Aphrodisiac

by Alicia Street

  Gwen had been an archaeobotanist—an archaeologist who specializes in ancient plants and agriculture. But since her layoff from Columbia’s faculty last year, she’d become engrossed in the making of perfumes and aromatic oils. Instead of looking for another teaching or research position, Gwen had decided to start her own home business selling her fragrances. Benita used to say her place smelled like Nefertiti’s burial chamber.

  “Okay, let’s do some video action.” My roommate swept the space with her camcorder.

  I walked the length of the room. The place was empty, as expected. Darryl had cleared out all of Gwen’s things. I had no idea what I was looking for.

  Suddenly the building’s front door slammed. Men’s voices. Sounded like a battalion coming up the stairs. Benita and I exchanged a silent glance.

  “Quick,” I whispered. “The fire escape.”

  Trying not to trip on littered floorboards and the holes they left behind, I darted for the window. I was straddling the sill when I heard a voice right outside the door saying, “How many more times are we supposed to search this place? That fuckin’ bitch pussy probably hid it somewhere else.”

  I tossed words over my shoulder while racing down the fire escape. “Did you hear what he said?”

  “Zip it and keep moving, Saylor.”

  Scurrying to the bottom platform, I saw the rickety iron ladder that hung over the sidewalk. It looked like it hadn’t been used in a hundred years. I knew fire escape ladders were notorious for jamming, and of course, this one followed suit. Benita grabbed hold and gave it a solid jerk. Nope. I joined her efforts, trying not to fall, but years of rust had left it frozen. We stared up at the window to see if the men had a drawn a bead on us. No sign yet.

  “Let’s jump,” she said.

  “Wait.” I reached inside my bag and pulled out a plastic bottle of Do-Me-Good lime flavored personal lubricant. I poured it liberally up and down the stubborn section of ladder that was refusing to slide. “Now let’s try it.” We gave it another jerk. Swoosh. The ladder glided down to the sidewalk. Two more satisfied Do-Me-Good customers.

  We hit the street and broke into a sprint for the Camry. Luckily I’d worn my Asics gels tonight. Even so, I could hardly keep up with Benita, who was way out in front. I’d puke if I had to run much faster. We dove into the car and took off.

  “That was him,” I said. “The guy who taught Uncle Pete his new one-liner. Let’s go to the police.”

  “Yeah, sure. Just tell them we met some creep who uses the same profanities as my pet mynah, and they’ll hop right on it.” She turned down Richards Street.

  “Those men were trespassing on private property.”

  “So were we. And we don’t need no donut-eaters butting in and asking us all kinds of questions.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I asked. “Anything to get them off their butts and back on Gwen’s case.”

  “You are dreaming if you believe in that fairy tale. This is the big city, honey. Precincts have to wrap things up and show productivity like any other business. Just because we found some guys prowling around in a vacated warehouse won’t mean diddly as far as Gwen’s death is concerned. Not to the cops, anyway.”

  She had a point. “Okay, forget the police. Only what the hell is going on here? First Gwen’s body is found in the Erie Basin. Next somebody ransacks our apartment. A pack of good ol’ boys chase us into a barren lot. And now it looks like the same dudes are tearing up Gwen’s floor. They’re hunting for something.”

  “And either we have what they’re looking for, or else they think we do.”

  “Comforting. Think they saw us?” I checked the streets to see if anyone was following.

  “Doubt it,” Benita said. “We outslicked them.”

  “I need a drink. Let’s go to Sunny’s.”

  “We’re on.”

  She turned south on Van Brunt. We parked at the end of Conover near the vacant, windswept piers of New York Bay. From the sidewalk I could see the waterfront in the distance. Tonight prevailing breezes carried a faint scent of garbage from marine transfer stations. Benita took her camcorder to the trunk. Wouldn’t want to tempt anyone. Before tossing my purse in next to it, I doused myself with Baby Phat Goddess and stuffed a few bills in my pocket.

  We walked to a brick storefront with striped awnings and a sign that read only BAR. In the window a neon dolphin swam around a glowing anchor. It was a good-sized crowd for a Wednesday night. Down-home, definitely not Manhattan chic.

  The scene here was more like Sunny’s private den than a commercial bar, and the decor was equally unpretentious: one of those old Schaefer beer signs above the bar, a pair of worn out boxing gloves on one wall and an abstract painting by Sunny. Before the death of Brooklyn’s shipping industry, longshoremen working the Red Hook docks came to this same bar in droves. Now it attracted a mix of artists, writers, carpenters, plumbers—and two frantic girls from DUMBO in need of alcoholic sedation.

  As big as it is, Brooklyn can be a very small world. I immediately recognized the head and shoulders a few feet in front of me—shaggy hair and hawkish nose, granite deltoids bursting out of a burgundy T-shirt. Eldridge Mace. The sight of him standing at the bar in tight denims was all I needed to make my already four-star night complete. And no doubt Tara Buckley was lurking nearby. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t do this.” I turned to leave.

  Benita held me by the arm. “All because of the Mace-man?”

  “Of course not. I’m not interested in him. He’s probably just another obnoxious alpha male obsessed with Monday Night Football and topless dancers. Really, Binnie, you do have a way of jumping to conclusions.” Okay, so maybe I’d spent the last two days interrogating her on everything she knew about him. “I, um, are you sure we shouldn’t call the police?”

  “Listen, Saylor. Those clues in Gwen’s good-bye note look like things only a close friend would understand. I don’t think we’ll be able to convince the police of anything until we figure it out ourselves.” She brought her mouth next to my ear. “I can tell he’s alone. That Tara chick isn’t here. Besides, you’re better looking than she is.”

  Benita and I had been prodding, bickering and rescuing each other since our freshman year of college. Even though I earned a living analyzing relationships, I was always amazed at the way ours worked. She wasn’t really the huggy type, but she gave me one anyway. “Now, get your ass in here,” she said. “There’s a martini with your name on it.”

  I combed my fingers through my curly flyaway hair and headed for one of the vinyl booths. On my way, I glanced at Eldridge and discovered he was watching us. I cursed myself for once again being caught in sneakers instead of high heels. At least my forest green scooped-neck jersey cinched at the waist so I didn’t totally resemble a tree stump. Or worse yet, a munchkin.

  He tossed me a ruggedly handsome smile and tapped the empty stools next to him. The temperature between my legs shot up about a hundred degrees. Behold the laws of attraction in the human species. There are three stages of sexual response: desire, arousal and orgasm. Arousal and orgasm are physical. But, I reminded myself, desire is totally psychological. Then again, who cares? As long as it gets you to the next two.

  Benita nudged me toward the long mahogany bar. “S’up, Mace-man.” She slid onto a stool, leaving the one next to Eldridge for me. “You remember my friend Saylor?”

  “Sure do.” He held out his hand. “Sailor. Like on a ship?”

  Wow. A handshake can be sooo nice with the right man. Thoughts of getting naked with him brought a sudden case of dumb-osis to my Phi Beta Kappa brain. It took me half a minute before I answered him. “Not quite. Saylor is a family name.”

  He bought me a dirty martini, a Guinness for Binnie and another beer for himself. His being a boxer, I envisioned he might wear Everlast cologne, but instead he smelled like cinnamon and juniper.

  “My friend Jerry is playing steel guitar tonight,” the Mace-man said, gesturing to a lone musician in th
e corner. Tall and gaunt-faced with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lip. Eldridge turned to me and I noticed a small gold hoop in each of his earlobes. “What brings you ladies to the Hook?”

  I fidgeted nervously with my toothpick and olive. “We were just out looking for some murderers.”

  Eldridge laughed. I doubt he intended it to be sexy, but believe me, it was.

  Meanwhile, Benita flipped me one of her evil looks. What can I say? I’m a really bad liar. My fibs always come out sounding like those stupid things I told Eldridge at the gym. Speaking of which…“I apologize for ruining your workout on Tuesday.”

  “Sorry I reacted the way I did,” he said. “Guess it’s because you’re the first person to dump me on my ass in over forty fights.”

  Benita patted me on the back. “Way to go champ.”

  My lips twisted into a pretzel. “Hope you don’t want a rematch, Ridge.”

  “Call me Eldridge.”

  “Tara called you Ridge,” I said.

  “Tara’s got her own ideas about a lot of things.” He sounded annoyed.

  Aha. Could it be the door was open? It certainly appeared that way. “Are you two seriously involved?” Eek. That was dumb. I felt like Doris Day after she blurted to Rock Hudson that oh-so-revealing conversation killer: “Are you married?”

  “Nah,” he said. “I don’t do relationships. I’m a born loner.” At least the guy was honest.

  “I’m pretty independent myself,” I mumbled.

  Eldridge and I sank into an awkward silence. Benita chatted with some literary type guy on her left. I stared down at the reddish brown mahogany bar, distracting myself with the curvilinear patterns of grain running through the wood surface. It didn’t take a course in Freud to interpret the results of my impromptu Rorschach test. All I saw were erect penises and people copulating in various positions.

  You’d think nearly coming face-to-face with a team of deadly slimebags an hour ago would have dampened my sex drive. What did I expect? I hadn’t been laid in over two months, and here I was rubbing shoulders with the best cure to come my way in years.

  I heard a giggle and saw a tan, razor-thin twenty-something brunette in a periwinkle tank and denim shorts standing behind Eldridge. Sometimes I believe there is a higher power that enjoys lobbing a hair into my soup whenever the going gets good.

  “Hi, Lauren,” he said, twisting around to greet her. She gave him an embarrassingly long kiss. Embarrassing for the woman who sat watching, which just happened to be me. Lauren whispered something in Eldridge’s ear, and he gave me an apologetic can-I-help-it-if-women-adore-me shrug.

  Feigning indifference, I leaned toward Benita and joined in her conversation with the poet from Weehawken. I wasn’t about to let myself come off as another desperate, ego-battered, past-thirty, unmarried female with a grudge. Not that I didn’t feel like asking Eldridge what he saw in that ignorant-looking slut in the trailer park fuck-me outfit.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder. Eldridge introduced me to Lauren, who took the hint and politely retreated back to her table of friends. Did he mean to get rid of her? Could it be I actually won that round? Or more importantly, did I want to get mixed up with some South Brooklyn stud who had women crawling all over him?

  He edged closer to me and rested his elbows on the bar. “Jaleel told me you see therapy clients in your home,” he said. “Isn’t that risky? There are some pretty nutty guys around.”

  Jaleel told him? Had Eldridge asked about me? “I carefully screen all new clients. If someone sounds like they’ve got a heavy-duty issue, I refer them to a colleague at NYSPI or treat them in the outpatient program at the Institute for Sexual Counseling, where I work once a week. My private practice is limited to your everyday dysfunctionals. The worried well, as we call them in the business.”

  I noticed several nicks and scars on his face that I’m sure didn’t come from shaving. “You’re obviously a person who likes danger, going toe-to-toe in the ring. And anyone who can enjoy working thirty stories up, wow. That gives me absolute nightmares. How’d you ever get into doing high-rise windows?”

  “Runs in the family, working in high places.” A subtle light went on in his face. “My dad painted all the bridges from the Verrazano to the Triborough. Just like his dad.” Hell, I had a great-uncle who was a riveter on the one hundred second floor of the Empire State back in 1931. There’s a famous picture of him sitting on a girder overlooking the skyline with seven other Kanienkehaka Mohawks.”

  “Then you grew up in the city?”

  “The Red Hook projects,” he said. “My dad died young, but my uncle took me up to our tribal lands pretty often. Lacrosse and high steel are traditions for my father’s tribe upstate. I never got into lacrosse. Boxing’s always been my game.”

  “I never really got into sports.”

  “No? What about the women’s gymnastic team and the semi-pro soccer?”

  Oops. “Oh, that.” My face flushed.

  He gave me a slow, triumphant smile. “I think you need another drink. Who knows what you’ll confess to next?”

  We laughed, and he pressed his shoulder into mine. Damn. It’s Eddie Rivera redux. I was orbiting the moon and the view was ecstatic, no doubt heightened by the haunting sounds of his friend’s steel guitar. And two martinis. “That’s a beautiful song.”

  He nodded. “It’s called ‘Sleepwalk.’ ”

  I heard myself saying, “Dance with me.”

  Eldridge didn’t answer. He just stood there casually draining the last of his beer. I wanted to crawl under the bar. Why did I open my mouth like that? I was about to say, “Only kidding” when his arm slid around my waist, and he guided me off the stool.

  He pulled me close, and I reached up, draping my hands around his neck. His solid, muscular body felt as good as it looked. And the Mace-man could dance. His movements were rhythmic and confident. A strong leader, as my mother would say. She and my father loved ballroom and used to head off to the Borscht Belt a few times a year, leaving my brother and me with Aunt Lana.

  By the time the song ended, Benita was encircled by four men trying to pick her up. Best friends like her aren’t exactly confidence builders. How many women do you know who can look gorgeous wearing baggy running pants, a ratty Yankees tee and sneakers?

  We found two seats farther along the bar, and Eldridge ordered that third martini he said I needed. He stroked the small of my back as we talked. In fact, I was sure he was giving me “that” look. Definitely an intense pheromone exchange going on here.

  Then I saw it. The face of a ghost peering back at me. My breath was stolen from my chest. I stared at the photograph hanging on the wall behind the bar. The frame was embellished with a wreath of dried flowers. A small plaque beneath it said, “Our hearts are with you, Gwendolyn.”

  I realized I’d let the conversation lapse. I glanced up. Eldridge seemed to be waiting, almost listening to my thoughts. Most guys would get antsy and tease me or excuse themselves.

  Maybe that’s what prompted me to say, “How far would you go to help a friend? Especially if they’re already dead?”

  “A friend?”

  I nodded toward the little altar that had me fixated. “Gwendolyn Applebee. We were very close.”

  “Sad what happened. She was a very special person.”

  “You knew her?” Don’t tell me Gwen was another one of his conquests. He wasn’t her type at all.

  He nodded. “I live a couple blocks from here. I used to take my ten-year-old nephew for walks along the docks. One day we ran into this woman writing poetry by the canal. Kevin wasn’t well, and she was real gentle with him. Became good friends. He loved to hear her stories about warrior gods. And they both collected rocks. Gwen gave him some of hers. She’d take us to her place and show him all kinds of ancient relics. He really liked her.”

  I had a vague memory of Gwen once talking about a sickly little boy who used to visit her with his uncle. “He must be upset that she’s gone.”

>   “He would’ve been, but Kevin died a few months before Gwen. Leukemia.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He bit down on his lip. “Beats me why such a kind, generous woman like Gwen would take her own life.”

  I fiddled with my martini glass. “Maybe she didn’t.”

  Eldridge pulled back his chin. “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t suicide. She was murdered.”

  “The police have new information?”

  “No, but I do.”

  He studied me, puzzled. Something was obviously going through his mind. “You weren’t kidding earlier when you said you were out looking for murderers.”

  I avoided his eyes and sipped my drink.

  Eldridge waited for an explanation, but when he didn’t get one, he said, “I hope that silence doesn’t mean what I think, or you could be getting in over your head. There are some mean dudes out there. Believe me, you don’t want any part of them.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t seriously believe that.”

  “Why is it men assume women are helpless when the going gets rough?” My lips pulled back tight against my teeth. “I’ve worked in clinics in some pretty bad neighborhoods. Believe me, I’m no pushover. Maybe those mean dudes out there better be afraid of me.”

  He laughed and took a swallow of his beer. “Gimme a break. You must think you’re pretty dangerous. What are you five feet? And a big 130?”

  “What? I have never weighed that much in my life!” Well, maybe I did come close while completing my doctoral thesis. For months it was just me, my computer and a case of Twinkies. “Easy,” he said. “I’m no expert at judging a woman’s weight. Fact is, I think you’re pretty cute.”

  “Cute? That’s what people call their pet ferret.” Next he’d be calling me a munchkin.

  “What do you want? Sexy? Yeah, I think you’re sexy.”

  “Keep the charity.” I downed the rest of my martini in one gulp. Ugh. Then I half slid, half fell off my stool while trying to get tip money out of my tight jeans pocket. Eldridge stood up looking bewildered and annoyed. Setting my attitude on maximum level haughty, I placed a Lincoln under my glass and stepped away from the bar.