A stir on the sidewalk again drew my attention. I was starting to distrust anything that disrupted the smooth flow of bodies through the canyons of Manhattan. There were youthful male hoots and catcalls.
An old man’s voice with a decidedly Yiddish accent quavered out, “You’re a bunch of pigs. Just pigs.”
This time I led the way toward the altercation, pushed through the crowd, and found a naked woman. She was young, and trying to cover herself with a forearm across her breasts and a hand in front of her crotch. Her arms sported some interesting Oriental ideograph tattoos along with the usual punk girl hearts and skulls. The only other thing on her body, aside from a mop of untidy jet-black hair, was a nose stud flashing in the autumn sunlight. Her cheeks were bright red with embarrassment.
A wolf whistle cut the air followed by, “Hey, baby, great ass!”
“Oh, bugger off!” she shouted back. The accent was British.
I held up a hand and said authoritatively (I hoped), “Okay, nothing to see here, move along.” The minute the words emerged I winced because right on cue some wags in the crowd delivered a one-two punch.
“What? Are you gay?”
“Like hell there isn’t.”
There was a clerk from a mask and cloak shop gawking. I shouted at him, “Bring her a cloak.” He hustled off. I turned to the girl. “Okay. What are you protesting? Fur? World hunger? The mayor?”
“Listen, Mr. Policeman—if you are a policeman, and not a park-keeper or something—I didn’t do a thing. I was just walking along, minding my own business when suddenly—” She gestured down the length of her body. “I’d like to report a robbery.”
The clerk returned with a cloak that the young woman flung around her shoulders and pulled tightly closed to a chorus of disappointed “Oooh’s” from the onlookers.
“Well, that’s a new one,” I said. I unlimbered my handcuffs.
“You’re arresting me!?” Hazel eyes flashed fury.
“Indecent exposure.”
Bill arrived, his bulk scattering the crowd like a polar bear through a seal colony. “Hold on there, Rook.”
“My clothes just—”
“Vanished. Yeah, I know,” Bill interrupted. He said to me, “Women have been losing their clothes almost daily. We figure it’s some ace perv, but we haven’t got a line on him yet. So question some of these pervs.” He raked the crowd with a jaundiced eye. Men started drifting away.
“Hey, hold it,” I yelled, but a lot of them vanished into the bustling crowds. I questioned the few I’d corralled while listening to Bill and the girl’s conversation. Now that I realized she wasn’t a criminal it had begun to penetrate that she was really cute.
“What’s your name, miss?” Bill asked.
“Abigail Baker.”
“What do you do?”
“I am an actress.”
“Look, we need you to come down to the precinct and make a statement.”
“I have no clothes.”
“We’ll give you a jumpsuit.”
“Wonderful. I’ll look like a criminal. And what do I do in the meantime?”
Bill called out to the shop owner. “Hey, Jeannie, we’re gonna borrow the cloak for a few hours, okay?”
“Clean it before you bring it back,” Jeannie called.
Abigail’s mouth formed an “O” of outrage, and she emitted a sound like a furious kitten. “I would prefer to return home.”
“And I would prefer you come to the precinct.”
♦
“… it was involuntary public nudity.”
We were in an interrogation room. Abigail was making an orange prison jumpsuit look almost attractive. She wore a pair of flip-flops that Sergeant Penniman had pulled out of her locker, and was sipping a Diet Coke. Bill was asking questions and I was taking notes.
She peered down her nose at me and said, “Involuntary. That’s I … N … V…”
Bill choked on a laugh. I felt the top of my ears getting warm. “I know how to spell ‘involuntary.’ I went to law school.”
“Oh, how interesting? As what?”
“As a student!”
Bill restored the peace by asking, “Okay, where do you live?” She gave an address on the southern edge of Jokertown. Bill leaned back and studied her. “They pretty much cater to students. I thought you said you were an actress?”
Abigail blushed, and took a quick sip of soda. “Well, I am … almost. I’m just finishing up a few classes at the New York School of Performing Arts. But I’m understudying a major role at the Bowery Repertory.”
“Oh, so you’re a wannabe actress,” I said.
“And you’re a failed barrister.”
“I chose to be a police officer,” I began.
“Franny, go get me a soda.” He handed me a dollar bill. “An orange. And while you’re at it ask Apsara for the victim report form.”
I left, grumbling. That girl had really gotten under my skin. I had to ask the old ram’s horn detective how to find the file room. He gave me a very tedious set of exact directions, and I headed there.
Watching too many cop dramas had given me a sense of what a file clerk should look like. An old, male, potbellied, maybe retired cop. What met me was a vision out of an Asian film. The girl looked very young, and she was flat-out gorgeous. Jet-black hair that hung past her ass, skin like honey, an amazing figure. I tried to moisten my lips, but my mouth had gone Sahara dry. “I need … I need…”
“Yes, officer?” Her voice was like bells. “What do you need?” Long lashes briefly veiled the laughter in her eyes.
“Victim’s report form.”
“All right.” I watched her go swaying away to a filing cabinet.
Her path led her past a strange little ornately carved wooden house with a gold leaf roof. I realized I’d seen similar styles in Thai restaurants.
She returned with a couple of sheets of paper. “I’m Apsara Nai Chiangmai. You’re new. What’s your name?”
“Fran—” My voice squeaked. I coughed and tried again. “Francis Black.”
“Francis,” she said slowly, making my name into a song. “That’s a nice name. I like the feel of that on my tongue.” She did that thing with her lashes again, and I thought about cold showers.
“Thank you,” I muttered, and grabbed the papers and headed for the door.
“Come by anytime,” she called.
“Okay,” I gasped.
As I left I thought I heard a cranky old man’s voice saying her name in that parent tone that tells you you’ve really fucked up.
I found the soda machine, bought Bill’s orange beverage, and got myself a Coke. I didn’t open it right away. Instead I rolled the cold can across my forehead. Having regained control over my anatomy I went back into the interrogation room.
♥
It wasn’t deliberate, I hadn’t planned it, but I happened to be at the front door when Abigail headed out. She was still in the jumpsuit.
“Do you need a taxi?” I had to clear my throat to get out the last word.
“You might notice that I no longer have a purse, which means I have no money, so no.”
“Uh … right … I could loan you…”
She walked past me, heading for the door. I hurried to open it for her.
“Uh … look … I’m new in town, and you’re … foreign, maybe we could have dinner … tonight…” At her expression I modified the statement. “Sometime?”
“Are you on crack? No!”
The door closed behind her and I heard Sergeant Taylor (whose nickname was Wingman, I had learned) give a snort of laughter. “You gotta work on your timing, Franny,” he said.
♣
2:10. Back on the street. Bill gave a warning to a panhandling joker whose gig was to offer to wash the windshields of cars waiting at stoplights. He looked like a big octopus from the waist down, and he had an interesting pitch. If the driver was polite and gave him a dollar, the joker would heave his bulk onto the roof of the car, and with a shammy in each of his nine tentacles (I don’t know why he had nine tentacles, but he did), he would proceed to wash all the windows on the car. If the driver was rude he still heaved himself onto the roof of the car, but this time he inked all the windows.