Over My Live Body (14 page)

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

All too well.

“
Look, sweetheart, it’s
very
late at night, you’re upset, and your imagination’s zooming all over the place. What you
don’t
want to do is turn on the news. The
last
thing you want to listen to when you’re upset like this is the
news
, for crissakes. Make yourself a cup of tea, turn on some
music.
My father was a cop too. After dealing with street crap all day, he’d come home, listen to
records
. Ferrante and Teicher, Mantovani,
that
kind of stuff; it would calm him right down. Of course they don’t got records now, they got iPods. You probably never
heard
of Ferrante and Teicher, right? All I’m saying is calm down, try to get a few hours sleep, stop worrying about every bogey man who’s out there. It ain’t worth it, there are just too damn many of them and they’re
not
all out to get
you.
”

“Thanks,” I say. “That’s comforting.”

“I’m a regular Ann Landers, huh? You going to listen to me and turn off that radio now?”

“Already did.”

“Good girl. Don’t want you getting spooked any more tonight.”
Don’t want you tying up the line any more tonight. Now
he’s talking to me like
I’m a house pet, a loyal lap dog who overenthusiastically chewed on the newspaper before bringing it to him, rendering it useless. After rolling it and hitting me over the head with it, he’s acknowledged my good intentions, patted me on the head, and thrown me a Milk-Bone.
Good girl.
Click. He’s left me to shiver in the cold of the basement. I wonder if Sauer is even going to
try
to put the bits and pieces of what I’ve told him together.
Probably not
. My hand still grips the receiver. When I think of who I
might
have called
instead
, I cradle the cell phone in my arms like a child would clutch a stuffed animal and ignore the operator’s recorded plea to
please hang up now.

“I’m sorry, but Detective Rubenstein isn’t in today. He’s got the flu real bad.” I immediately peg Sauer as the carrier, coughing in everyone’s face. I wonder if I could get sick just from having talked on the phone with him. “Is this something someone
else
can help you with?”

Yes
, it
is
, but he works in a different precinct and not until four this afternoon. It’s only 9:10 a.m.

Quick
said
call Rubenstein, then call
him
. And I
did
call Rubenstein.

I take out the card with the phone numbers jotted on the back and punch in the one starting with 718. His message says that he is unable to come to the phone right now, but to
please
leave my name and number at the beep. I comply.
I’ve got something important to tell you
, I promise, and throw in the number at West Eighth Street for good measure. I’m going to have to spend some quality time there on my sculpture before I go off to model later today, and hope I have it in me to produce real quality work. My hands are shaking like the few dead leaves remaining on the trees in Washington Square, and I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet.
How am I even going to wield a fettling knife
without cutting myself up in the process
? I take my time getting dressed, giving Quick a chance to call me back so we can talk in private before I leave. He doesn’t. I don’t call the other number.

There’s more than just junk mail waiting for me when I run downstairs and open the door to the vestibule on my way out. “Surprise,” Morgan says. That’s an understatement. He’s wearing the same lavender shirt and blue jeans he had on when I last saw him, but they look
cleaner
than they did then. His expression is clearer too. Now that the initial shock has worn off, maybe he’s finally realized he has nothing to hide.
Or he’s had enough time to launder all traces of complicity in the crime.
Wherever
he was the last few days, he was well taken care of. He even seems to have gained weight. I’m beginning to wonder if Morgan has a penchant for chefs, even for one-night stands.

“Oh God, Morgan, I’m so happy to see you!” I throw my arms around Morgan’s waist and hug him. The front door bangs into both of us as Mrs. Davidoff barges in carrying an overstuffed overnight bag in one hand and a Big Brown Bag from Bloomingdale’s in the other. She’s very much alive, that’s for sure, and
not
at all
happy to see
me
; she lets that be known with a loud heave as she pushes past us, exaggerating the beast of burden routine.

“Let me help you with those,” Morgan says, reaching for her bags. She pulls back like she thinks Morgan’s going to mug her; then, after a quick look up the stairs, she changes her mind and surrenders her cargo to his outstretched hands. He turns back and winks at me.
They’re not all that heavy.
I move aside and let her go up the stairs ahead of me. Each step groans. When we get to the landing, she takes her packages from Morgan, turns around, and gives me a dirty look. “
Thank
you, young man,” she says, looking at him, then warily at me, then at him again with real concern etched in her face, no doubt worried that his association with me might taint him.

“Would you like me to help you put these inside?”

“No, no, you don’t need to,” she says, really on the defensive now.
You’ve done enough, sonny.
After she closes the door behind her none too quietly, Morgan gives her a few minutes to get out of listening range.

“I’m not holding you up or anything, am I?”

“That doesn’t matter. I was just heading over to the studio. It can wait.
Where’ve
you
been
?”

“It’s a long story,” he says. “Come on, let’s walk over to West 8th together. I better claim my studio space before they give it up. We can talk on the way. You hungry?”

“Starved.”

“We can make an Egg McMuffin pit stop on the way.” He holds the front door open for me. I look left and right, up and down the street before ambling down the front stairs. The coast is clear and the flower pot is still barren.
I’m going to have to do something about that.
At the corner of Christopher Street, Morgan takes my arm. I jump at his touch. He gently wheels me around. “Delilah, you okay?”

“Uh uh,” I shake my head.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ll tell you
mine
if you tell me
yours
.”

“You first.”

Morgan takes a deep breath. “Delilah, I…something inside me snapped the other night. I
really
lost
it.” I freeze in my tracks in the middle of Sixth Avenue. I can see the golden arches on the front of the restaurant, but wonder if I’m going to feel like eating
any
thing after Morgan finishes what he’s got to tell me. Taxis veer around us, their horns blaring. The breeze as they speed by blows my anorak open. I wonder if I’ll live long enough to get all the way across the street. What we’re headed for
doesn’t
seem like it’s going to be a Happy Meal.

“Lost it…
how
?”

“Coming home and seeing Vittorio like…like he was after…” he gulps. “It freaked me out.” He drags me by my arm until we’re standing on the curb in front of the basketball courts. “We were
so happy
. We were both tested for HIV before we started living together. AIDS was the
only
thing we were afraid of, Delilah, not some crazed character coming out of nowhere knifing one of us. Franklin Street seemed so safe, right near a
police
station. Actually, the police gave me a lot more to worry about, so Monday morning, after they got through with me, I took off.” He holds the restaurant door open for me. “I got drunk. I get careless when I’m drunk, Delilah. Like you’ve never seen me before. I went from one bar to the next. I went to the john in almost every one and it
wasn’t
to pee. I finally met this guy in the last place I went, on First Avenue.
Raoul
. He asked me, do I like Cajun? He took me to his place in Park Slope. Actually, I didn’t even know where I was until I called you last night; 
that’s
how far gone I was. All this time he was alternately feeding me jambalaya and fucking me and maybe fucking the jambalaya too.”

“What’d you like?”

I recoil, then realize the girl behind the counter simply wants to take our order. She looks so young she could probably get away with selling lemonade curbside without needing a vending license. She’d probably make more money that way. All I order is coffee, black. Morgan asks for the works and insists that I get a McMuffin too. He reaches in his back pocket and feels around with such force I see the fleshy tips of his fingers through the worn fabric. “I must have left my wallet in…” He closes his eyes. “Shit! He must’ve rolled me.”

“Raoul?”

He nods in disgust.

“
I’ve
got money,” I reassure him, pulling a ten out of my overstuffed fanny pack.

“I’ll repay you.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

After we get a seat in the corner facing the basketball courts, he takes up where he left off, all the while shoveling food in his mouth. “Late last night, I saw the light, literally. Raoul had this floodlight in the bathroom; even with the door partially closed, it was blinding me, so I got up to turn it off and walked in on Raoul shooting up. He has to use the floodlight, you see, to find a usable vein; he has more tracks on his arms than there are in Grand Central Station.” He takes a sip of orange juice. “Guess where the money for
that
fix came from. Shit. Anyway, I got dressed and slipped out into the night. I ended up at Gary and Abel’s doorstep with the morning paper. I tried calling
you
, but there was no answer…”

I look past Morgan’s shoulder at a couple of teenagers shooting hoops across the street. I watch as the taller of the two makes what looks from this angle to be a sure shot. The ball arcs and seems almost to stop in space, then hits the rim and ricochets into the shorter boy’s grasp.
Nothing can be taken for granted.
Meanwhile, Morgan is stuffing his mouth with food. I can’t bear to watch.
How can he eat like that after putting his life on the line that way
? “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m not going to do anything like
that
again,” he says. “Not quite like that, anyway.” That doesn’t exactly answer my question and I realize he
can’t
and won’t be able to answer it for some time to come. AIDS was the
only
thing he was afraid of before Sunday night, and then it figured to be, at least at the time, the
least
of his worries. He’s still acting a little too nonchalant, too glib, like a little boy who went wee-wee in public and got caught with his pants down, no big deal, nothing more serious than that. I have a feeling my telling him the police still want to talk to him will agitate him more. But if I don’t tell him, there’s no telling what damage Quick’s impending appearance on the scene will do to our friendship. I look at my watch. If he got my message, he’s probably already there, waiting for me. The last thing I want to do is walk in there with an unsuspecting Morgan in tow like a gift bounty I didn’t have time to wrap.

“The police still haven’t found out who killed Vittorio,” I tell him.
He hasn’t even asked.

“Did you think they
would
, Delilah?” he shakes his head. “You watch too much TV.”

“Only Channel 13,” I assure him. “
Most
of the time.”

“There, I told you
my
sordid story.
Your
turn.”

“I was getting around to that.” I gulp the last of my lukewarm coffee. “I’m being stalked.”

“Oh my God, is Ivan the Terrible still up to his old tricks?”

“Yes, and he’s not the
only
one. There’s this other character following me, leaving me notes, calling me. He called me last night, in the middle of the night—it was closer to morning actually—and I got the feeling from what he said…well it wasn’t what he said, but how he said it, that he intends to snatch me off the street…make me part of his
exhibit
.”

“He’s an artist?”

“That’s what
he
says. A con artist is what he is. Full of it. Crazy.” I feel Morgan’s hand tighten around mine as I start shaking. “I called the police about it, Morgan, I had to. After last night, I’m more terrified of this guy than ever.” I gulp. “There might be a detective waiting to talk to me when we get over to West Eighth. I called the police before you came. I just wanted to forewarn you after that inquisition you said they put you through the other night.”

“I trust the boys don’t take the rubber hose with them when they make house calls,” Morgan sneers. “Guess I should embrace the good old American justice system. In some countries, I’d have gotten the old shock rod up my ass. Except that fat pig cop who did most of the talking probably wouldn’t take a chance with something like that even if he
could
: that is, if he knew
what one was
. He’d be too afraid it would turn me on.”

“They still want to talk to you, though…”

“There’s no APB out on me or anything, is there?” Morgan huffs dramatically.

“Well, no…”

“No problem then. This isn’t the street where I live…er,
lived.
Different precinct, different dicks, if you’ll excuse the expression. It’s
not
like I’m going to see fat pig cop…”

“Nooo, not him.”

I follow Morgan to the exit, dump our collective trash in the receptacle by the door, and follow him up Sixth Avenue past the basketball courts and curbside vendors hawking magazines stacked up on rickety card tables. Morgan stops to pick up a Village Voice from a dispenser on the corner. I wonder if it’s the personals or the cover story on police brutality that he’s interested in.

“Morgan, you’re going to
have
to talk to them
sooner
or later,” I remind him.

“Fine. I’ll opt for later
.
”

We walk the rest of the way to West Eighth Street. in silence broken only when we reach the vestibule. The density of cigarette smoke as usual makes me gag. I lead the way up the stairs past the shrunken head and take a deep breath and hold it. The only person in the foyer is Louise. She’s skimming through a book on Donatello. “
Mor
gan!” she squeals. She looks happy to see him, but nervous too. She cocks her head in Morgan’s direction and raps a pen against the binding of her book like she’s tapping out a code to someone just out of sight. I look around hastily, wondering if she’s tipping someone off. Any minute I expect Quick to emerge from the doorway to my left leading to the gallery or maybe from the staircase across from the coffee station. A sudden clink of metal against metal behind me makes me jump.
Handcuffs.

I whirl around and see a woman bustle by, lugging a portfolio and an array of keys dangling from a chain that looks like a baby’s pacifier.

I ask the question that I dread asking: “Any messages for me?”

“Not since I’ve been here,” Louise says. “Better check the board.
You
, on the other hand,” she points her blue Bic at Morgan, “you’ve got a
ton
of messages.”

“I’m sure.” He takes the pile of pink slips from her, nodding, knowing without looking who the bulk of them are from. I put my hand on his arm above his wrist. He’s so fully charged that vibrations radiate from him. I wish I could find his ‘off’ switch. I give his arm a squeeze. “I’m going to my studio,” he says flatly, “if anyone should ask.”

It’s up to me to keep that someone from asking, if and when he shows up, and maybe I can still keep him from showing up, at least not right away. I gesture toward the phone. “May I?” Just as I reach across the desk for the keypad, the phone rings, and the suddenness of the ring makes me knock the receiver off the hook. Louise coos, “Hellooo?” and hands the receiver to me, whispering, “You must be psychic.”

More than you know
, I think. “This is Detective Patrick Quick, First Precinct Squad, I’d like to speak with Delilah Price…”

“It’s me,” I tell him.