Fury kac-17

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  There was even a call from the producer of Son of Sam, I Am, who wanted to know her availability in February for a new play he was considering called The Sky Is Falling, "based on a fictional account of people trapped in the World Trade Center on 9/11; they all die." She was polite and said she'd definitely be interested in reading for a part, just in case, but she was hoping for bigger offers than that.

  The best call was from Harvey Schmellmann, a lawyer. "You need representation, my girl," he'd said. "And Schmellmann, Fiorino and Campbell is the best in the business. We'd protect your interests in the criminal proceedings-I'm sure you're aware of what happened to the victim in the Kobe Bryant case-as well as any civil litigation we might consider. Not to be insensitive to the trauma inflicted upon you by that monster, but I dare say that a woman of your obvious beauty and strength of character will soon be receiving a lot of calls-if you haven't already. Have you?-from a lot of shysters in the entertainment business trying to lock up your options…I'm talking books, movies, television, and speaking engagements, which can be very lucrative. You don't want to wander into that quagmire without effective counsel, and my partner Gino Fiorino is the very best there is at protecting those rights."

  Schmellmann even sent a limousine to pick her up and deliver her to his office "for a first consultation, absolutely free and no strings attached." By the time she left, she'd signed the necessary papers to be his client-"one-third of any profits from lawsuits, plus expenses; 15 percent of any artistic or literary recompense…but don't worry, sister, there'll be plenty to go around by the time we get through with these schmucks. You know, I think we have a good case against that freakin' university for not monitoring this perverted Ruskie."

  Then the limo whisked her back home in time to meet the first of three television crews, whose producers had called her after reading the morning newspapers. "Should have called us first," they'd said. But they'd all sent over crews and eager reporters who breathlessly told their stories.

  Ryder was proud of the performances she'd given: understated yet powerful, the serious student of Russian literature who'd been preyed upon by a man she'd trusted. "But I really can't go into the details," she said. The only reason she'd agreed to the interviews was "to empower other young women who find themselves in my position." If this had been the stage, I'd win a Tony, she thought. Oh, well, next year.

  The story only picked up speed the day after it broke, when Ted Vanders went to the police and said he'd entered the building that night and nearly bumped into a disheveled young woman. "She was crying," he'd said in his statement. "Said she'd been attacked by some professor. But she didn't want to call the police and then took off."

  The detective read Sarah the transcript of the interview with Vanders. "He came forward after he saw you on television. So I guess the media did its job. Anyway, he said he'd never met you before that night, didn't even know your name. He'll make a great witness. Pretty much a slam dunk case. You just relax and keep your head up, kid."

  The detective hung up feeling good about her job. She hadn't bothered to tell Ryder that this character Vanders-a funny little guy, artsy-fartsy type-had a couple of scratches on his cheek she found interesting. She'd worked in the sex assault division for ten years and had seen a lot of fingernail marks on the faces of perps.

  "What happened to your face?" the detective had asked him.

  Vanders's hand had gone up to his cheek and his face turned red. "My cat scratched me."

  Mighty big cat, the detective thought.

  Later that evening, Ryder went over to Vanders's apartment and gave him a mercy screw. "You were a good boy today, Ted," she said. "Keep it up, and I'll keep you up…get it?" Vanders reacted like a puppy who'd been praised by its owner; in fact, she wondered if he was going to pee on himself.

  But that was weeks ago, and Michalik still hadn't been charged. At first she'd been happy when the top dog in the district attorney's rape bureau, Rachel Rachman, personally took over the case. The woman had paced back in forth behind her desk when they first met, giving a little speech about how men in positions of authority had used sexual violence against women from the beginning of time. She'd also noted that the police had found plenty of corroborating evidence, "including a beer glass on a bookshelf that he apparently didn't see, with your fingerprints and lipstick on it and traces of rohypnol."

  "What's that?" Ryder asked innocently.

  "Sometimes called roofies, or the date rape drug…essentially takes away your ability to resist," Rachman said, flashing in anger. "It's the latest thing. Drop it in a drink at the bar, offer to give her a ride home, and then rape her when she's defenseless. Happens to a lot more women than we know about."

  Rachman had called Monday saying she was going into some meeting with the district attorney, Karp, and expected to file charges later that day. She was excited because the lab reports were back. "There are traces of rohypnol in your blood," she said. "Even better, your blouse tested positive for semen, and it's a match for Michalik. In other words, he's toast… Um, I was thinking about calling a press conference today to announce the charges-the media has been hounding me about this one. Okay with you?"

  "Whatever you think is best, Rachel," she'd replied.

  But instead of calling later with the happy news that Alexis was about to be charged, Rachman said there was going to be a slight delay. Karp and some troll of an assistant DA named Kipman apparently had some sort of problem with the case. "They want me to cross a few more t's and dot some i's. It's no big deal. We'll file next week."

  "I don't understand," Ryder complained, trying not to sound hysterical. This wasn't the way the plan was supposed to go. "You promised."

  "Don't worry," Rachman assured her. "We have him by the balls. Karp and Kipman are like all men; they just don't want to believe that sexual assault is at epidemic levels in this country, much of it acquaintance rape, such as in your case. So I have to go twice as far just to get them to budge. But I'll get them there."

  "What if Alexis…I mean Michalik, comes after me?" Ryder said. "You know he said he was going to hurt me."

  "He contacted you?" Rachman asked.

  "Yes…no…I mean, this was after he did it. He said if I went to the police, he was going to find me and hurt me," Ryder said.

  "Was that in the police report?" Rachman said. "I don't remember the threat, although I suppose the nature of the crime implies that there is a threat of retaliation later."

  Ryder cursed herself. She didn't want to make Rachman suspicious. "I thought I told the first officers. Maybe I forgot to tell the detective. I still don't remember everything clearly or who I told what… I think there's some lingering effect of the drugs."

  "Sure, sure, completely understandable," Rachman said. "We just are going to have to be patient. Maybe conduct, or reconduct, a few interviews to make sure there are no holes for a defense attorney to exploit."

  Ryder had said she understood and hung up. On Friday night, when there was still no word from Rachman, she'd decided to go see Vanders and make sure he got his story straight. After he'd repeated it verbatim a half-dozen times without a glitch, she'd gone to bed with him after taking another roofie, which had made the experience bearable.

  In the morning, however, she woke up in a foul mood. She felt fat, bloated, and got out of bed to look at herself in the mirror. Not seeing the imperfections she had imagined, she smiled…until Vanders came up from behind and wrapped his arms around her while he pressed his groin against her backside.

  "Ted, what did I just tell you about taking liberties," she said, looking at him in the mirror. She expected him to back off.

  However, Ted's lust had emboldened him. He figured she owed him big and that it was time he had a little more say in their relationship. After all, he'd done everything she'd said, to the letter-well, except the part about screwing her again in the morning while she was still passed out. He'd had to reuse one of the rubbers, but it had been worth it. And it didn't matter; he
could expose her plans.

  "Maybe you should be a little more cooperative if you want me to keep being a good boy. Sometimes you aren't very nice to me," he said, pouting.

  Ryder, who'd tensed when he touched her, relaxed and let his hands continue to roam over her body. She reached behind and started to fondle him. He groaned…and then screamed when she pulled his balls as hard as she could. She'd whirled around with her scissors in her hand and placed them as if she intended to turn him into a eunuch.

  Vanders cried again when he felt the pinch of the blades as they cut into his skin. "I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. You're nice. Please, don't," he begged. He felt like passing out but was afraid of what she'd do if he did.

  "You little piece of shit," she snarled. "You ever threaten me again and I'll cut your fucking balls off and cram them down your throat." She squeezed the scissors a bit more. "We clear?"

  "Yes, yes, yes, yes," he yipped, nodding his head rapidly. "Please, let go."

  "Well, okay then, Teddy," she said, smiling sweetly as she eased up on the scissors. "Just remember, not only would I find a way to get to you and your little nuts if you went to the police, but do you think they're not going to care that you lied to them just so you could get laid? They'll put you in prison where you'll get laid every night by some big, hairy hillbilly."

  Ryder withdrew the scissors, which she waved in front of one of his weepy eyeballs. She had a sudden urge to plunge it in but figured that might be tough to explain.

  "There, there, Teddy," she said, lifting his trembling chin with the point of the scissors. "Just be a good boy…no more threats…and I might even throw you a bone from time to time."

  Five minutes later, she walked out of the apartment. Stopping to fix her makeup, she noticed a shadow move away from behind the door across the hall. Nosy neighbors, she thought. I'm going to have to be more careful and disguise my face when I visit Ted the Idiot.

  Just thinking about him and his threat as she walked out to her car pissed her off. Just another guy trying to fuck her over. Well, someday Ted Vanders and his balls might have a fatal meeting with a certain pair of scissors. She laughed at the thought of Ted's face as she dangled his nut sack in front of his eyes. Now that would be funny.

  Ted wasn't laughing, however, as he inspected his wounded nut sack with a mirror in the bathroom. Jeez, he thought, I better never tell her about the condom breaking or she really will cut them off.

  15

  One of the great things about jogging down a New York sidewalk accompanied by a 150-pound dog, Marlene thought, is that the crowd scatters like a school of herring when a barracuda shows up. Some of the fish did the New York shuffle, which was to look straight ahead at nothing and everything while skirting dog and owner without breaking stride. Others darted to the side and stood there staring at the dog as if it were some strange creature from another planet.

  For his part, Gilgamesh cruised along indifferent to the people-except that his enormous brown eyes seemed to click on each for a moment, assess the danger to his owner, and then move on to the next. He was happy just letting his teacup-size nose take in all the wonderful, to a dog, smells and being on a walk with Marlene. Occasionally a brave soul would stretch out a hand to give him a scratch, which he accepted without reaction, although on a word from Marlene he would have removed the appendage about up to the elbow.

  Marlene's route took her to an apartment building on the East Side, actually not far from Ariadne Stupenagel's loft. She was on her way to the Michaliks'. She'd called that morning and told Helena that she wanted to drop by and talk to her and Alexis.

  "I want to take my dog for a run; then I'll drop him off and be over," Marlene said.

  "Oh, bring your puppy, too," Helena replied. "I love dogs and had to leave my schnauzer at home when I came to the United States."

  "Well, he's considerably bigger than any puppy or schnauzer you've probably met."

  "Doesn't matter. Please, I insist. I would like to meet your dog."

  Marlene agreed. She was proud of her dog and knew that Gilgamesh would enjoy the longer outing. She regretted forgetting to ask Helena if she owned a cat. As well trained as Gilgamesh was-he'd hold his ground if a bomb was going off next to him-there was one small flaw in his nature and it was that he loved cats. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  "Nice doggy," said a voice behind her.

  Marlene and Gilgamesh turned, the latter emitting a deep, low rumble that was not quite a growl but a warning to stay back. Caught us both by surprise and that takes some doing, Marlene thought, as she sized up the stranger she saw.

  The man was obviously no threat. He was dressed sort of like a monk in a cowled brown robe that hung to mid-calf, revealing that he was wearing a worn pair of running shoes but no socks despite the cold and damp. It was hard to get a good look at his face because he kept most of it inside the hood and looked up at her sideways. But she saw he had the sunken cheeks and protruding eyes of someone who didn't eat well or regularly. His legs and arms, what she could see of them, were filthy, and the fingernails on the hand he stretched out to her were long, yellow, and dirt-caked. He smiled, revealing that most of his teeth were also gone. "Can you spare a buck?" he asked.

  Marlene reached for her fanny pack. She was worth millions-exactly how much she didn't know because she let others handle the details of her investments and disbursements, including generous donations to a variety of charities and nonprofit agencies-and could afford to be generous to the beggars who roamed New York's streets. Some people said giving them money just encouraged more begging and contributed to whatever addictions they had, but she didn't see the harm. If a buck toward a bottle of cheap gin could get some old guy through the day, then who was she to deny what little pleasure he had. She unzipped the pack she was wearing and pulled out a five.

  The little man skipped forward and snatched the bill, apparently not worried that he had to pass so close to the Hound of the Baskervilles. Marlene had been ready to command Gilgamesh to sit tight, but still she was surprised that he appeared no more concerned than he would have been if one of the twins had run up to her.

  "Thank you, thank you, have a Merry Christmas, Marlene Ciampi," the man yelled over his shoulder as he trotted off down the street.

  "Wait! How'd you know my name?" Marlene shouted. She wasn't sure she liked strangers in monk's costumes knowing who she was.

  The "monk" pulled up and looked back, most of his face still hidden in the cowl. "Why, everyone knows Marlene Ciampi," he said and cackled. "I seen you in a newspaper once."

  "Then can I know your name?" Marlene said, relieved by the simple explanation though she couldn't remember the last time her photograph had been published.

  "Roger," the man said. "Thank you for asking. It's been a long time since one of you up-world people cared what my name was… I was beginning to think it was 'Fuck Off, Bum.'" The man cackled again and resumed his retreat.

  "Well then, have a Merry Christmas, Roger," she called after him. Too late, she wondered what he meant by up-world.

  Marlene shook her head. Sometimes living in Manhattan was like living in the old Twilight Zone television show. She rang the buzzer across from the name tag that said Michalik.

  "Da?" answered a female voice.

  "Helena. It's Marlene."

  There was a buzz at the door and a click. Marlene pushed the door open and climbed up to the second floor, where Helena was standing out in the hallway.

  "Oh, my goodness," the woman said, laughing. "You're right…that is some puppy." She bent over and patted her thighs. "Come, puppy, say hello."

  Gilgamesh wagged his tail and looked up at Marlene with a question on his broad face. "Sure," she answered, releasing his leash. "Go say hi."

  The hound bounded down the hallway and nearly bowled Helena over. She grabbed him by the scruff on either side of his face as he licked hers.

  "Umm, I should have asked," Marlene said, looking at the open door to the Michalik apar
tment. "But do you have cats?"

  Helena stopped playing with the dog and looked at her. "No. I am not a cat person," she said. "Should I have a cat?"

  "Not if you want Gilgamesh to visit. How are you?"

  The smile dropped from Helena's face. She shrugged. "As well as can be expected, I guess. Please, I'm forgetting my manners, welcome," she said, stepping forward and giving Marlene a kiss on each cheek.

  Helena led the way into the small but comfortable and well-appointed apartment. Several Russian icon paintings hung on the wall in the entryway; vases of fresh flowers seemed to occupy most flat surfaces. Marlene noticed that the crib in the living room was already occupied by a half-dozen stuffed animals.

  "When are you due?" Marlene asked.

  "In June," Helena said, brightening. She looked happily at the crib, but then her face fell again.

  The bedroom door in the back of the apartment opened and Alexis Michalik stepped out. Wow, Marlene thought, no wonder college coeds wanted a piece of this guy. The dark, wavy hair had just enough gray in it to qualify as highlights, and he had the deep, soulful brown eyes that qualified him as a poet whether he could write or not. He smiled and held out his hand though with one eye on the dog.

  "Alexis Michalik," he said. "Helena told me about how you have offered to help us. I cannot thank you enough." He looked at Gilgamesh and laughed. "I did not know that they allowed you to keep bears as pets in New York City."