by Edward Lee
The expletive jolted her; more tears welled. “I know.”
“You give those freaks a taste, then they’ll go out and rape real kids. You ought to be ashamed.”
“Time Magazine Woman of the Year,” Slouch laughed.
“I’m sorry!” she sobbed. “I know it’s a shitty thing to do but I’ve got to make a living! It’s hard out there. I’m paying nineteen hundred dollars a month to rent four hundred square feet.”
“Welcome to New York,” Vernon said. “Move to Minnesota and take your sob story with you.”
Now she was crying like a genuine child. “I-I can’t go to jail—I can’t stand it—”
“This is her second strike,” Slouch informed.
Taylor jerked her chair around—Good Cop/Bad Cop time. “We’re just a precinct, Cinzia. We’re not like a division in one of the boroughs. There’s nothing we can do to help you stay out of the lezzie-tank. You’ll be the hit of the cell block to all those Big Bertha mamas.” Then he jerked her chair back to face Vernon.
“Maybe, maybe not. Give us a solid crack contact, and we might be able to help you out a little.”
The girl began to blubber. “I don’t have any crack contacts—I told you. I don’t do drugs. Please! I screwed up, I’m sorry. You got no idea what it was like for me when I had to do time.”
“We can all imagine, little girl,” Taylor said.
But she’s not lying about the drugs, Vernon could tell at a glance. The women always sung like canaries after a second or third bust. “Did you agree to a blood test when you got booked?”
“That she did, How,” Slouch offered. “Makes ya wonder.”
Vernon watched her intently, assaying body language and eye movement. “Maybe I can do something for you, Cinzia, but you know how life is. To get something, you have to give something.”
The girl groaned. “Jesus, you gotta be kidding me; you guys are cops.”
“Relax, I’m not talking about sexual somethings—”
“Shucks!” Slouch laughed.
Taylor jerked her chair back. “You give us the make on your johns so we get an assist from Vice—”
The girl groaned.
“And, you give us some info that leads to a bust on the hardware store,” Vernon ganged up. “A little bird says you saw something last night.”
For once, the girl seemed enthused. “Oh, yeah, I saw the whole thing near Seventy-seventh. The hardware store near Greenflea. It was like three in the morning.”
“That’s a bit late for a little girl to be wandering around,” Taylor said, then shoved her chair back toward Vernon.
“Did you see the perpetrators?”
“Yes, four or five of them. They’d broken the front window. Right when I was walking by after a—well, you know. They all jumped out the hole in the window and ran away.”
“Four or five of them? They didn’t happen to be—”
“It’s these nutty homeless chicks I see all the time hanging out around Broadway, near—what is it? Dessorio Avenue?”
Vernon and Taylor traded raised brows.
“But last night they were up around Seventy-seventh busting into the hardware store,” she went on. “The reason I recognized them is I see ’em all the time during the day panhandling on Sixty-eighth.”
“Homeless girls…”
“Yeah, crackheads. They’re pains in the ass. They live place to place to place. You know.”
“No, we don’t know,” Vernon said. “What place? The shelters south of town?”
“No, no, a building gets sold or a restaurant goes under, lots of the bums will squat there until someone comes in to start work on the place and throws ’em out. But they hang around this area. Upper West Side’s a good place to beg for change. You want to see ’em, go down to where that guy sells off-brand hot dogs and says they’re Sabrett’s.”
“That’s half the vendors in New York, honey,” Slouch said.
“It’s the guy who’s always around Dessorio and Sixty-seventh,” she added. “I see them all the time, bumming change around there.”
“Pretty interesting, huh, How? The bum part?” Taylor remarked.
“Just like those girls last December.”
“And they’re real nutty and silly,” the prostitute complained. “Giggling and jabbering. They’re worse than the damn pigeons.”
“Have some compassion, Cinzia,” Vernon told her. “They’re probably all schizophrenic. What’s your excuse for being a non contributor?”
The girl put her head down.
Vernon rubbed his hands together. “What you gotta understand is this is about the cushiest precinct in the city. These girls stole a pissant forty bucks’ worth of knives last night and a bunch of Christmas tree stands last December.”
The girl gave him an odd look.
“That’s right. Christmas tree stands. Not exactly the crime of the century, huh?” Vernon went on. “But because our jobs are so easy here, if we don’t solve this real fast—like in one day—we’ll be the laughingstock of the department. So here’s the deal. If your blood test comes up negative for drugs, and youddd show us where these nutty homeless girls hang out, I’ll call the magistrate and have him drop your charges, if you agree to do some informant work for the Vice unit. That way, you stay out of jail, and we get something to do that makes us look like we’re earning our pay for a change.”
“All right,” the girl said.
Vernon uncuffed her. “And clean that silly makeup off your face. It makes you look asinine.”
“Thanks…”
“You’re going to go with Detective Taylor now and show him where these girls congregate.”
“I’m almost off-shift,” Taylor complained.
“Such are the hardships of public service.” Vernon cracked a smile.
“Hey, Jake, make sure you got your vest on,” Slouch sniped. “These nutty homeless chicks are tough customers.”
“You’re going with him,” Vernon said.
Slouch glared. “Why?”
“To pick up some hot dogs from that street vendor. I’ll be able to tell if they’re really Sabrett’s. False advertising’s a crime, too, you know.”
Slouch wasn’t happy. “And what are you doing, Inspector?”
“I’m going home,” Vernon said. “I’m off-shift.”
CHAPTER THREE
(I)
“It’s Brazilian rosewood,” Paul said with pride. The dining table shined with such luster it nearly seemed possessed of some dark inner light.
“I’ll bet it cost a fortune,” Cristina said.
“Sure, but we’re successful, remember?”
“You’ve really done a spectacular job,” she complimented, still dazzled by the visual impact of the foyer and dining room. “And look at these banisters!”
“That’s knurled mahogany, honey.” He ran his hand around the wood’s corkscrew configuration at the end. “It’s one piece of wood, believe it or not. They steam the wood so they can shape it to match the curvature of the stairs.”
Cristina looked up the steps, marveling at the plush, black-red carpet. “These are the most beautiful stairs I’ve ever seen in a home, Paul.”
“Yeah? And now it’s our home.”
When she turned, she was jolted by the stunning reflection of the stairwell’s banister in a great circular mirror hanging in a quaint niche.
Paul’s tie hung loosened, his jacket off, as he sipped a small scotch. Cristina could tell how excited he was to finally be unveiling the house to her. He did all this for me, she knew. And it’s beautiful.
“Unfortunately, for now,” he added, “these are the stairs to nowhere.”
Cristina agreed with the tactic. “There’s no reason to fix the whole place up right away.”
“I’m going to do it a floor at a time, and I don’t even have a timetable. This floor is more than we need anyway.” He took her hand. “Now it’s time for you to see the rest.”
Each room waylaid her.
Cristina wasn’t much of a materialist but even she had to admit how much she loved what he’d done. She tended to like new things that looked old, and this nailed the sentiment. The barrel-vaulted ceiling in the living room lent a neoclassical air with its arched transoms and mosaic wainscoting. A fireplace as high as she stood graced one wall, faux logs burning gently. Tuscan pilasters formed a colonnade across the foyer—highlighting the pointed, double-paneled entry door—the end of which was dedicated to a mirrored wet bar.
“You want a drink for the rest of the tour?” he asked, freshening his own.
“No! I’m too excited!”
Dark hardwood floor segments alternated with shining slate the color of jade. Another room functioned as a lanai leading to a tiny but meticulous garden arranged on the balcony. I’ll be able to brainstorm out here! Next came the den, which Paul informed was actually the “sitting room”: cupolas full of bookshelves, a simple silver chandelier, and darkly upholstered armchairs—the feel of an exclusive club. Furniture, sconces, and shelving all resonated old-world craftsmanship, which continued along a butter-cream wall of arch-topped windows and exotic maroon drapes. In the kitchen, peacock-green African marble topped an expansive island counter.
“Get ready,” he said. “Here’s the master suite…”
More maroon and gold tones accentuated the cozy room where they’d be sleeping. A great, veiled poster bed, more dark old-world furniture, and angled into the corner was the bathroom and vanity, complete with a spa appointed by more decorative columns. Cristina felt winded, taking it all in.
“The interior decorator called it neo-Baroque,” he said.
“I love it,” she whispered.
When she snuck a peek at him, she could tell that he loved it too, but what he loved more was her approval. What kind of guy would do all of this just to make a woman happy? she had to ask herself. He cares more about what I think than anything else. It made her feel more special than she’d ever felt.
“I knew you’d like the style. The guest room’s similar but I didn’t do much to your work room, which is right in here,” he said and opened two more double-paneled doors.
He obviously had the windows expanded to provide more light, and kept the style pretty basic.
“I know how artists are about their work space,” he went on. “You’ll want to tune it up your own way.”
He was quite right about the “work space” thing; creative types had their own eccentricities regarding the work environment. They went back to the bedroom. “It’ll be perfect,” she said and hugged him. A tear slipped from her eye. “You did all this for me—”
“Well, you moved here for me,” he said, tightening his embrace.
“It’s for both of us.” The sudden surge of excitement left her feeling hot, even prickly. What’s this all about? she tested herself. Her nipples pressed against his chest seemed to spark.
When was the last time she’d felt such a sensation?
She tried to distract herself. “You must’ve spent so much redoing these rooms,” she said, but kept hugging him. Suddenly the feel of his chest pressing her breasts began to spread.
“Honey, you probably could’ve swung it on what you made last year. Remember, we’re both successful now, not just me.”
“I know, but—”
But what? Why did she feel so pleasantly strange now?
His hot words blew against her ear. “You have no idea how happy I am that you like the place.”
Her hand slipped around the back of his neck and pulled. The kiss was so sudden and desperate she couldn’t figure it. She slipped her tongue in his mouth and pressed against him even harder.
“Yeah, I guess you really like the place,” he remarked when the kiss broke.
“No, I love it, and I love you…”
He took her hand. “Come on, you haven’t seen the game room yet. I’ve got a fifty-inch plasma that lowers out of the ceiling, and twelve speakers hidden in the walls. All that classical stuff you listen to? Wait’ll you hear it on this system.”
But his words sounded far away. Instead of following him out, she was backing away until her hands came away from his.
“Paul…”
He turned, eyes narrowed. “Don’t you want to see—”
Cristina kept back-stepping, then slid her rump up on the vanity’s marble top.
“Honey?”
Her voice suddenly sounded parched. “Come here…”
She reached out to him as he approached, then wrapped her legs around him, to seize his groin against hers. It was almost rough the way she grabbed his collar and pulled him down again to kiss her, this time more ravenously. It was a wild heat, like steam, that seemed to spiral inside of her, from her breasts, to her belly, to her sex. She could tell Paul didn’t know what to make of this but she didn’t even give him time to contemplate; she kept her mouth locked to his, nearly whining.
“Paul, I’m so sorry,” she managed to pant, then frantically undid the top buttons of her blouse.
“Sorry for what?”
“You know.” And then, frustrated, she yanked her blouse out of her jeans, and pushed one of his hands up against her skin.
He was so taken aback, he chuckled.
“Baby, I don’t know. You’re kind of throwing me for a loop but…I like it.”
She locked her ankles behind his back, vising him harder. She felt in a low frenzy when she blurted, “I’m sorry I haven’t been very sexual for a while. I haven’t considered your needs at all.”
“Honey, that’s not true—”
“Yes, it is!” she panted. “I’ve been nervous about the new line and about moving and being in New York and—”
“Cristina! I haven’t exactly been Mr. Stud for a while myself, not with all that’s been going on at the office with Jess…”
She kept trying to sort her thoughts against the rising gust of lust. “For most of the last year you probably thought I lost my sex drive, that I wasn’t attracted to you, but I need you to know that I am. I’ve always been so hot for you I can’t stand it—I just don’t show it a lot—”
His hands slid up her blouse even as he weighed his own perplexion. “Cris—”
“I want us to do it right here,” she breathed. Finally she tore open the rest of her blouse and flipped her bra up over her breasts so his hands could find them. “Right now…I need you in me right now …” And as she made the unbidden plea, she cupped his crotch and rubbed, then ran her hand against her own crotch. She could feel her own heat building beneath the denim, and suddenly she thought she’d scream if she didn’t have her pants off.
“Baby, you’re really a trip today.”
She unsnapped her waist button, pulled his hands off her breasts and put them on her waist. “Take these off.” She kicked her shoes across the room, then lifted her butt up to help him.
She didn’t even think about it while he was pulling her jeans off her legs: she caressed her own breasts and moaned out loud…
They both flinched at a loud, even pounding on the door. Her eyes darted to his.
“Don’t answer it—”
He paused, then continued peeling her jeans off.
More knocking, louder, and also the doorbell.
“Damn it!” Paul looked crestfallen. “It’s the movers with more of our stuff.”
“Shit!”
“Baby, believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better than to keep going here but if I don’t get that, they’ll probably leave…”
Cristina crumpled back against the vanity wall. “I know.” And then she laughed, looking at herself. “That’s what I call getting caught with my pants down…”
Paul stood her on her feet and pulled her jeans back up. “We’ll pick up where we left off once they leave.” Then he laughed at her buttonless blouse. “Maybe you better get something else on.”
“Yeah. What would the movers think?”
“Come out whenever you’re ready. I’ll let them in now,” he said, s
traightening himself up. “I think they’ve got my office stuff and law books, and most of your work stuff. That’s pretty much all that’s left.”
She kissed him one more time, hard, as the doorbell rang again. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Paul smiled, wiped his brow, and left.
Jeez, what’s getting into me? she thought. I feel absolutely slutty—I practically raped him! She supposed everyone was subject to their moods, but this was uncanny. It must mean that all my worries about moving here are over—just like Britt said earlier. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so sexually charged. And it’s still there, she realized, that lusty heat still spiraling. She took a moment to splash her face with cool water from the sink, catching her breath. The temptation was so great, she actually cosseted herself again through the jeans, then contemplated searching for her vibrator. But most of the moving boxes were still unpacked. It would take me forever to find it, she thought, and then winced when she realized how outrageous the idea was in the first place. The movers would probably walk in… I’m sure Paul would love that. “That’s some girlfriend you got there, buddy.” Instead she simmered herself down and put on a different blouse.
But, still, her ponderings continued. Maybe this is the NEW me, she hoped. She’d always felt that her sexual self had been shortchanged, stifled by her past and buried further by her introversion as an artist. It made her feel awful at times, because she knew that her own romantic moods were so few and far between that Paul must be left so unsatisfied as to wonder if their relationship was even right. But he’s hung in there for three years now, she reminded herself. I hope I feel like this every day, so I can really make it up to him …
She hoped she wasn’t still flushed when she finally ventured to the foyer. Blank-faced movers nodded to her as they hand-carted in more boxes. When none of them were looking, Paul silently mouthed I love you to her.
Just you wait, she mouthed back, then mockingly cleared her throat and said, “Is it okay for me to look around the upper floors? I mean, is it safe?”
