The shaven-headed driver glared at them through the rear view mirror as if he wanted to first murder then dismember them both. Maximus looked at the ID on the partition before them. He leaned over the head rest.
“Hey! You’ve got a Slavic name! Where are you from?”
“Croatia,” the driver muttered, peeling through the crowds scattering on the street before them.
“Zagreb?”
“Yeah.”
“Pozdrav! Kako ste?” Maximus whispered in her ear, “That's 'hello, how are you?'” Then he rattled off a few more sentences, and the driver, though it seemed alien to his culture, laughed. The conversation continued, and Maximus explained he had asked the driver to wait for them while they freed the seafood.
They were at the river in minutes.
“Hvala,” Maxim said. Gretchen guessed that meant 'thanks.' The driver was now smiling.
They got out, trailing the bags with them.
Gretchen had envisioned clambering down an embankment, tripping on roots and being scratched by thorns, but the riverbank was well paved, and all they had to do was open the bags and shake them out into the water.
“Goodbye!” Gretchen called out. “Goodbye little fishies! Goodbye crabs! Have nice long lives!”
Maximus stood stiffly, waved out his right hand out and bellowed in a baritone with a passable British accent, “Go forth and prosper!” He turned to Gretchen. “Or is it multiply?”
“It doesn't matter,” Gretchen said.
As the rescued creatures splashed into the water, murky and toxic though it might be, sure to perish rather than prosper or multiply, she felt something catching at the back of her throat, and it wasn't the stench of the Hudson River.
Maximus' new friend drove them to Betty's Speakeasy.
THOUGH THEY WERE SITTING on ratty bar stools in a dungeon-like basement, in Gretchen's mind, it was as if they were in a park: birds were chirping around them, ducks were quacking, a little child was laughing, and sunbeams were dancing on their youngish, smooth faces.
They had had to knock on the door, and a little peephole was pulled back, just like a real speakeasy. Betty and her staff knew Maximus, and all welcomed him just as heartily as the people of the Confucius Kung Lucky Duck had. He ordered absinthe for two, and her heart fell. Here's the catch, Gretchen thought, he guzzles down hallucinogens!
He must've seen her shocked look, because he said, patting her on the back, “Oh, don't worry, it's not the crazy stuff that used to be illegal. This isn't 1960 Prague. This stuff is toned down, ADFA approved. But it's fun to drink. And it makes me think I'm in Moulin Rouge.”
Gretchen loved that movie. So they drank it, with the spoons and sugar cubes and fire. And then they had a more traditional beer, for him, and wine, for her.
Who knew how the conversation twisted and turned, but at one stage, halfway through her wine, Gretchen was saying, “And so I've always had the greatest respect for doctors and nurses and, well, anyone in the medical field. To go through all that training to save people's lives. It takes a special kind of person to do that, to decide at an early age to slog through year after year after endless year of school in order to...” She trailed off suddenly and took a sip of wine. He'd been staring eagerly at her with those puppy-dog eyes, drinking in everything she was saying. Now there was a look of concern.
“Is anything the matter?”
“No, not at all.” Not with him. Gretchen was becoming aware of all the time that had ticked away, wasted on Sam and all the others, squandered, year after year after year, while men like the one before her actually existed. And were available. The next person who told her all the best men were taken or gay would get an earful from her. She had believed them all. But it wasn’t true. Here he was now, available and wonderful and straight. Her multi-lingual, master chef, sub-atomic-particle obsessed archaeologist, spreading his goodwill and cheer to everyone he met on this, his only journey through life. She had wasted so much of her own. “I guess I'm just tired. It's been a long day.”
Maximus looked around to ensure nobody was listening. But other than Betty at the bar and a few others sitting on the stool, and two guys playing pool (which they had also done, and Maximus had let her win, then showed her how she could get ten balls into the pockets in a row), there was nobody around. He faced her, suddenly serious.
“Now I'm going to tell you something I tell very few people,” he said.
Gretchen's eyes darted around the room. Her windpipe was tight, her stomach clenched. Now was the moment he would reveal he was one of 77 aliens sent to Earth to populate the planet with their kind. She knew he was too good to be true. Her fingers almost cracked the wine glass.
He leaned towards her, then whispered his horrid dark secret in her ear:
“I'm a poet.”
She almost barked with laughter, such was her relief. “Yes, you are,” she said, touching him on the arm.
“No. I mean, really. I write poetry.”
Gretchen affected a squawk of excitement and grinned over at him, her eyes shooting wildly in all directions, unsure where to look. There were three occupations Gretchen couldn't understand or stand: clowns, mimes and poets. Please, dear God, don't let him pull out a roll of paper from some pocket and start reading from it! I just might retch! This was the only black cloud on an otherwise tropical-sunset-type date.
“A poet? How romantic!” she said as if by rote; she suspected a reaction of this sort was expected of her. Ohhhh, and he was so perfect! Where the hell did this madness spring from? Please don't suggest we go to a poetry reading together, please, please, please, dear God!
“Of course, to pay the bills, I work for BytesTech, ”
Gretchen relaxed. Of course. She had forgotten. He had a career. Nobody could pay the bills being a poet. Was this poetry, then, some sort of hobby that he occasionally dabbled in, to gave him a release, some creative relief, from his real money-earning job? She realized she was still grinning like a loon. The muscles in her cheeks were beginning to ache.
“You'll never believe this,” he continued, “but on the way down to Union Square today, I took one of my latest with me so I could work on it during the subway ride.”
Heart sinking, Gretchen struggled to think of something positive to say.
“I just sit and stare into space on the subway, but you're busy being...creative.” At Nickel and Dime, nobody seemed to be creative, artistic. Well, a few tried to be, but Gretchen didn't consider rapping or twerking one of the arts, fine or otherwise.
As expected, dreaded, Maxim reached into his jacket and unfurled a piece of A4 paper as if it were more valuable than one of the Dead Sea scrolls. To him, Gretchen considered, it probably was.
“Do you want to hear it?”
“Of course!” It took all to her Oscar-winning powers to give him a look of encouragement.
“It's called 'The Sink of Love,'” he said, and the only sink Gretchen could think of was the feeling in her stomach, sinking. All of the sudden, gone was his easy, carefree smile. There must have been a bit of the actor in him, after all, as without warning he seemed a different person. Serious, somber. He cleared his throat, then began to read in a low, steady voice. For her ears only. He read and read. Gretchen could do nothing but listen. And struggle to comprehend. For her, poetry was as cryptic as science. He read word after word, glancing up at her time and again to see how, if, the words were affecting her.
From what she gathered, the poem was about a woman, a mother, who was recently departed. He said something about how the woman used to clank the dishes as she stood at the sink washing them, and the noise sounded like the national anthem of a county that had once been the most powerful in the world. Something about it once ruling the waves.
Gretchen had thought she'd have to conjure up tears from some unknown depth, but they arose naturally. She was surprised. She reached across the table and took his hands in her own again. “It's beautiful,” she croaked. “Absolutely beautiful!”
“If I may be so bold...”
He pecked her on the cheek.
“Look up in the sky!” he said, when they were out on the street again. Now it was dark. Hours had passed like minutes, except perhaps the minutes of the poetry reading, which had passed like hours. “No! Past those power cords, I mean!”
Gretchen looked up. He meant the stars. They were both a bit tipsy.
“I want to know it all! From the very big, all that out there, astronomy, to the very small, sub-atomic particles and quantum mechanics. That's the Andromeda galaxy over there, the closet to the Milky Way. It's got over one trillion stars. Do you know, it takes 2.5 million years for that light to reach us?” He laughed, “Well, maybe the question should be, do you even want to know? Not many people do. Unfortunately.”
Science had always bored her stiff. But now, looking at the excitement the mere thought of it had brought to his eyes, yes. Yes, she did want to know!
“I want to know all about Andromeda, all about the Higgs Boson, I want to know all about Gordon Ramsay's Beef Stroganoff, I want to learn how to count to 10 in Mandarin, how to say hello in Serbo-Croatian. I want to learn how to shoot pool like a shark. I want to know all about you, Maximus Voo. Next time.”
He shot down on one knee. “Please may I ask for a second date?”
She tugged him up.
“Of course.”
He reeled back in mock surprise, threw back his head and howled, “Wooo-haaaahweee!” He spun around, and grabbed her by the shoulders, his eyes boring with excitement into hers. “A second date! I got a second date with the most beautiful girl in the world! I can't wait!”
Neither could she.
When she got in the taxi to go home, he was waiting for the next, wailing Air Supply's “Lost In Love,” the bit towards the end when the voice goes up five octaves.
The moon had crossed the sky. She was home. Her apartment was drab and boring. She felt like she had taken a cruise around the world, and now she was standing at the home port, suitcase in hand, alone. But she had another cruise lined up for the next week.
She reached her hand in her pocket and pulled out the fortune she'd received from the cookie at the restaurant. Learn Chinese! it demanded. Then it gave her the Mandarin word for 'toilet roll.' The fortune read IT IS RIGHT. She agreed.
CHAPTER FOUR NOW
IN FANTASY, ON THE screen and in manga, she'd shriek banshee-like, twirl a few times, and unleash Wonder-Gretchen, with jujitsu feet and karate arms, slaughter them, and drag their bodies down the sidewalk to the police, her cape furling. Or her sudden pharyngeal jaw, Alien-like, would shoot out, and teeth-knives would chomp off their tongues for DNA, and she'd spit them into some container at that same station, her tail thumping happily behind her. In both scenes, the thugs would pop up on the database, alarms clanging, wanted for everything from aggravated robbery to human organ trafficking. They'd be banged up in some hellhole facility reserved for the worst offenders, juvenile or not, and never see sunlight again.
But this was reality, and in that dingy vestibule of the broken light, the rusty mailboxes and filthy menus, a biting, kicking, gung-ho monster-Gretchen could never materialize. In fact, her brain couldn't even find herself. She was reduced to base emotional and human physical response, fear over flight, blood pounding in her ears, tears streaming from her eyes, her mind a blank and at a loss. They would easily have their way with her.
Each second seemed an eternity, or at least an hour, though...was it her imagination, or did her would-be attackers, her violators, seem to be pausing, waiting? Surely by this stage, in these few seconds, their grubby paws should be all over her, causing her all manner of shuddering and wailing, discomfort, disgust and shame. No, she wasn't imagining it; it wasn't a trick of the relativity of time. Their hands were still outstretched, frozen in the air like claws aiming for her breasts, but they were looking at each other as if to say, should we really do this? Is this the point of no return? Or however they would word it in their lingo. Somewhere in the recesses of Gretchen's panicked mind, a tiny ember of a thought ignited and began to sparkle: could they actually have consciences? Did she perhaps remind them of their mother? It wasn't out of the question; even though she was only fifteen years older or so than them, teen pregnancy was alive and well in New York City as it was everywhere else. Or are they just torturing me? she wondered. Prolonging the inevitable...?
She parted her trembling lips. “Don't do it, guys. Please don't. You know it's not right. You said you liked me. And I don't think you meant like...that.” She folded her arms over what they wanted.
The two hesitated. Detente seemed to rise between them and their captive. Then Lewd shook his head. The vile gleam trickled back into his eyes, the leer on his lips. He ran a finger over the curve of her left breast.
“Naw, bitch, party's on!”
Snicker grunted, and Gretchen wailed as his hand reached through the air toward her right breast. She struggled against the mailboxes as they tore at her raincoat, and, as a button popped to the floor, footsteps thudded down the stairs beyond the locked door.
Gretchen prayed it wasn't Roz, as that might make things worse: both of them violated and victims for life. Then she wondered at her presence of mind to think that.
Snicker and Lewd jumped as if they had been electrocuted.
“Somebody coming, yo!”
To Gretchen, they seemed almost relieved as the door was wrenched open and a savior appeared in the threshold.
“What the—?!” the stranger roared. He was tall and surfer blonde, fit, dressed in—of all things!—hospital scrubs and a light spring jacket.
“Help! Help!” Gretchen screamed, and even with all the emotions pouring through her, she had time to notice the fear in the little shits' eyes—and her own satisfaction at that! The man, no more than 35, halted them, fists and feet flying as the thugs clambered, girly shrieks ringing out, toward the door. The man took hold of Snicker's shoulders and threw him against the wall.
“Ungh!” Snicker moaned, the reddened whites of his eyes rolling up, his baggy jeans slipping down. “Ow! Uh! Ow!” The stranger was attacking his body as if it were a punching bag with a group photo of ISIS taped onto it.
The gun clattered to the floor, and the sound made no sense to Gretchen, but her thoughts were elsewhere. As the man's fists pummeled Snicker, she shoved Lewd into the front door. His exclusive Nikes slipped on the milk and his head banged against the wall.
“Motherfuc—! Crazy bitch!” he yelled, his fingers scrabbling frenetically at the door handle, whimpering as he twirled it around while Gretchen battered his bony shoulders with her dainty fists. Not Wonder-Gretchen jujitsu moves—he was hardly howling out in pain—but rewarding nevertheless.
Lewd slipped out the door, tramping over her Android on the sidewalk outside, and was gone. The door was slowly creaking closed.
Snicker roared out something that sounded to Gretchen like, “This wurn't worf it, yo,” tore himself free from the man, hiked up his jeans, pushed Gretchen to the floor and reached the door just as it was about to click shut. He was gone. They were both gone. Out of her life.
Gretchen collapsed on the pool of almond milk and menus and forgotten dollar bills, shuddering and yowling beside her lip balm, seeing nothing but white haze, her breaths deep gasps, her fingers shuddering, her shoulders heaving up and down. In need of a pee.
She shrieked at a strong male hand on her shoulder and punched it away.
“Get the hell aw—!” Then she realized whose it was. Her savior. She forced her howling, throbbing head up and looked into his face, creased with concern. She saw now he resembled Gordon Ramsay, but with fewer wrinkles and kinder eyebrows. She looked into eyes that were gray—the most amazing Husky-like eyes she had ever seen. She was entranced. Her body was like a volcano, simultaneously shuddering with fear and relief and now something deeper.
“What were those punks after?” he asked softly. Gretchen was taken aback; she would have thought hip-hop, but then she realized what he meant. It was the shock. “What did they do to you?”
His voice was deep. He was hunched before her. His hands were out, ready to comfort her, but it seemed he didn't dare touch her until she told him it was okay.
Gretchen forced her mouth to speak. She feared she sounded like Idina Menzel from the screechy bit of that song. “I'm f-f-fine. They wanted money. But I didn't have much.”
She jutted her chin at the bills and coins, sopping with milk and covered in exclusive shoe marks. She hated the sight of the money. Money was the reason for this happening to her. Like so much else. None of it good. He gathered it up, including the coins, and even wiped up a bit of the milk with the sleeve of his jacket. He shook the bills and coins, droplets dripping down his beefy fist. He offered them to her. She shook her head.
“I don't want it. I don't want to see that damn money again, let alone touch it!”
“I understand. The connotation... I-I see the same reaction often in the emergency room.”
He nodded down at his scrubs.
“You, you work there?”
“Speaking of which, do you want me to take you there? To the emergency room? I'm on my way. Or do you want me to call the cops?”
She sniveled into the back of her hand. “They didn't hurt me. They didn't take anything, or get anything. I don't see the sense...” She trailed off uncertainly. “Besides...the police? I really can't.”
He seemed surprised. It was a normal reaction, Gretchen supposed. Perhaps he wanted to know more, but sensed it would be intrusive. And that she was fragile.
She tried to get up. She couldn't.
“I'll help you?”
She nodded. Finally, he touched her again. She stood before him, adjusting the twisted belt of her raincoat, aware of the aching in her knuckles from punching Lewd, now that the adrenaline was ebbing from her body. But it was her violated breasts that seemed to ache more. She looked up at the stranger. He must have been 6 foot one, five inches taller than her.
Emergency Exit (The Irish Lottery Series Book 6) Page 4
