Marie lowered her hands and closed her eyes. She hadn’t known that Lana Turner was an alias, or whatever they called it in show business—a stage name? She was highly doubtful that Grace Kelly had parked her royal rump in the chair across the room on her way to the throne of Monaco. But she was certain that if she didn’t put Mr. Todd in handcuffs, very soon, she’d regret it, and not just at work.
“Yes, I do, Mr. Todd.”
“I’m glad, Lana. Relax. I learned this technique in Shanghai. They have no inhibitions in the Far East, none of our ridiculous notions of shame. Let yourself go.”
Todd seemed to be talking to himself. He began to sway behind her, and his touch lightened on her shoulders, becoming less pinchy, more of a soft kneading with his palms. It was less painful, but far from pleasant. The lights blazed in her face. Even with her eyes closed, she saw a haze of red through her lids, like blood in water. As Todd rocked back and forth, she felt the fabric of the couch pull with the movement of his hips. “Every girl who comes here, Lana, they want something.”
Marie didn’t think he expected an answer. Not the obvious one: a job. She wished she were somewhere else. Anywhere. Even Shanghai. She wondered if any girls had accepted his offers of foreign travel, and shuddered at the thought. If any found their way to Mexico, they weren’t teaching men how to dance.
“Every girl who comes here, Lana, they want something from me. Every girl tries to show me something, to trade for what I can give.”
Her nose itched. Would it be rude to scratch it? She didn’t care. When she raised her hand to her face, his hands left her shoulders for a moment. She leaned forward and the hands returned, holding her more firmly.
“Some girls show me a little leg, some a little cleavage. Hmm, that’s nice.”
When his hands began to slip lower down her chest, she pushed them back. His body changed its rocking motion from side to side, to front to back. What was he doing? “One less button on a blouse, and you can see a whole new world. Yes . . .”
No, Marie knew what he was doing. She froze. She thought of what the inspector might say, if she didn’t make this collar. No, that was stupid—she wouldn’t say anything aside from, “Good try, Marie!” And then she imagined how St. Theresa would react to the sight of Mr. Todd humping the furniture behind her. No, she wouldn’t think about that. She tried to think of what she could possibly charge him with. She could hear the cross-examination from the expensive defense lawyer: What did you actually observe, Officer? But Marie couldn’t turn around. She couldn’t look back. She couldn’t speak, and she couldn’t bear to listen.
“Not you, though. You’re different, honey. Whatever your name is. You came in here with your imagination showing. Yes, you did, yes . . .”
Marie tried to push him away, and he seized her left hand, twisting it as he lifted her up from the couch. He had a grip like a blacksmith, and she knew her wrist would be black and blue tomorrow. An assault, that was. Unlawful imprisonment, too. Now she had misdemeanors! It took an enormous expense of willpower to see the upside of the situation. When she rose, she saw that his trousers were around his ankles, obliging him to waddle around to the front of the couch.
“Tell me, who you are, Lana! You can be anyone! Let your imagination run wild—you can be a geisha, a slave in the harem!”
At least he’s giving me choices, Marie thought. The little joke gave her courage, and her head cleared. “I gotcha, Mr. Todd, but one thing I don’t wanna be is pregnant. Let me just get to my purse, for my pessary—”
“Hurry up! Now, what are you? Be a princess, a cruel pirate queen!”
Todd still held her as she knelt, reaching into her purse with her free hand. She found her shield first, but she didn’t think it would matter if she showed it. Hairbrush, compact, gun—no, no, and no. Finally, she found her blackjack, and she found her voice. “Get off me! Let go! I’m a policewoman! I’m the police!”
“That’s what I want to hear! Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“You’re under arrest!”
“Yes!”
Todd yanked her back up, and Marie lurched to comply, knowing that her wrist would break if she didn’t. The soft heft of the leather-wrapped lead truncheon was repulsively similar to what she tried not to feel pressed against her. Todd seized a handful of her hair, pulling her face close. He loomed over her, staring down. When he pressed his mouth against hers, she was almost shocked that there was no liquor on his breath. His eyes were clear, if crazed, high only from his dog-in-heat desire. She pushed him away and brought down the blackjack on the front of his head, at the hairline. It felt like she’d kicked a curb. Mr. Todd frowned, and then he gazed at her with a quizzical expression. “That’s maybe a little too much.”
A single droplet of blood trickled down the center of his forehead, leaving a jagged trail behind. Its path zigzagged, as if it cutting through traffic. Mr. Todd’s eyes crossed as he tried to see it. And then he laid his hand on her breast. She struck him again, on the side of the head. The blackjack landed with a damp slap, an almost gentle sound. He tilted forward like a building on a bad foundation before crumpling over on top of her, trapping her on the couch.
She squirmed out from beneath him, desperate to catch her breath. When Todd began to stir, she retrieved her handcuffs from the purse. He nearly woke up before they were fastened, and his once-wandering hands looked like little trapped crabs now that they were pinned behind his back, just above the pink expanse of his buttocks. She took the badge from the purse and fixed it to her lapel, and then she took out her gun, so he could see it when he awoke. It took some minutes of piggy blinking for him to realize his quandary. He managed to sit up. He glared at her and hissed, “You . . . impostor!”
Marie broke out in helpless giggles. He’d been lied to, of all things. Did this mean that she didn’t get the job? The laughter incensed him, and he stood up to charge. Another wallop with the blackjack made his knees buckle, and he sank to the floor. She wished he’d get up again, so she could put another dent in his cranium. But he didn’t move, even when she prodded his flank with her shoe. No, he was done for the day. Unlike Marie, who had hours of typing to tend to—all the clerical drudgery Mr. Todd promised she’d be spared, if she took refuge under his wing. She had a long night ahead of her, but she’d gotten what she came for: an arrest, her first. Whether she needed a hundred more, or a thousand, she was that much closer to her gold shield. And she could go back to being herself again, at least for a while.
WHEN MARIE CALLED headquarters to relate the results of her encounter, the reaction was not what she anticipated. The inspector seemed disturbed. “Are you all right? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“No. Why? I’m fine. Really, it went down without a hitch. I never had any doubt. Anyway, Mr. Todd of Todd Enterprises is cuffed on the floor, with a couple of lumps on the head. Someone needs to put his pants back on, but—“
“Oh, dear. My poor dear Marie!”
There was pain in the inspector’s voice, a note of nearly funereal condolence. Marie was still charged with adrenaline, but she’d won the fight. Hadn’t she? Maybe she was still a little light-headed, but she wasn’t the one who was facedown on the carpet, manacled, dozing, and drooling. The star pupil of Inspector Melchionne’s Academy for Proper Young Lady Investigators had infiltrated Grabbyhands International and shut it down. She was bruised, and she was disgusted by the intimacy of the contact. But she wouldn’t cry herself to sleep over it, or wake up screaming. A shower and a cup of coffee were what she needed, or maybe a little vin santo; not a sedative.
“I’m okay, Mrs. M., I really am. I wish we had a felony for all the aggravation he put me through. But we have the misdemeanor assault to charge him with, and Indecent Exposure, and Sexual Abuse in the Third Degree, right? Isn’t that ‘contact between,’ um, male parts and the female body?”
“Let me think, my dear.”
Male parts. The euphemism made Marie feel childish. And the inspector did not lack familiari
ty with the New York State Penal Code. Had Marie done anything wrong? She hadn’t been ashamed, but she was starting to feel that she should be. “Inspector, I don’t—”
“Indeed you didn’t, Marie. I commend you, I truly do. I want my girls to have every opportunity that the men have. The case I make, within the department and without, that anyone even pretends to listen to is that women have certain talents—for conciliation, for communication—that many men lack. We are complementary. Husbands and wives within the police family, so to speak. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“But if we insist on every one of their rights, we have to accept their risks. And it’s not as if we accept it, when policemen are attacked or killed. But we recognize it as a possibility, part of the honor of service. Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
“But for a policewoman to be raped, or nearly raped, in the line of duty . . .”
The inspector didn’t finish her sentence. Marie stopped thinking when she heard the word “rape.” Had his male parts gone into her female parts, that’s what it would have been. Why was she worrying about being impolite?
“What’s even worse, my dear, is that—God forbid—had Mr. Todd succeeded, the District Attorney would not prosecute. They only proceed with a handful of cases a year. Had you seen him steal a dollar from your purse, your word would have been sufficient to charge him. But there are corroboration requirements for rape. Your injuries are . . . how shall I say it? They are inadequate to prove resistance. It would be argued that you didn’t fight hard enough for your virtue.”
Marie was aghast. “But what if he put a gun to my head? Or if I thought he had? I couldn’t see him the whole time. I’m supposed to take a chance, he blows my brains out?”
“The District Attorney would inform me that he doesn’t write the laws. It would not be a long conversation. And so you see why I need to think, Marie. What your husband would say, how he’d react, I’ll leave for you to consider.”
Marie flinched at the mention of Sid. The inspector went on, “You will be in the newspapers tomorrow, dear. And the article will go up on the office wall.”
“Oh!”
“I could have managed the press if you killed him. Made something of it, even. But think of the editorials if this had gone badly. They’d argue that women mustn’t be allowed to do anything more dangerous than operating a switchboard. Do you see my dilemma?”
“I do, but didn’t you also say that what we do in the Policewomen’s Bureau is a story that needs to be told?”
“Yes, but—not all of it,” Mrs. M. replied, hesitating. “Not quite yet. In the early days, if a patrolman arrested a female, he’d summon his wife from home to search her. Or the duty fell to the station-house charwoman. It took the rape of a teenager by a policeman to prompt the state legislature to order the hiring of matrons. The department nonetheless refused to do so for several years. Moving forward is not the only option for us, I’m afraid.”
There was much for Marie to take in. The future of policewomen, plus her marriage. She hadn’t thought that her story could be reshaped, or that the script would require approval. Because Todd was in cuffs now, she hadn’t dwelled on how close she’d come to being raped. Without her blackjack, she couldn’t have fought him off. She’d gamely risked her safety, but she could never gamble with her reputation. If that were lost, it would be gone forever, like virginity. No, Marie wouldn’t tell Sid what had happened today. Not even if she were under oath. Now that she thought about it, there were other potential consequences.
“Mrs. M., he exposed himself, and he hurt my wrist. We have two charges there. It isn’t a lie to not mention what happened after. If this goes to trial, though, I’m not going to lie to say that nothing else did. They could lock me up for perjury. That’s worse than anything this cafone is up against.”
“I would never ask you to lie, Marie.”
“I’ve been lying since I walked through the door,” Marie replied, without thinking. Had she really said that? And had she already started calling her Mrs. M.? “I’m sorry, Inspector, but it doesn’t make sense—”
“You’re right, Marie, it doesn’t make sense. But it might make a difference, if we tell the story the right way.” The inspector paused for a moment. “Welcome to the New York City Police Department.”
“Am I?”
“No, not really. But I wouldn’t let it stop you.”
A low gurgle was followed by a pealing high note, like the call of an exotic bird. Marie had never heard the inspector laugh before. That made her feel a little better, and a little better would have to do for now. “Okay, boss, I gotcha.”
After hanging up the phone, Marie called the precinct for a patrol car. She was tired, but she didn’t want to sit down on the couch. She didn’t even want her shoes to touch the floor. But she needed a cup of coffee—vin santo would have to wait—or she was afraid she’d pass out. Todd wasn’t going anywhere, so Marie went to see what refreshment could be found. It was a galley kitchen, a narrow aisle of yellowing linoleum and elderly appliances. There was no percolator, no pot on the stove, or even cups in the sink. Had the redheads washed them? Marie put on the kettle and found a jar of instant coffee in the cupboard. She poured a generous dose of sugar from a container into the mug. On the counter was a little dish of plastic stirrers—No, they were straws—and she took one to give the coffee a few swirls. But she’d barely taken a sip before she spat it out. It was awful.
Had she just salted her coffee? Was this one of Mr. Todd’s juvenile pranks, like the wind-up teeth on his desk? There must have been eight ounces of whatever-it-was in the glass container, the type they had in luncheonettes. She spilled a spoonful into her hand to examine. The white powder was fine as talc, not the distinct grains of sugar or salt; when she tasted it, it had an acrid flavor, astringent on her tongue. Didn’t those joke shops sell a chemical that turned teeth black? If she showed up at the precinct looking like a hillbilly, she’d make Todd pay dearly for it. She unscrewed the metal top and dumped the powder down the sink.
Nonetheless, she felt revived, and she set out to investigate the premises. Down the hall from where the redheads had emerged, she found a bedroom with bare white walls and a queen-sized bed, the sheets and blankets tossed and tangled. Nightclothes and other garments she couldn’t quite place—sheer things, lacy things, leather things—were tossed about, and there were more tripods, more screens. Marie didn’t know what to do. She tried to think what Mrs. M. would advise, but instead Mama’s voice resounded in her mind: Che schifo! Pulisci questo posto subito! Six months’ training in the Police Academy was nothing next to thirty years with Mama. Unable to resist, Marie straightened the clothes and made the bed.
When she looked at the next room, she could hear Mama scream, and then fall silent. Marie couldn’t describe what she saw. There were pictures, hundreds of them. Of women, sometimes in sheer or lacy or leather things, sometimes without anything at all. Sometimes they were alone, sometimes with men, and sometimes—No. Marie went to the kitchen for the garbage can. She gathered up all the postcards and photographs, the negatives, contact sheets, and film canisters, and dragged them into the hall to dump down the incinerator chute. It took several trips before all of it was gone.
She’d just finished her housekeeping when she heard a clamorous banging. At last! It was Adele with two patrolmen, and she burst in ahead of them when Marie opened the door. Profusions of sympathy and umbrage poured forth: “My God, are you all right? Let me look at you! Marie, you’re a mess! Did he try to get fresh? He did, didn’t he! Let me at that crumb-bum, and—believe you me, I’ll give him a piece of my mind!”
Adele locked arms with her and marched her down the hall. It was a little much. The girlish abundance of emotion made her self-conscious. Was she really a mess? She hadn’t looked in a mirror yet. Was it her teeth? No, Adele would have mentioned her teeth. Once they arrived in the parlor, Adele gasped again, taking in the vastness of the room—Wow!
It’s like a palace!—and then the ass-in-the-air tenant, who remained on the floor with his crumpled pants a wreath around his ankles: Uggh! Marie glanced back to see the two men regard each other with exaggerated restraint, as if they were put-upon television husbands dragged into another misadventure by madcap wives.
Adele leaned over Todd’s prone form and slapped him. “Listen, buster, I don’t know who raised you, but she didn’t raise you right. That’s not how you treat ladies, and it’s not how you deal with police!”
Todd stirred. “Leave me alone!”
“Go head and cry, you big sissy!”
Woeful groans rose as Marie pulled Adele away. The laughter from the patrolmen was braying and broad. The notion of women doing police work must have seemed farfetched to them, but the spectacle of a lady trying her hand at police brutality was adorable—a carnival attraction, like a poodle standing up on two legs.
Marie had laughed, too, but this wasn’t a joke to her, not least because she wasn’t entirely in on it. When she turned to the men, her voice took on a casual gravity. “Thanks for coming, guys. We have our own car, so we’ll meet you at the station house. This guy shouldn’t give you any trouble. I blackjacked him a couple of times. He didn’t have much brains to begin with, so no harm done. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Was that too much, she wondered? Among patrolmen, the girlier girls in the Policewomen’s Bureau were considered useless, but the masculine ones were seen as unnatural. The men stared at her for a moment, fascinated, and then they turned to each other in bafflement. Marie realized that they hadn’t been introduced. “Sorry, I’m Marie. And this is Adele.”
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