Sexual Solstice (13 page)

Alright. Time for me to get put back together. I may never be the same. The men all departed, in a group, Robert presumably to head back to work, or home, and the two dancers to revive before a matinee.

As a precaution Gillian packed most of her stuff, and left it in the room for a quick departure. She bundled up and headed for the lobby to catch a cab to the station. She feared the worst.

Chapter Seven – Handcuffs and Billyclubs

T
he cab ride to the precinct office seemed to take forever although Gillian had little to do for the day, other than see her mother, which might be impossible now that the snow was tying up the city. It seemed ages since she’d stared up at the buildings, and now they disappeared into the snow. New York and London, such distant and distinct cousins. But in the past twenty-four hours she felt as though a lifetime had transpired. Her resolve to change certain aspects of her life had startled her, and at the same time made perfect sense. Though there was an element of revenge to her actions, it was minimal. There was however an element of making up for lost time, making up for years of wondering what other people were doing behind closed doors, making up for being the wife who slipped her arm through that of a man she felt compassion and pity for, for not being able to enjoy the simple pleasures of life. She had tried, over the years to enrich those moments when they were both at home, by donning some sexy apparel, a lace negligee, a sheer bathrobe that flattered her lines. But the only one she ended up turning on was herself. And that was no good. She couldn’t spend her time in a state of anticipatory desperation. It wasn’t fair to her, mostly. And there had been times when she decided to take the bull by the horns and confront Edgar, but all too often she felt like the unreasonable one, bullying him, the poor impotent one. Pity had been her downfall for all those years; poor Edgar, not being able to get it up, and how she had to show that true love ignores such trivialities as a healthy sex life. She saw herself as making her bed and having to sleep in it for eternity. But finally she saw, though, on that walk to the plane, days earlier, that not only was she a caged bird, which she already knew, but that she was an aging caged bird, and that no collector of caged birds would ever let such a thing happen to such a colourful and delicate being. For the first time in her life she was exhibiting some compassion for herself.

She thought again about the one time with Spokes, and how that seemed the standard now. Spokes had been the naughty thrill––practically under Edgar’s turned up nose––for which she had felt nothing but guilt. And it was that guilt that had kept her from ever pursuing the kind-hearted Spokes again. She had to think of his job and his life and not her own selfish desires, and needs. Where was Spokes now? Was he scouring London for his employer? Looking under rocks? Being interrogated on Edgar’s disappearance? Take away the guilt, and what are you left with? That would take some thought, but she was left with a man who offered her a strong hand every time she stepped from the Rolls; a man who dashed out for emergency provisions, when no one else was available; a man who had taken her to the hospital when she had the flu, no questions; a man who had gotten to know every breath and every gasp and every word of delight as he drove her alone across the countryside or through the city, or home from a tiring luncheon, or heartbreaking opera as she wept quietly in the back seat, alone. He was the man who knew her. Dear Spokes. And she knew so little about him.

“Come into my office, Mrs. Pritchard,” came a voice from behind a pane of glass––a voice that could only be described as the baritone of Sean Connery. Gillian had been waiting on a bench, over a growing puddle of melting snow, after giving her name through a small hole in a pane of glass separating the waiting area from the other offices. She had grown tired and somewhat despondent by the heaviness of the day, the cab crawling for only a few blocks to get to the precinct office, the leaden silence as the snow absorbed every little sound, the lack of people on the sidewalks and the few people in the precinct office.

Gillian rose, flakes of snow had turned to droplets of water on her coat and on the strands of hair framing her face. She was wearing a Versace headband with a gold Roman motif, to cover her ears, something she picked up at Liberty’s and couldn’t take completely seriously, and her fur mitts, that Randy had described as Planet of the Apes. A woman behind the glass pane buzzed Gillian into the back offices.

Sergeant McMullon stood waiting for her at semi-attention. He was a big man. For one of those rare times Gillian felt dwarfed by a man’s size. He was balding, had a craggy complexion with a small scar running from his right upper lip. He was one of those men who smiled by squinting his eyes, but not much else. The corners of his mouth turned up only slightly. He was, in Gillian’s mind, drop dead handsome, and everything about him was big, his nose, his lips, his brow that looked almost Neanderthal. “This way,” he said.

He led her past musty, dismal office furniture to a glassed in office. Everything smelled of “old,” to her––old leather, old wood, old cops.

“Have a seat.”

She took in his full view as he went around the desk to a filing cabinet. He was, as they say, one tall drink of water. Have a seat indeed. His seat seemed to fit incredibly well into his wool herringbone pants with no back pockets. As if the fabric were yielding to a force greater that its own. Did he know just how alluring his assets were? Did he understand that not everyone is born six feet and then some? Did he know that he was a steaming hot specimen of man? Over the past twenty years she had seen so many unique men and wondered if they knew of their, well, uniqueness. He opened a filing cabinet and flicked through several files, all the while Gillian enjoying the view, the curve of his ass and the thighs that pulled at the side seams. Why on earth, Gillian thought, must we all go through life like this––fully clothed. God knows there would be car, truck, plane and train accidents if they didn’t. Her neck would be in a brace from whiplash, looking at all the varieties of the human form, all day long. This was what Sergeant McMullon’s ass was stirring up in Gillian, and she hadn’t even gotten above his waist.

The Sergeant found what he had been looking for, pulled it up and out of the file, turned, looked down at Gillian, and slowly sat in his chair. “How is it out there,” he asked.

“Oh cold, definitely not London weather. Nice if you have time, which New Yorkers never seem to have enough of.”

“Can’t take a little snow. That’s why it’s so quiet in here today.”

“I’m sorry I took so long. I didn’t realize the office was this close.”

“I did,” the Sergeant said, softening, “but I figured if you’re paying upwards of two grand, you might as well enjoy every minute. And, like I said, I wasn’t on my way anywhere.”

Gillian was amazed at the tenderness that he exhibited. She was sure that she would be scolded for her lackadaisical approach to getting there. She watched his hands as he spoke, big ham fisted, rough knuckles. Had he been in many fights? Was he a family man? What did he get up to on his time off? His pressed white shirt barely concealed a tank undershirt that he wore, and the tank undershirt barely concealed a musculature as close to god-like as earth would allow. His broad shoulders created a line that ran to a tight waist and that big butt. His shoulder were not only broad but thick too––the starting point for thick arms, and biceps that continued down to his thick forearms, where his sleeves were rolled half way, until they squeezed at the skin and muscle. She thought again of Spokes and the tire changing incident, and the thick forearms. Just how did men manage to work in such a way as to create such musculature?

“So Sergeant, I take it you have some news about my husband?”

“At this point we don’t. He is missing, according to Scotland Yard. And there is no evidence of him crossing the ocean. We had detectives check out the plane, in fact scour it. So I am not sure if that is good news or bad news for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well right now you are suspected of foul play.”

“Someone thinks I made him disappear?”

“Your good news might be that you hid the body well. Your bad news is that you aren’t guilty but you are being implicated.”

“How odd.” Gillian had the rising hope that Edgar had fallen off the walkway at the airport and died a swift and short death on impact and that it would be a matter of days until they found him in a luggage cart or flat as a pancake on the runway, or perhaps he had had a heart attack in one of the washrooms and some negligent cleaner assumed he was taking an extra long crap. “So, do you mean I have to stay in New York?”

“And not at the Mandarin, in fact we have to keep you here. I have to place you under arrest. Someone will have to post bail.”

“You’re kidding me!”

“It’s not that bad. It’s not the Mandarin Oriental, of course, but our women’s quarters just got a facelift and you’ll be the only one in there, if you’re lucky.”

“This is absolutely––”

“––I’m sorry that’s the protocol in international situations like this.”

“But I’m from Brooklyn.”

“––and I’m from Mars.”

“Oh come on, I’m not bullshitting.”

“You talk pretty fancy for a Brooklyn girl.”

“I had an extreme makeover. What can I say?”

“You’re allowed one call.”

“Gee thanks!”

He paused, tapped his fingers, raised his eyebrows and looked straight into her eyes. “We can probably stretch that rule a little, seeing how it’s Christmas and all.”

“Who the hell am I going to call? My lawyer on Fleet Street? My rich husband to post bail? Oh right, he’s gone.”

“You can make this easy for yourself or hard. You’ve landed in a pot of honey as far as precinct offices, the others are taking most of our cases, and it’s not busy. And I’m here to keep you company.”

“That’s a bonus?”

“It can be.”

“I can’t post bail on my credit card, I don’t suppose.”

The Sergeant squinted. “In the meantime can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“Real coffee or the police kind in a Styrofoam cup that comes with a donut?”

“No, we’ve got all the modern conveniences. I can even get you a dark roast if you like.”

“Cappuccino?”

“We’re not really that progressive, otherwise no one would want to leave.”

“Well a dark roast with milk, and not that dreadful coffee whitener, would suit me just fine. That’s very kind of you.”

“Egg nog?”

“No. I’d like to be able to get into my bikini, if I ever do get down south.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Supposed to leave tomorrow. I was going to see my mother today and then Edgar and I, oh, who cares.” Gillian fell silent. Once again the reality of her situation hit her. On the one hand she was facing the inevitable, a final reckoning, life without Edgar, and yet she was also missing the familiar, the tradition–-some nice meals with friends, the Christmas smells at her mom’s while Edgar was off doing business dinners and whatnot, somewhere on the periphery, and his warm body on the other side of the bed at the end of a long day; getting on a plane just as family started to drive you crazy and friends lost interest in you; jetting off to the south to sit in silence with or without Edgar, as he time shifted his endless conference calls. There was no sunning with him, only perhaps an activity, a tour, with others, a cocktail party as the guests of so and so or dinner with familiar regulars. Anything to avoid a romantic dinner out. Now after twenty odd years of that, there would be nothing but turkey sandwiches in the women’s lock up, if she were lucky. “So, can I go back to the hotel and get my stuff?”

“Good thinking, but no. We’ve sent someone over to collect your things. Don’t worry, it’s a woman, we do this all the time. This isn’t about torture, it’s just about finding your husband, and we can leave no stone unturned.”

“I’m a stone?”

“Far from it.”

For the first time since she’d sat down, she got an inkling that Sergeant McMullon may have ulterior motives.

“You’re being straight with me?”

“I said you could call a lawyer, or anyone.”

“I can use my cell?”

“Sure.”

“If I cared I would.”

“You don’t use your cell phone?”

“I just avoid them. Mine is always the one that goes off at the opera or ballet or at the movie or when someone is reading me the riot act, and then if it goes off it’s because the company is trying to sell me some extra minutes or Goddamn time or something, and coming over here, I have to get the right gizmo to put in it, and Edgar is always on his and I have grown to hate them, frankly.

“––maybe you can make it your friend.” Gillian noticed the Sergeant’s heavy eyes and how they had said so much in terms of his life experience. She could tell that he had seen it all and probably would never want to see it again, given the choice, he had almost, though not entirely, lost his faith in mankind.

“See if you can teach me. But I warn you I have an aversion to the things.”

“You’ll want to talk to your mom. It’s Christmas. And your friends. You’re a woman.”

“Well thank you for noticing.”

“Not much gets by me.” Again he looked up from under his heavy brow.

Gillian felt her heart skip a beat. “Do I detect a sense of humour?”

“I let it out occasionally.”

“Maybe you can let it out for Christmas.”

“Do you find me funny?”

“You’re civilized. I didn’t expect that.”

“You aren’t the regular shoplifting crack whore. So yes, you could say you are a breath of fresh air.”

“Well, as I always say, it is nice to be appreciated.” Gillian was torn between trying to get the hell out of the precinct office, have dinner with her mom, and then get on that plane to the sun, or to stay calm and hope that Sergeant McMullon would read her The Night Before Christmas, before lights out.

There was no use calling Val or Randy; who wants to visit a police station on Christmas Eve. And the snow was a great alibi for not seeing her mother––midtown was tied up, the bridge was practically closed, people weren’t even last minute shopping, it was all a mess. She noticed that some literary type had left a few glossy novels in the waiting area, and some Christmas magazines, which, on closer inspection were a couple of years out of date, although the season was right, so she could be entertained for a while. The Sergeant led Gillian to her cell, she followed, which suited her just fine as she got to watch the amazing ass at work again.