Over My Live Body

by Susan Israel

  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 notat 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 reallylost 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 anything 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 la
st 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. “Morgan!” 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.

  “What’s up?”

  I glance up at Louise. She takes the hint and goes over to the coffee station. I tell him about the call I got from Curtis and the news report about Majesty Moore and the mysterious display items that I heard about right after the call from Curtis. “I called the Sixth and talked to some Sauer-puss who was just tremendously unhelpful. I called back this morning, but Rubenstein was out sick. So I guess that means you won’t be able to talk to him about what happened last night…right?”

  “I can get through to him,” he assures me. “I already spoke to the desk sergeant. Your ex, it turns out, wasn’t able to ID any of the pictures they showed him there; nothing came close to the drawing you did. I tried calling him too,” he says, “It seems he didn’t show up for work today and there was no answer at his place. Have you heard from…”

  “No, thank God, and I hope I don’t!”

  “Morgan?”

  I look upward. “This hasn’t got anything to do with Morgan. This has to do with me. I called everyone you told me to call and nobody was able or willing to help me and now you’re asking me, have I heard from Morgan? Well, I’m scared shitless, Detective Quick, and it’s not Morgan I’m scared of. I’m scared for him, but not of him. Your investigation must really be going nowhere if you’re still after Morgan. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Meanwhile, whoever did kill Vittorio is still out there and so is Ivan. So is Curtis, and I’m scared.”

  “I ran a first-name last-name computer check on Curtis and all I found out so far is that there are a lot of Curtises out there. We’ll see if we can narrow down the list of those with priors who match up with his description and MO. Maybe we can come up with an outstanding warrant on him too, but I have to warn you, with what little we have to go on, all of this is a long shot. We don’t even know if his name, first or last, actually is Curtis. He may be using an alias. I should have the drawing you did dropped off to me by four. I ordered that a copy of it and a description of him be sent to the CATCH unit uptown. They may be able to match it up to a picture there, ID him that way.” He pauses. “I’m doing what I can, but…”

  “I’m not worried for nothing.”

  “No,” he says, “I don’t think you are. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have some information. Are you going to be there all day?”

  “Until later this afternoon.”

  “Then you’ll be home?”

  “No. Working uptown.” For Heidi Obermeyer’s class no less, an experience to be enjoyed under normal circumstances. Thinking of how Quick would react to my portraying a Biblical Delilah makes me blush. “Over on East Twenty-first…”

  “You should be all right there,” he reassures me in an In The Know tone. “Just remember what I told you about keeping the windows covered so nobody can see in. Insist on it.”

  “How long before this…catch unit gets back to you?” I’m picturing a line-up of cops wearing protective masks and oversized mitts crouching in wait for something big to come their way.

  “It depends,” he says. “I hope I’ll be able to find out something before my tour ends tonight, but sometimes it can take days and we don’t know yet if there’s anything in their database on him to find out.”

  “Where are you?” I’ve been talking to him so much lately that I feel he’s in the same room with me even when he isn’t. Like last night. I blush again. “I mean, how do I get in touch with you if I need to?”

  “I’m in Manhattan,” he says, a signal for me to forget about 718 for now, but not much else; he could be anywhere. He could have been at the pay phone on the corner of Fifth Avenue all this time, waiting for me to hang up, giving me time to go to my studio before he storms in here to take Morgan in for more questioning. I can only hope he’s the one who’ll be asking the questions, if and when it comes to that.

  “I’ll be in the clay studio,” I tell Louise, “but if anyone else should
ask, you haven’t seen me.”

  Louise nods. “Right.”

  I look over my shoulder, wondering who has seen me. Most of the time I was with Morgan I was off guard, looking at him, not for who else might be around, who might be lurking in doorways, following us here. The only person I anticipated seeing was Quick, and just the thought of him being here chased all the bad guys out of my subconscious.

  Nobody is in the studio. Nobody is there to see me pick up a spare fettling knife, zig-zag saw and sabre saw and drop them in my roomy side pocket. They have light wooden handles, and under normal circumstances, when my hands aren’t sweating and shaking, they’re easy to hold. The test will be if I can keep my hand steady enough to use them if somebody should suddenly lunge at me. Just tools of my trade, I can say in my defense, I’m a sculptor. Before getting to work on my clay figures, I scoop up a cut-out tool sheathed in what looks like a test tube and drop that in my pocket too. Just in case.

  26

  I don’t know what kind of progress Quick is making with his investigations. It’s after three p.m. and the only dents I’ve made in my sculpture are a few shallow impressions with a mold knife. I don’t trust myself to be able to cut any deeper. I may need to deploy that energy later, out on the street. I reach into my pocket and reassure myself that the small bulge that the sculpting tools make next to my right thigh doesn’t look suspicious. When I walk, they sound like lipstick cases lightly clicking against each other, not overly metallic.

  Nobody is sitting behind the reception desk when I leave. As I walk down Eighth Street, I practice reaching for and letting go of those light wooden handles, stopping only when I pass two uniformed cops standing in front of the Astor Place subway entrance. I feel their eyes trailing me as I walk on toward Third Avenue. I feel like I might as well be carrying a loaded .38, like those things jiggling against my hip are bullets. Potentially dangerous weaponsis what they are. I jam my hands deep into my pockets and pick up my pace. I look over my shoulder only after I get across the street and see them still at their post, blatantly checking out the shapely little ass of a girl with spiked green hair. I take a deep breath and strut the rest of the way to the bus stop. While I wait for the M102, I feel the point of a blade lightly prick my thigh through the layer of scrubbed denim. A blue-and-white whizzes by, its siren screaming, and I turn to the right to hide my cache as if that’s what the fuss is all about. When I turn back to my left, a M102 heralds its arrival with a loud hiss. I step aside to wait for the door to open and glance to my left and gasp.