by Mic Palmer
“Does she want me to ask her what she’s doing?” wondered Jack. “Lucky you,” he responded.
“Well…” she began.
“So where ya head’n?” Jack found himself saying.
“I have class, believe or not, but first I’m going to get a bite to eat.”
“You’re in school?”
“I know. I’m old, but better late than never, right?”
“That’s great. What are you studying?”
“Education. I’m finally getting my masters so I can actually earn a living.”
“Good for you.”
“Anyway… I’m just going to a place up the street, Good Changs. Do you know it?”
“Be a man,” Jack told himself. “Ah, no. Is it good? Maybe I’ll stop in some time.”
“You can come with me if you like. I grew up with the owners, so they usually take care of me.”
“Really? Ahh, ok – why not. It’s not like I’m doing anything important.”
Just then she peered stealthily out of the corners of her eyes. “Meet me there in ten minutes.”
“Meet you?”
“Good Changs,” she whispered, “on the corner of Allen and Christie. I don’t want them to see me leaving with you.”
“Ok.”
“Bye,” she mouthed, and with that she was gone, giving Jack a few minutes to check the news. “Still Nothing,” he reflected.
Chapter Forty-Two
Waiting for Cassandra at the restaurant, Jack censoriously considered what he was doing. Clearly, this was neither the time nor the place, but soon he’d be going underground, meaning that whatever minor impression he had made on her would quickly fade. His only choice therefore was to get to know her, firm things up, create a memory. But where was she? She had left before him.
Sticking the audio plug in his ear, he tilted his head to the side as he searched for news. Did she know something he didn’t? Was this a set up?
Just then she rambled in with her hands full of packages. “Hi,” she told him, dropping some on the table in front of him.
“Long time no see?” said a tall Chinese man with a goatee and ponytail.
“Here – these are for you,” offered Cassandra.
“It’s his birthday,” she informed Jack. “Peter this is Jack. Jack, Peter.”
Awkwardly standing to shake his hand, Jack noticed the ducks dripping behind the counter. “Great,” he thought to himself, “more acquaintances.”
Having exchanged her gifts – some Rolling Stones CDs and a bottle of Arancello – she began the ceremony of removing her cap, scarf, vest, and backpack before neatly arranging them in the corner of the booth. “You like it here?” she rhetorically asked. “It’s too bright. Let’s go over there, yeah?”
Now that they had finally switched booths and moved all of her things, she told him that while picking up the gifts she had seen something that reminded her of him.
Watching as she slid it over to him, Jack couldn’t believe that she actually had it wrapped. He was even more impressed, however, with what it was – a deck of cards that contained famous works of art.
“It’s nothing,” she told him, more concerned about what to eat. “So what do you like?” she enthusiastically asked him, her pitch black eyes glistening in the light of the buzzing fluorescent bulb.
“Truthfully, I have a weakness for duck.”
“No,” she whispered. “This isn’t the place for it. Trust me. You should have told me. We could’ve gone to Bo Fongs. What’s good here is the beef stew and sea food soup.”
“That’s fine,” he responded, somewhat disappointed.
“You want me to order. I’ll order, yeah?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Having called over her friend, she began speaking a mile a minute in Cantonese.
Jack unwrapped the cards. “Are you sure you didn’t order too much?”
“You’d better eat it.”
“Do I look like I don’t eat?”
“That’s alright. I like a little meat on a man.”
“So you’re a co-ed?”
“I suppose.”
“Why so late?”
“Oh God, it’s a long story, but suffice it to say I spent most of my life trying to be a dancer.”
Jack speculated that this probably meant that she had spent some time as a stripper, but somehow it didn’t matter. “Modern, ballet?”
“Mostly ballet and for a while there I was in a pretty decent company, but you know how it is. Once you get into your thirties, things kind of dry up.”
“It’s never too late; you certainly still look the part.”
“It’s funny you should say that. I think that’s why I got into it in the first place. Growing up, everyone was always telling me how much I looked like a ballerina, so after a while I thought that’s what I’m supposed to do, but the truth is I never really enjoyed it.”
“That’s a shame,” uttered Jack. “But at least you did something different. I mean how many people can say they danced professionally?”
Cassandra averted her glance. “Does that include pole dancing?”
“People have to make a living,” offered Jack, somewhat disappointed that he was right.
“Not like that,” grimaced Cassandra. “It’s a dirty business with dirty people.”
“Sometimes you don’t have a choice.”
“I had a choice.”
“Are you still…”
“No. That’s well behind me. I haven’t danced like that in years – besides my boobs were too small to begin with. If I really wanted to make a go of it, I would have had to get implants.”
Jack chuckled. “You’ve had an interesting life.”
“I guess you can say that, and as a ballerina I did get to travel a lot.”
“Really, where’d you go?”
“Spain, France, Italy, but the place I really wanted to go was Russia.”
“Why’s that?”
“To see the Bolshoi. I saw it here once, but for whatever reason I’ve always wanted to see it in Moscow.
“I can understand that. The environment I think shapes the experience as much as the performance itself.”
“Exactly.”
“Here,” he said, sliding over one of the playing cards. It was a painting of a ballerina.
“Oh, Degas, I actually saw that one.”
Jack read off the card. “You’ve been to the Musee d’Orsay?”
“Is that where it is? I don’t even remember. How about you, have you been there?”
“Nah, I haven’t travelled much.”
“Well, we have a great collection right here in the City.”
“True, but there are some things I hear you need to see in person. Have you been to the Sistine chapel?”
“Yeas, but somehow it just didn’t do it for me. I mean you have to look up and it’s far away and there are people all over the place. I don’t know.”
Looking through the cards, he pulled El Greco’s Baptism and Ruben’s Last Judgment.
Cassandra looked on with interest. “Now those I like.”
“Me too,” Jack told her, as he slid over two additional cards, “but take a look at these.”
“That’s the Sistine chapel.”
“Right, this one’s of the ceiling and that’s of the wall. Look at the colors, the elongated, twisted, muscular figures, the expressions.”
Letting her mouth hang open, she compared the El Greco with The Last Judgment. “Oh, I see. So what are you saying, El Greco stole from Michelangelo?”
“Stole? No. Borrowed, modified, improved? Absolutely. Apparently El Greco wasn’t very impressed by the Sistine chapel either. In fact he told the Pope he’d paint something good over it if he liked.”
“That’s bold.”
“But later on he admitted that its influence was inescapable.”
“I guess you have to build on something.”
“Someone said that Michelangelo was all in his ow
n head, but I’m not so sure. I mean he had to have known about the Greeks, not to mention the artists from his own era.”
“How about you? What were your influences?”
“Me, oh I don’t know, Dogs Playing Poker, the baby Elvis lying in a manger…”
“Really!”
“Truthfully, I wasn’t sophisticated enough to have influences.”
“Maybe you don’t need them.”
“I’m no Michelangelo.”
“You know what I did like,” she commented excitedly. “His unfinished pieces.”
“You’re kidding. You sound like an old teacher of mine.”
“I don’t remember the actual subjects, but it was kinda like they were materializing before your eyes.”
“As if they were stepping right out of the stone,” Jack mumbled, recalling his instructor.
“Yes,” she enthused, “but only partially formed, leaving you something to think about.”
“Always becoming, always evolving, in a perfect meeting of mind and material.”
“That’s nice.”
“It’s not mine.”
“I figured.”
This caused them both to laugh.
Picking up the Rubens, she noted, “This is wild. Look at the demons.”
“There’s a lot of movement there; it’s almost like a whirlpool.”
“Exactly.”
Jack had never met anyone with such focus. “I just read about a copy of a Da Vinci battle scene that had a lot of the same elements.”
“Oh Da Vinci. I love him.”
“The idea of him or his works?”
“His works, his paintings.”
“Truthfully, they’ve always left me flat.”
“You have to go to the Louvre.”
“The Mona Lisa?”
“You would think, but no. That didn’t do much for me either. On the other hand, with all of the people and security, I couldn’t really get a good look at it.”
“What’s left?”
“In a totally different section, in the middle of a bunch of other stuff, were three absolutely incredible paintings. Wait – I’m trying to remember. One was of a woman with a weird, subtle, lifelike, almost sly expression and another was of a really confident looking, really handsome man.”
“And the third…”
“Oh, I don’t know. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure if I got the first two right, but after I saw them, I began to cry.”
“Really?”
“I was surprised myself.”
Jack was smiling. “What was it?”
“I don’t know. I guess compared to the other stuff from the period, they were just – there was no comparison.”
“Apparently.”
“You know what it was like?
“What?”
“Remember Secretariat?”
“The horse? Of course.”
Cassandra chuckled.
Jack was curious as to where she was going with this. “He was undefeated, right?”
“I don’t think so, but remember the Belmont stakes?”
“Not specifically, but I know he won.”
“He won by such a ridiculous almost supernatural margin that people were breaking out in tears – grown men!”
“Are you sure it wasn’t over all the money they won.”
“No way. He was a huge favorite, which was why my father bet against him.”
“You remember that?”
“How could I not? It was the first time I saw him cry, and it wasn’t because of the money he lost.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I’ll never forget it. He used to drag me to the OTB every Saturday and whether he won or lost he rarely showed any emotion, but on that day he was like a different person.”
“What about you? Did you cry?”
“Of course. I was maybe five or six, but still I knew something special was going on.”
“Now I feel like I missed out.”
“My father and I still laugh about it. It’s one of our fondest memories. Anyway, that’s how I felt when I saw the DaVinci pieces.”
“That’s nice, that you and you father have that. What about your mother, are you close with her?”
“In a way, but she’s different, tougher, harder, less sentimental. When she heard that me and my father teared up over a horse race, she thought we were crazy.”
“Sounds like my father. Nice guy, but all business. Remember Ruffian?”
“Definitely. The match race with Foolish Pleasure. Me and my sisters were all rooting for her because she was a girl.”
“Did you cry when they had to shoot her?”
“What do you think?”
“I was pretty upset myself, but my father was as cool as a cucumber. All he did was complain about how the owners shouldn’t have put her in that kind of race to begin with.”
“He sounds demanding.”
“He was, but if I ever had a problem, I knew I could count on him.”
“He’s gone?”
“Yeah, my mother too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a while ago.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“No, unfortunately.”
Cassandra rolled her eyes. “I have three brothers and two sisters.”
“What’s with the face?”
“Let’s just say they have their own opinions as to how I should conduct my life.”
“Are they married?”
“All married, all with children, all professionals.”
Jack chuckled, and before long they felt like old friends. Over plates of chicken and ginger sauce, sliced beef and tomatoes, and roast pork and rice, they discussed past romances, present adversities, and future hopes, and when they were through, Jack walked her to the train.
“What time does your class start?”
“In about ten minutes.”
“You’re late.”
“I know.”
“What time do you get out?”
“Ten.”
“That’s late. How are you getting home?”
“Are you offering to pick me up?”
Jack paused for a moment.
“I’m kidding. I’ve got my car parked over by the school.”
“In that case, I was just about to offer you a ride.”
“Oh really,” she chuckled. “Well maybe next time I won’t have my car.”
“Well then it looks like I’ll be driving.”
“You promise.”
“Sure, I’ll call ya.”
Standing there in the dark at the top of the steps, Jack put his hand out to bid her good night. Within seconds, however, he found himself being pushed up against the wall abutting the subway entrance. Feeling her lips pressed against his, all moist and hungry, he went to embrace her, only to find that he was too late.
With her eyes gleaming like two shimmering nuggets of phosphorescent coal, she gave him a playful shove. “That’s so you don’t forget.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Jack’s chest burned as if he had swallowed a bottle of Tabasco sauce. Waking up at 5:00 am, he was stunned to find his chest covered in chicken bones.
He had gone to bed early, but with the murder of Janet, the rendezvous with Susan, and the date with Cassandra, he was plagued with a violent mix of thoughts and images.
“Stop it,” he told himself, “she’s married.” But as much as he enjoyed his evening with Cassandra, he couldn’t help but picture the placket of Susan’s skirt as it broke over her perfectly shaped knee. There was just something about a former lover; the latent intimacy, the comforting knowledge of compatibility, the unavoidable, almost programmed sense of possession – they all made it difficult to move on. Most compelling, however, was the overwhelming sense of how she felt. The spongy protuberance of her buttocks, the dewy warmth of her inner thighs, the rubbery hardness of her nipples – they all still burned within his memories.
“Fuck’n P
hil,” he thought to himself. “Why did I have to pick him?”
Thick but tall, the recently promoted detective had strong brown eyes, a prominent but straight nose and a slick black pompadour, but what Susan really liked about him was the genuine way he seemed to conduct himself. Hovering between explosive confidence and tender vulnerability, he was everything her former boyfriend was not.
“Screw him,” Jack would often think to himself. Every once in a while he’d even fantasize about his being shot – never killed mind you – but injured just enough to knock him down a notch, remove the fire, make him more ordinary.
As of late, however, the daydreams were becoming increasingly violent and rather than leaving it to some amorphous thug to take care of his rival, it was now Jack who did the dirty work.
“So what,” he’d guiltily tell himself. “It’s just a fantasy. What could be more normal?”
With a chest full of chicken bones, however, he was suddenly confronted with undeniable evidence of a will beyond his own, and all at once his vindictive fantasies became a source of mind numbing terror.
“I just got hungry,” he told himself. “Big deal,” but then he looked at the menu and realized that it wasn’t just a matter of ordering in. With no deliveries past 11 pm, he must have walked to the place, and yet he had no recollection of it. How was this possible? It wasn’t like he had blacked out or anything. He hadn’t even taken a drink.
“What the hell’s wrong with me,” he bristled. Not sure of whether he had begun to feel sick because of the food or the situation, he pressed the bones against his body, hobbled across the room, and then dropped them into the waste paper basket, at which point he made his way to the bathroom.
With an aching back and a churning stomach, he wet a wash cloth for the purpose of scrubbing off the congealed sauce. It had encased his chest hairs and filled his belly button, making him wonder how he could have been so sloppy. This wasn’t like him at all. In fact he was normally rather fastidious, even annoyingly so, but what really ate at him was the fact that this wasn’t the first time this had happened.
Although it had been decades, there were two prior incidents, neither of which made much of an impression.
The first involved Janet, regrettably. It was the weekend her parents shocked her by announcing that they felt she was responsible and adult enough to be left home alone. And how did she repay their trust? Why by breaking into the liquor cabinet and having sex with her boyfriend of course.