by Chris Orcutt
“Dakota?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be thinking about you today!”
I smiled and waved over my shoulder as I walked out of the building.
* * *
From the lecture hall I strolled through the Old Yard, attaching myself briefly to a tour group. Then I walked over to Au Bon Pain, had a cup of coffee and watched the chess hustlers set up for the day.
Twelve years ago I would come here a few times a week to meet my girlfriend, and while waiting for her I would fantasize about my future—as a forensic scientist with the FBI Lab. At the time I thought I’d spend my entire career working in a lab. I never imagined I’d become a successful field agent, and then a private investigator.
When I finished my coffee I still had another hour before Meet-Cute #2, so I took a long walk along the river, returning to Harvard Square at ten thirty. Sally was scheduled to be here now.
Starting at a couple of bookstores, I window-shopped along Mass Ave and J.F.K. Street. I was looking in the window of a miraculously still-extant typewriter shop, admiring a gleaming red typewriter, when a reflection appeared in the glass. Sally was behind me. I pretended not to notice her.
“Dakota?” she said. “What are you doing here?”
I spun around. “Oh, hi, Sally. Just window-shopping. What are you doing here?”
She held up a stack of fluorescent pink flyers. “Distributing flyers for Geoff’s study.”
“May I see?”
She handed me one. Even though it was the same flyer I’d found in her desk drawer the other day, I pretended to read it closely.
“So,” she said, “what do you think?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it has to be brazen. But don’t you think these illustrations are a bit over the top?”
“Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “I mentioned them to Geoff, but he said that’s the flyer he’s used at every college. According to him it works, so he’s not changing it.”
I nodded at the stack in her hands. “There don’t seem to be many takers.”
She stared at the sidewalk and shook her head grimly.
“I have a little time,” I said. “Let me give you a hand.”
“Really?”
“Sure.” I took half of the stack from her. “But if you’re trying to hand them out to random people on the street, you’ll be out here all day.”
“What do you suggest then?”
“Watch and learn, young one,” I said.
For the next hour, I went into a dozen businesses along J.F.K. Street with her and convinced eight of them to post a flyer and to keep a small stack next to their registers. When we emerged successful from a jewelry shop, Sally gazed up at me.
“So, Dakota?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think this is a sign?” She looked up at me with a raised eyebrow.
“Do I think what is a sign?” I asked.
“Us bumping into each other again—and so soon!” Pedestrians on the sidewalk streamed around us like we were stones in a rushing river. “You know—what you were saying earlier…that if we see each other again, we’ll know it was meant to be.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I think once is coincidence.” I glanced at my watch. “Gosh, look at the time. Sorry, doll—lunch date. Gotta go. Maybe we’ll see each other later, okay?”
“Okay.”
I pecked her on the cheek and crossed the street with the other pedestrians.
10
Impromptu Study in Crimson
Walking to Annenberg Hall, I felt guilty for toying with Sally like this, but I’d been hired to do a job: extricate Sally from her relationship with Dr. Malone. Therefore, my Casanova act was a necessary evil. The good news was, it seemed to be working.
However, now that I’d piqued Sally’s interest, it was time to pull back a bit. Pull back and, if the opportunity presented itself, make her jealous.
I hadn’t been in the Annenberg dining hall since I was a freshman at MIT and the Harvard girl I was dating was living here. I’d forgotten how majestic the place was. The moment I entered and saw the Gothic vaulted ceiling, the rich wood beams and arches, the giant gold chandeliers on long chains, and the stained glass windows, a flood of memories came back to me. Taking a breath, I scanned the dining room for Svetlana.
In the far corner a crowd was gathered around one of the tables. Above the din of hundreds of freshmen eating and talking, I heard two rapid, staccato sounds: the plunks of chess pieces against a board, followed by the snaps of a chess clock. I wormed my way through the crowd. Sure enough, there she was, Svetlana Krüsh, playing speed chess against an Indian young man. The young man sat hunched over, elbows on his knees, staring across the board from the level of the pieces. Svetlana, meanwhile, stood leaning forward and glaring at the entire board, her fingertips deftly pressing the tabletop. Her entire body was tensely coiled, as if she were about to pounce across the table and devour her opponent.
All the spectators’ eyes were riveted to the board, surely admiring Svetlana’s strategy in the endgame. But not mine. Mine were riveted to the curves of Svetlana’s backside, admiring how snugly encased it was in a deep crimson red pencil skirt. Dear Lord—a red pencil skirt, dark stockings, and black kitten heels. Each time she moved a piece, she shifted her legs, causing the skirt fabric to catch the light and stretch delectably taut across the sweep of her backside.
While enjoying this impromptu study in crimson, I had to remind myself not to pant. After a few seconds of this, I forced myself to walk away, take a few deep breaths and think about something else. Other guys typically murmur the starting lineups of their favorite baseball teams; I prefer the periodic table, column by column. During my turn around the dining room, Sally slogged in and dumped her knapsack on a table near the cafeteria entrance.
When I returned to Svetlana’s table, the game was over and the crowd was breaking up. Svetlana sat next to her opponent, going over moves from the game. A couple minutes later, with a weary and resigned nod the young man packed up the chess set and trudged away. Svetlana and I were alone.
“Where are your students?” I asked. “I thought you were going to eat among the troops today.”
“No troops.” Looking up at me, she flipped her hair over her shoulders. It was then that I noticed her lipstick—crimson red, deep and shimmering, that matched her skirt. “I have been working with them individually all morning. I need some time with adults.”
“One adult, at your service.”
“I suppose you will suffice.”
“Come on,” I said, jutting my chin at the cafeteria, “I’ll buy you lunch.”
“No, I will buy you lunch. You paid for dinner last night.”
“Thanks. I’m what you might call financially challenged at present.”
I proffered a hand. She took it to help herself up, then let go and walked on her own.
“That’s a lovely skirt you’re wearing, Svetlana,” I said.
“Yes, I noticed you admiring it earlier.”
“What? I wasn’t—”
She peered over her shoulder at me with hooded eyes. “I have excellent peripheral vision, Dakota.”
“All right, you caught me.” I sidled up to her. “Sorry, Svetlana. My eyes have a mind of their own sometimes. I didn’t mean to objectify you.”
She scoffed. “Please—you could not objectify me even if you wanted to. I know I am much more than a sex object. I chose to wear this skirt today because I know it looks great on me, and I like the confidence that comes with wearing nice, well-fitting clothes. You do not need to apologize for your perfectly understandable behavior.”
“What behavior?”
“Ogling me.”
“I wasn’t ogling. I was admiring.”
“You were ogling,” she said.
“Let’s agree to disagree.” Entering the cafeteria, I grabbed a tray and put two sets of silverware on it. “Seriously, I apologize. I’ll try not to do it again. Just do me a favor, though?”
“What is that?”
“Don’t wear that skirt around me anymore.”
She shook her head. “I cannot promise that. It is one of my favorite skirts.”
At the serving line, I put a cheeseburger, salad and bottled water on the tray. Walking alongside me, Svetlana added a steak sandwich and a slice of Key lime pie. She paid the cashier.
“How is your case progressing?” she asked. “Any new developments?”
“Yes,” I said. “In fact, I could use your help.”
As we approached Sally’s table, I told Svetlana about my plan for today, adding that if she could behave affectionately toward me when Sally was around, it would help to make Sally jealous.
“Avec plaisir, Dakota. C’est fait accompli.”
With one corner of her mouth turned up in a smile, Svetlana held my arm, and we stalked toward Sally’s table.
At the head of the table with her back to us, Sally didn’t see Svetlana and me walk up behind her. However, she did see the dozen poised young women at the table turn to look at us. The young women all wore pastel skirts and sweaters, and they sat with their legs uniformly crossed and their smiling faces slightly canted. The blonde ones had deep tans, and their faces seemed to sparkle. As we got closer, I whispered in Svetlana’s ear.
“Is that glitter?”
“Yes,” she sighed.
“Do I detect a hint of disapproval?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Sally turned around to see what the other girls were staring at. Her face fell.
“Hi, Sally,” I said. “Hi, ladies. Sally…aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”
“Yeah…sure. Everyone, this is Dr. Dakota Stevens, a friend of mine. Dakota, this is the Harvard sorority leadership. I was telling them about Dr. Malone’s study and—”
“Dakota,” Svetlana said, “I go back to table now. Do not make me wait too long.”
Softly, seductively, she muttered something in a foreign language—Russian, I think—and, with Sally and the sorority sisters looking on, kissed me on the cheek. She pulled her lips away so slowly, I could feel them stretch and peel away from my cheek, leaving the warm, wet imprint of her lipstick.
“Oh, goodness…that will not do.” Svetlana grabbed a napkin off Sally’s tray and wiped the lipstick off my cheek. “I see you soon, Dakota.” She took our tray and sashayed away.
“Wow, who was that?” said one of the blondes.
“Some chess grandmaster,” said another blonde.
“Yeah,” another girl blurted out, “I heard she played like fifty people last night and beat all of them!”
“So, Dr. Stevens,” said the alpha, a tall brunette in a crested blazer. “We know who your lady friend is, but not who you are.”
“Well, I have something in common with you girls.” I touched my chest. “I’m a Lambda, Lambda, Lambda,” I lied, citing the infamous fraternity in the ’80s comedy Revenge of the Nerds. “MIT chapter.”
“MIT?” the alpha said. Her eyebrows clenched. “You went to MIT? The guys I know at MIT are all major nerds. They—”
“—don’t have arms like mine? You know what...you’re right.” I removed my blazer, revealing my snug FBI T-shirt underneath. Tossing Sally my blazer, I flexed for the girls. “Then again,” I added, “I’ve always been something of an outlier.”
All of the girls chuckled—except one.
The one next to Sally, a bookish, waifish redhead who defied the sorority girl stereotype, gazed rapaciously at my arms. She faintly squirmed in her chair with excitement, like a child eyeing chocolate chip cookies hot out of the oven. The alpha rapped on the table, instantly silencing the other girls.
“ ‘F-B-I,’ huh?” the alpha said. “Let me guess…‘Female Body Inspector’? How original.” She rolled her eyes at the others. They tittered.
“Actually,” I said, “this one stands for ‘Federal Bureau of Investigation.’ My ‘Female Body Inspector’ T-shirt is in the wash. It gets a lot of wear.”
This triggered a laugh from the entire table, after which I went into my now-familiar spiel: that I was a Harvard Fellow on sabbatical from the FBI.
“So you, like, solve crimes?” said one of the blondes. “Like on that TV show?”
“I do.”
The waifish redhead was still staring at my arms. I pulled up a chair and sat beside her.
“Hey, lovely…what’s your name?” I asked.
She swallowed. “Alice.”
“Really? I love that name.”
She blushed.
“Alice,” I said, “have you ever held a muscular man’s arm?”
“Ch’yeah, right,” the alpha said. “Alice hasn’t held a muscular man’s anything.”
The other sorority girls laughed.
“Madison, please!” Alice hissed.
“Alice, today’s your lucky day.” I flexed my bicep and held it in front of her. “Go on…feel that baby.”
Tentatively she touched the curved peak of the muscle with her fingertips like it was a red-hot stove. Then, with a gulp, she squeezed the muscle with one hand. An eye blink later both hands were fondling my entire upper arm. Her eyes, a limpid blue, widened. Despite having all of her sorority sisters watching, she seemed to forget herself.
“Alice, honey?” I said softly.
“Mm?”
“We need to stop now.” Gently, I pulled my arm away. “You’re getting me excited.”
The girls—even Alice—laughed hysterically, slapping each other and the table, but Sally wasn’t laughing. Her face was flushed. I couldn’t tell if she was on the verge of crying or shouting at me. Once again I felt guilty about my behavior. I got up and smiled at her.
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, ladies,” I said, “but as you can see”—I pointed across the dining room at Svetlana—“my friend awaits.”
“Your friend, huh?” the alpha girl said. “I think Alice would be your friend.”
“Madison!” Alice said.
“Bye, ladies.”
Slipping on my blazer again, I gave Sally’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and returned to Svetlana’s table.
Svetlana was gnashing into her steak sandwich and staring up at the corner of the ceiling. She was obviously thinking about something. Across the table from her was the tray with my food. Not wanting to interrupt her train of thought, I sat and ate my burger in silence. She was still thinking when I finished it.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
Appearing to recall something that pleased her, she nodded to herself and put down her sandwich. “I was replaying my game with Gaurav, seeing if I had missed any earlier mating opportunities. I did not.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “You can remember all the moves? Yours and his?”
“Of course.”
“Amazing.” I shook my head at her. “I’ve never met anybody like you.”
She flashed me a smile—all lips, no teeth. “How goes your case with young Sally?”
While eating my salad, I told her about my interactions with Sally so far today, and how I was feeling guilty for toying with her emotions.
“I’ve never played games with women,” I said, “so I don’t like it. That being said…”
“Yes?”
“It seems to be working,” I said.
Svetlana gracefully cleaved off a forkful of Key lime pie, savored it, and waved the empty fork at me.
“You will be doing more of this foolishness tomorrow, I suppose,” she said.
“What foolishness?”
“This case of yours.”
“Yea
h,” I said.
“And what will you be doing exactly?”
“Hard to say,” I said. “When you’re poking into other people’s business, every day is different, and you have to be able to deviate from your plan. Tomorrow morning, I was planning on driving over to South Boston.”
“Why? What is there?”
“Another PI’s office,” I said. “My predecessor on the Sally case.”
She didn’t ask why I’d taken over for somebody, and I was glad for that. The truth—that the man was killed while staking out Malone’s apartment—might have scared her away.
“Does this involve Dr. Malone?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. I won’t know until I investigate.”
She cleaved off another piece of pie and gestured with her fork. “Perhaps if it would not be—”
“Svetlana, are you asking me if you could come along?”
“I have seen so little of Boston,” she said, “and…I should get to know my future tenant better.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You might not like what you see.”
She scoffed and flapped a hand. “Nonsense. I am an excellent judge of character.”
“I plan on starting early,” I said. “Tell you what...can you be at the Charles Hotel by eight o’clock?”
“So early? Must I?”
“The early bird gets the clue, my dear.”
“Very well,” she said. “Eight o’clock. I will ring you from the lobby.”
“Good. It’s a date.”
“No…it is a business appointment.”
“Of course,” I said. “That’s what I meant.”
Across the dining room, the sorority girls picked up their things and filed out. I could tell from Sally’s slumping in her chair that her meeting hadn’t gone well. I had planned to “bump into” her again at the Crimson offices, but between the rejection from the sorority girls and Svetlana’s kissing me, Sally was probably reeling right now. This was a critical moment: If I didn’t show her some affection, pronto, she might run to Dr. Malone.
“Svetlana, I have to go,” I said, getting up. “Thanks for lunch. See you tomorrow morning.”
By the time I brought my tray to the bussing station, Sally was already marching out of the dining room. I caught up to her outside, on Quincy Street. Her knapsack straps had loosened again, so the pack was drooping on her back. She walked hunched over like a depressed Charlie Brown.
