I slide under the ropes, hop out of the ring. Jimmy, grinning ear to ear, meets me there and says, “…And new Cruiserweight Champion of the World!” Then does that “Waaauuu!” thing again.
I open my bag, pull out the picture I took of Miranda Rodriguez yesterday, when I saw her bandaged face. I skitter the picture across the canvass to where the guys are working on Billy King.
“When he comes to,” I say, “show him the picture and tell him to stay away from her.” I stare at them until one of the guys nods.
I say, “Tell Billy I come to New York City four times a year.”
The guy nods again, says, “Okay.”
I say, “Then tell him every time I come here, for the rest of my life, I’m going to find him and break his nose again.”
“Jesus!” the guy says.
5.
When I enter the room, Miranda Rodriguez looks at her watch.
“You’re late, Mr. Creed. Punctuality says a lot about a person.”
“I’m sorry. I had some business across town.”
I take the chair opposite her and notice she’s studying me. I say, “I hope you don’t mind my dressing casual today. I tried to squeeze in a workout, and hadn’t anticipated the traffic.”
“Manhattan traffic is legendary. As often as you come to the city, I should think you’d know what to expect.”
I put my hands up. “Guilty. Sorry to keep you waiting.” I look at my watch and frown. “Not to be critical,” I say, “but I’m only two minutes late.”
She smiles wistfully and says, “Some people live a lifetime in two minutes.”
“Oh yeah? Name one.”
She says, “Are we contentious today?”
“Possibly. How’s your nose?”
“Broken. But better, thanks for asking.”
“And you still won’t tell me who hit you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
She sighs. “You have a classic hero complex. I have no doubt but what you’d run off and try to hurt the man, and possibly get yourself hurt in the process. Neither of those events would please me, and neither would change what happened.”
“It might prevent him from doing it to someone else.”
“I’ve filed an assault report. I’m sure the police will track him down and take him in for questioning.”
“And what if he comes after you because you filed the police report?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
“I could prevent all that,” I say.
“Thank you, Donovan. Truly. I know you mean well, but your tendency toward violence is something I don’t approve of. Speaking of which, have you thought about what I said yesterday about compensatory displacement?”
“I have. I even managed to use it in a sentence this morning.”
“Excellent,” Miranda says. She pauses. “What would you like to talk about today?”
“Tell me about this hero complex disorder.”
She nods. “Well, let me start by saying it’s not a disorder. Not officially.”
“But you think it should be.”
“I do. In extreme cases.”
“Let me guess: you consider me an extreme case.”
“I do. Nothing personal.”
“Can you explain it to me?”
“I can try,” she says. “The person with a hero complex has a compulsion to save people. Or rescue, or protect them.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“In extreme cases, he or she actually believes they’re making the world safe from some type of perceived threat that only they can prevent.”
“I still fail to see the problem. Seems if there were more of us, the world would be a safer place.”
She smiles. “Please note my use of the word ‘compulsion.’ It’s one thing to help others because you want to.”
“I want to.”
“Do you, Donovan? Or do you feel compelled to help them?”
“What’s the difference? If people need to be helped, or rescued, someone’s got to do it.”
“Do they?”
“Well, don’t they?”
“No, they don’t.”
“What, you’re just going to let some child get abused? Some guy get mugged? Some woman get raped? Some terrorist blow up a building?”
Miranda arches an eyebrow.
That last one just slipped out. Miranda doesn’t know that for twelve years I was the CIA’s deadliest assassin. Nor is she aware that after leaving the CIA I devoted several years to hunting down and killing suspected terrorists for a clandestine branch of Homeland Security.
“Terrorists?” she says. “That’s quite a jump. You began speaking of saving a family unit, man, woman or child. Suddenly you’re talking about saving the nation. What’s next, the world?”
How did I justify all that killing? I honestly believed I was keeping the world safe.
And still believe it.
So maybe she’s onto something. Maybe I am an extreme case.
Miranda’s brilliant. Hard to believe she’s not a licensed psychotherapist. She certainly will be, some day when she’s older. She’s working toward her Master’s Degree in Counseling Psychology at NYU. She’s been studying psychoanalysis and psychotherapy for years. She’s observing me now. Sees I’ve grown pensive. She frowns.
“I’m sorry, Donovan. I think I may have gone too far.”
“No, you were great. Sometimes I forget how good you are at this.”
“Thanks. But these sessions are really about you.”
I nod.
“Are we terminating the counseling session, then?” she asks.
“We are.”
Miranda smiles. “So I can remove these glasses?”
“Yes. Along with the rest of your clothes.”
Miranda is not a full-fledged hooker. She’s a brilliant student trying to get through college without having to take out a school loan. Her client base is limited to the wealthiest of the wealthy, and to my ultimate sorrow, she has no intention of hooking after she gets her degree. I already miss her. Because in addition to my hero complex, I have abandonment issues.
When I’m in town, Miranda gets a hotel room like the one we’re in today. The first time I met her she told me about her course of study, and I thought it would be fun to role play.
Turns out she was damn good at it.
Too good, in fact.
I have to be careful so she won’t figure out how screwed up I really am. I mean, I’ve got more issues than Kleenex has tissues.
A couple weeks ago Miranda added a client. She took a chance on a wealthy young man with anger issues who owns a successful brokerage firm across town. He called her filthy names and broke her nose.
Miranda quickly removes her clothes and stands before me in her bra and panties. She knows I’m a Time Saver, a person who likes to commit special moments to memory. A skilled Time Saver can freeze all the components of an event—the date, mood, time, temperature, lighting, sights, sounds, scents—everything. Then we store this information in a box in our brains and relive it whenever we wish. It’s like opening a time capsule years after an event and having all the wonderful memories spill out.
Amanda knows this about me, and waits while I take it all in. After a moment, I nod.
She removes her bra and waits.
I nod.
She removes her panties and waits.
And waits.
Eventually I motion her to turn around.
She does.
After a few seconds she looks back at me over her shoulder.
I nod.
She turns to face me.
“Want me to take your clothes off?” she says.
“No, I’m good.”
I kick off my gym shoes, pull off my socks, then stand to remove my clothes. I take her hand and hold it. I lift it to about a foot from my face, and turn it over, palm-side up. I stroke the back of her fingers before kissing her hand. Then I lean close to her, capturing her scent. Her hair is cropped just below the ear. I brush against it with my cheek.