seaport. After two Coronas, I was three sheets to the wind. I had never danced to salsa music before, but if you’re scorin
g on originality, I think I did pretty well. Technically, Italy is one of the Latin countries and I’ve got an ample supply of rhythm. At twenty-eight, I can writhe and grind with the best of them. It wasn’t what I had planned, but it eliminated the need for talking. The whole place shook from the driving bass beat. Sometimes talking is overrated, isn’t it?

  Lido knew what he was doing. His moves on the dance floor were smooth. I shot him an accusatory glance, the kind that says, you’ve done this before. “I didn’t know you were such a gigolo.” Lido looked at me strangely. He couldn’t hear me above the music.

  “What?”

  “I said I didn’t know you were such a gigolo. “

  “What?”

  “You’re a slut!”

  “Oh.” He heard me that time, Guys love being called sluts. The suggestion really turns them on. He winked, spun me around, and began running his hands up and down my legs, tantalizing me with his fingertips. I’ll have to remember that he likes that.

  There was a Latino couple at the bar. They were doing calisthenics with their tongues. The guy had his hand up his date’s blouse. Who was I to be outdone? I ground my butt into Lido and gave him the dreamy-eyed look. God, don’t they have air-conditioning in this joint?

  Lido’s arms were around me, holding me tight. It felt so good. I wanted to unzip him and let Little Lido out for a merengue.

  We danced for hours and became drenched, our skin glistening, our libidos steaming. I looked over at the bar. That couple was still doing their oral calisthenics. They were now up to Jane Fonda’s advanced tape. You know, the one where you have to bend backwards until your head is just below your privates. “Hey, let’s throw a bucket of water on those two. I’ve got to sit.”

  Lido smiled. I kissed him on the neck. He was as salty as a bag of Lays potato chips, the original kind. He told me to stay put. He turned and maneuvered his way through the crowd. I saw him talking to one of the gargantuan bouncers. The next thing I knew, we were upstairs in the private lounge: quieter, cooler, and with far fewer inhabitants.