Tonight I observed from the safety of the sidelines, and I felt someone’s eyes on me rather than on his own reflection. I met his gaze in the mirror. How did I miss seeing this one? He smiled. Nice dimples. Had we met before? He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place the trim six-footer with a head of black cherub-like curls. His crow’s-feet signaled midlife, but he had a boyish face with devilish brown eyes.
I smiled back, and we made eye contact for a few moments. Easy, Saylor. Remember the APA guidelines. No hitting on clients. Then again, he wasn’t actually my client. Was he?
Lana rolled on doing what she did best. The queen of catharsis led them step-by-step through the process of self-examination to confronting the critical voices inside. A lumpy freckle-faced woman broke into tears. I stepped in to comfort and encourage. Suddenly I was taken by the distinct fragrance of Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps. Gardenia, rose and sandalwood. I’d already caught a whiff of CK and Ysatis on top of my Sicily, but L’Air du Temps was like having Gwen in the room. It had been one of her favorites, and the smell of it threw me off for the rest of the evening.
Lana traditionally ended her workshops with everyone swaying arm-in-arm in a circle like the Who’s from Whoville. This was one place where my aunt and I parted ways. Don’t ask me where she got her music. Songs created to restore balance and harmony even if the sappy vocals killed you. I’m all for healing, but give me a ditty with a beat, something I can bump to.
In her final announcements, Lana included some glowing words about my sex therapy
practice and my weekly sexual awareness programs for women, while I passed out invitations for my Do-Me-Good demo party to be held here at the Center for Being on Monday.
“As clients of Lana, I want you all to have an invitation, plus one for a friend. Adults only, of course.” Hands came from all directions. “Remember, sex toys are fun for everyone.”
“Dr. Oz.” The dimple-cheeked cutie came up to me. “This phone number on the invitation, is it yours?”
“Yes, it is. I heard Lana call you Alan, right?”
He nodded and extended his hand. After getting the most electrifying handshake of my life from Eldridge Mace, I wasn’t surprised at the ho-hum nature of this one. Until he said his name. “Alan Grossman.”
“The Alan Grossman?” I turned red. Now I knew why he looked familiar. I’d seen his face on the Oscars and in magazines. “Of course. I recognize you now. You’re one of my favorite directors.”
Alan pretended to be flattered, but he’d probably heard that line a million times. We talked briefly about his movies. Turned out he was a client of Lana’s out in East Hampton. His barrage of questions about me and my work kept me on my toes. He didn’t act flirtatious, so I figured he might be doing movie research. Except, when he said good-bye, he stroked a finger along my bare shoulder and said, “Have dinner with me sometime?”
“Sure,” I said, a little dazed.
After everyone left, Lana and I curled into beanbag chairs and talked. I stuck to sharing feedback on how the workshop went, hoping she wouldn’t ask if I hired a PI yet. I’d decided not to tell her about the Red Hook episode or our decision to go the do-it-yourself route. Keeping my mouth shut on this was difficult, but the more real the possibility of foul play became, the more certain I was of my choice to keep my aunt out of it.
At one point she lifted an eyebrow and said, “I see you hit it off with Alan.”
“I wish.”
Lana gave me a knowing smile. “I knew he’d be your type. He’s gorgeous and has a small dick.”
“It’s not easy to find someone my size. It kills me the way men all wish they had a king-sized package. They should just try being a tiny woman. Um, you wouldn’t consider discussing his sexual habits, would you? Just as a colleague, of course.”
She shook her head. “Well, I’ll tell you this much as a warning. Alan has already been married and divorced three times. Major intimacy issues, which makes infidelity a favorite sport.”
I rolled out of the squishy chair and stretched from a downward dog into a cobra. “I’d settle for a one night test-drive.”
“He’s also fresh out of rehab—for the third time. So far he’s been a good boy, but he’s got a terrible weakness for new drugs of any kind. A true hedonist. Can’t seem to help himself. He’ll do anything to reach that euphoric state, especially if it enhances the sexual experience.”
“How long has he been your client?”
“About two months. Capricia referred him to me. She and Alan go way back. Lovers in their early years, now very close friends.”
Capricia, alias Susan Bronfman, had been the star of a smash-hit detective series. However, her bid for the big screen was a major failure. She’d been a therapy client at my aunt’s East Hampton office for several years. Lana was from the old humanistic school where client and therapist could also hang together socially, so I’d met the sleek quasi-anorexic blonde a few of times.
“That lady’s got to be going through some stuff. Huge hit on the tube, ends up doing B-list roles in B-list movies. Talk about comedowns. If they’re so close, why doesn’t Alan use her in his films anymore?”
“He can’t risk ruining his own career, Saylor. He already put her in three of his movies. Each one flopped. She seems to have that effect on films, largely because as everyone knows— with the exception of Capricia herself—she’s the world’s worst actress. For all her beauty, she just doesn’t have that spark, that kind of sex appeal that radiates animal magnetism. And she hangs on to Alan’s friendship because she’s hoping he’ll eventually give her another crack at a big role. And Alan doesn’t have the balls to tell her it’s never going to happen.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but Capricia strikes me as someone who’s miserable unless she’s number one.”
“You have no idea. Just between us professionals and never to be disclosed…” Lana caught my eye and waited. When I drew my fingers in a zipper motion across my mouth, she continued. “Capricia is turning forty this month and her obsessive tendencies have gone through the roof. Lately she’s into finding some sort of magic elixir that will give her sexual magnetism and put men totally under her control so she can make herself the Hollywood diva she feels ordained to be. Capricia’s gotten involved with some dubious professor who claims he can invent some special formula for her. I’ve cautioned her against this. Afraid he’s just scamming her. But she’s just so angry. And determined to find a way.”
“Glad she’s your client and not mine.” I went to the coatrack in the corner where I’d hung my clothes. Hmmm. There were my dress and my sandals. My bra. But no panties. I got down on my knees and inspected the landscape from a cat’s eye view. Nothing. No sign.
“Lose something?” asked Lana.
I stood there with my dress folded over my arm. “My undies are gone.”
She looked around. “What kind are they?”
“Victoria’s Secret. Blue satin with lace trim.” I’d worn a sleeveless flowered dress with a short flared skirt. I pulled it over my head and tucked my feet into my white high-heeled sandals. “Maybe somebody took home a souvenir. Do I detect the work of a paraphiliac?”
“Could be. I can give you a pair of mine.”
“I’m fine.” Any panties that fit Lana were bound to be way to big for me. And if there’s one thing worse than a bad hair day, it’s a baggy underwear day. “All I have to do is brave it half a block and hop a cab.”
Gazing at me with enough love to rival the Buddha, Lana rested her hands on my shoulders. “Such a dear.” A peck on both cheeks. “Are you sure you won’t stay and have a late snack with Irv and me?” Dr. Irving Monsky, director of the Center for Being, had gray hair that hung past his chin and a wardrobe consisting of flowered tai chi pants and Birkenstocks. He was one of those wiry men who at seventy looked forty and, according to Lana, could screw like a twenty-year-old.
“Thanks, but I ate a fast dinner before the workshop,” I lied. I wasn’t in the
mood to be a third wheel. “Have a good one.”
“I will. And don’t wait up for me. I’ll be spending the night with Irv.”
It was almost eleven p.m. when I walked to Broadway and Broome and held up my arm to hail a cab. Humidity had fallen, making it a perfect summer evening. I heard the deep growling of a motorcycle engine slowing to a halt on my right.
“Yo, Doc. Where you going? ” A squarely built guy in a cutoff tee and cargo pants sat revving his Harley. On second glance I recognized the ruddy complexion and sandy blond ponytail beneath the green open-faced helmet. Sean Kennedy. A tugboat captain I dated last summer. He was out of work at the time, and I’d nursed him through the male insecurity issues unemployment brings on. He’d insisted we do it missionary style every time, no doubt to fulfill his need to be captain at the helm.
I smiled. “To DUMBO. I live there now and get to see tugs on the river all the time. Makes me think of you.”
“Why don’t you climb on? I’ll buy you a drink, and we’ll shoot some pool at Superfine.” He reached behind himself and turned back to me with a spare helmet. A pretty black one with yellow flames painted on it. How could I refuse? I managed to get my leg over the cycle without revealing my bare bottom.
We went south on Broadway to Canal and straight over the Manhattan Bridge. The trip was exhilarating. Wind blowing across my face. A spectacular view of the city. Then there was the view I provided for a carload of guys behind us honking and laughing. Though I’d done my best to tuck my dress underneath my butt, it was too short and kept flapping up to my waist.
Sean yelled over his shoulder at me. “What’s with all these cars honking and waving at us?”
“Oh, just people being friendly.”
When we reached DUMBO, the motorcycle bounced over the wildly uneven, dimly lit streets. Streets that were loaded with soul. I’d only lived here a few weeks, and I was already in love with the old Brooklyn waterfront. Although new buildings were going up everywhere, this upscale neighborhood would never completely shed the gritty aura of its merchant marine past. Sean parked his Harley right outside the weathered redbrick exterior of Superfine, one of my favorite restaurants. We moseyed inside. A bar ran along the wall to a rear dining area. To my right a ramp led to an open upper level where the orange felt pool table was, thankfully, already in use. We sat at the bar, and I insisted on buying the first round. Sean drank Cutty and water. After last night’s overdose of martinis, I stuck to cranberry juice, but my appetite had returned. I put in an order for their yummy polenta and mushroom dish just before they stopped serving dinner.
By midnight I was surrounded by Sean and three of his buddies from Queens. Sounds sexy, right? Not when they’re all talking to each other and ignoring you. Sorry, no women allowed in the guy club. And Sean was a guy with a capital G. He loved to hang with “the Guys” —even if it meant forgetting about the lady he invited for a drink. That’s one reason I hadn’t been all that crushed last fall when he drifted off after he got a job and his ego bounced back.
To leave, or not to leave? I had trouble making up my mind until Eldridge walked in with Tara Buckley on his arm. Marvelous. Another chance to hear Tara rave about her sexploits with the Mace-man. And to watch Sean and his friends drool over her. No thank you.
Shrinking lower behind my huddle of men, I waited for Eldridge and Tara to pass. They walked all the way to the back. Whew. I excused myself from the conversation (that I was not in) and slithered toward the door. Sean actually noticed. He offered to take me home, but it didn’t seem right to pull him away from his inspiring seminar on the NFL’s best rookies.
Once outside, I couldn’t help wondering about Eldridge and what he thought of me. His hands sure seemed to like me when we danced Wednesday night in Red Hook. I began mulling it over as I walked home through this beautiful summer night.
I started down Front Street and saw a black Hummer parked along the curb. Was that the new car of choice? As if SUVs didn’t use enough gas. When I got a few steps closer, goose bumps formed on my arms. Was it the same one I’d seen parked near our loft earlier today? Was I being followed?
I hung a right and headed south a block, then left on Water. My eerie feelings didn’t exactly disappear. This street was dark as hell at this hour and felt somewhat creepy. Shit. I took this route to get away from that stupid car. I must be crazy. No way that car has anything to do with what happened to Gwen.
Hearing tires on the pavement behind me, I turned. There it was. I stared into the headlights of the black Hummer. I prayed it would simply keep going and drive on by. Instead, it cruised down the street alongside of me. I looked around for company, but saw only empty sidewalks and tall, shadowy buildings. Not consoling.
I walked faster. The Hummer matched my speed. I stopped, pivoted and jogged in the opposite direction. The car screeched to a halt and shifted into reverse. Heart pounding, I broke into a fast run and turned onto Adams Street, thinking they wouldn’t dare go against the traffic on a one-way.
What traffic? There was none at this hour. This was DUMBO, not the raucous East Village.
The Hummer charged straight up hilly Adams Street and slammed on its brakes next to me. A car door swung open. Suddenly I felt the powerful crushing force of a man’s arm wrapped around my ribs. My screams were drowned out by the Q train roaring across the bridge directly overhead. In one quick motion, a man the size of a linebacker scooped me up like a toy and tossed me into the back of the Hummer.
I found myself pushed on top of the rear cargo area in between the two backseats. I sat facing front in the boxlike space, with my brawny abductor in the seat next to me. The instant he pulled the door shut, the bald, heavyset man at the wheel hit the gas pedal. I heard the clunk of the doors being locked.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, holding back my panic.
“We’re off to see the wizard…Dr. Oz.”
Tell me I’m dreaming. How did he know my name? My foreboding reaction to the unidentified Hummer was apparently very real.
The oversized ringleader smiled, his eyes and mouth a trinity of narrow slits. A short buzz cut accentuated the squareness of his cinder block shaped head. He’d taken my pocketbook and now rested it on the floor next to a large knife. “Yep. We got ourselves a real live sex therapist. Ain’t that right, Doc?”
I’d done enough crisis intervention work to witness how trauma can induce bizarre interpretations of events within the victim, but I’d never experienced it personally. Tonight my horizons were expanded. For a moment I actually believed this was all a spoof. The guy in the front passenger seat even reminded me of Forrest Gump and kept staring at me with that same dim-witted expression.
My delusionary fantasy ended quickly when the ringleader said, “I think the Doc needs an exam. Fifty bucks says she’s gone Brazilian.”
“Nah. Something tells me she’s old school,” the Gump guy said. No Southern twang. Just a dose of South Jersey.
I clamped my knees together and folded them to my chest.
“Aw, she don’t wanna play, Curtis,” the driver said.
Curtis? He began stroking my leg.
“Keep your filthy hands off me, you bastard!” I smacked his arm away and scrambled toward the opposite window. Pounding on the tinted glass, I shouted for help.
The man they called Curtis grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head back so hard I thought he’d break my neck. “I’ll do whatever I fuckin’ please, woman. Now shut your mouth. No one can hear you, anyway.”
I broke into a sweat as his hands found their way up my legs. Oh no. I realized something else.
“Ooo-eee! No panties!” He nearly shattered my eardrum. The laughter in the Hummer eclipsed my cries for help. I tried to close my legs together again, but Curtis held them apart.
“Smooth as a baby’s behind,” he said. “Prettiest pussy I’ve seen in a long time.”
Faux-Gump chimed in, “Yeah, man. Really sweet.”
I started kicking, punching and flai
ling my arms and legs. Anything to get me out of this car.
Curtis held me down. “Relax. Relax. Don’t be nervous. We won’t hurt ya.”
I reminded myself that I’d dealt with dangerous people before. Years ago while working with violent schizophrenics at a state mental hospital out on Long Island, a particularly mean psycho, nicknamed Happy Harry by the staff, cornered me in my office, and I walked around for a month with the bruised imprint of Harry’s fingers on my throat.
One thing’s for sure, the staff on hand this time weren’t exactly trained in the helping professions. So, get a grip, I told myself. Study the surroundings. Commit everything to memory. Black Hummer with tan interior. Guy with first or last name of Curtis in white T-shirt, baggy camouflage pants and boots. All three men had numbers tattooed on their forearms in black ink. The one on Curtis read thirteen. I tried to think of what details the police would need when I got away.
If I got away.
Faux-Gump had unzipped his fly and pulled out his love club. Definitely Gump-Gone-Bad. Curtis sat up and cracked him in the head with his hand. “Put it away. Remember, we got orders.”
Orders? From whom? With shaking hands, I straightened out my dress, covering myself. Curtis didn’t stop me. I was beginning to think I might actually get out of this Hummer in one piece. He lowered his face close to mine. I liked to encourage all my clients to stare their demons in the face, but his foul pepperoni pizza breath nearly made my eyes water. “How about you lead us to it right now?”
“Lead you to what?”
“Don’t fuck with me. What were you doing last night down on Beard Street?”
Bingo. Gwen’s loft. They must’ve caught a glimpse of me and Binnie climbing down the fire escape. I went bold. “Why were you there?”
A hard slap cracked the side of my face, bouncing me against the window. Curtis grabbed my arm and shook me. “I ask the questions here. You got it hidden somewhere, don’t you?”
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