Part 18 (1/2)

She sighed. ”Yeah. What are you in here for?”

It slowly dawned on me that she thought I had been arrested. ”Oh, I'm not in for anything. I'm just waiting for someone.”

She chortled. ”OK,” she said, not believing that explanation. ”Me, too.”

”No, really. I'm just waiting for a detective.” Against my better judgment, I asked her, ”What are you in for?”

She rolled her eyes. ”Stabbing my man. The way he treats me, they should be giving me a f.u.c.king medal, not throwing me in jail.” She held up her handcuffed hands and screamed at the desk sergeant. ”I told you that these are too tight!”

He looked at her. ”If you don't shut your freaking mouth, I'm sticking you in a cell.”

”I haven't gotten my phone call!” she screamed. ”Anyway, I told you that he fell on the knife!”

The sergeant pantomimed playing the violin.

She kept screaming. ”I have rights! I've been here all f.u.c.king day!”

He came down from around the desk and stood in front of her, a short, sausage-shaped man who looked better behind the high desk than in front of it. ”I have rights, too! I have the right to do my job and not get a freaking headache! That's it! Vasquez!” he shouted toward a cl.u.s.ter of cops standing in front of the men's room. ”Get her out of here! And give her her freaking phone call!”

The Asian lady started babbling in what sounded like Chinese and let out a big laugh as Vasquez-the cop who had picked me up-came over and hoisted the spandex lady off the bench. ”You should have kept your mouth shut. Now I gotta take you downstairs,” he said, shaking his head sadly.

I held my breath for a minute while Vasquez dragged her off. The woman was nearly twice his size and was flailing about like a giant grouper on the deck of a fis.h.i.+ng boat. A couple of cops watched Vasquez struggle for a few minutes before taking pity on him and helping him pull her down to the floor. One of them sat on her midsection and the other held her arms down. I watched this car wreck of police activity for a few minutes and finally had to look away when it became apparent the woman wasn't wearing any underwear. My cell phone began to ring a minute later, and I nearly wet my pants, the sound of it jolting me back to reality. I reached into my pocket-book, grabbing it before it rang again and flipping it open. Max was screaming into my ear before I even managed to get out a greeting.

”We're going to lose our table!” she hollered into the phone. ”You promised me you were going to be on time!”

”I can't talk to you right now,” I hissed into the phone. ”You're going to have to cut me some slack. I was just kidnapped by Peter Miceli and left in the middle of nowhere. I'm waiting for Crawford at some precinct that apparently has been fas.h.i.+oned after Dante's seventh ring of h.e.l.l, and I will not be coming to dinner. Got that?”

She continued yelling at me, even though I could hear her perfectly well. ”What do you mean you were kidnapped by Peter Miceli?”

”What part of that do you not understand?” I hollered back at her. I was out of patience. As far as I was concerned, if someone tells you they were kidnapped, there shouldn't be any additional explanation necessary. I was so angry that I forgot to tell her that she might be in danger, too, before I hung up. I looked over at the Asian woman, who was staring at me. ”What are you looking at?” I asked, and she turned away. I guess she spoke English after all.

Crawford arrived almost an hour later, during which time I came close to having a nervous breakdown. He walked into the station house, glad-handed a couple of uniformed cops, and greeted the desk sergeant by name. When he was done with his ”return the conquering hero” routine, he turned to me, a little smile playing on his lips. I had crossed my arms and legs in an attempt at making myself as small as possible while sitting on the bench and waiting for him. He knew me well enough to know that this was the worst possible place I could be: it was loud, dirty, filled with criminals, and not the place you would usually find someone like me. I don't even like going to the Port Authority Bus Terminal for precisely the same reasons. He had on a white oxford s.h.i.+rt and jeans, the gold s.h.i.+eld hanging over the pocket of the s.h.i.+rt. He came over to the bench, and I stood.

He asked me if I was hurt, and I told him that I was fine except for the sc.r.a.pe on my upper thigh. He looked at the sc.r.a.pe and told me that he would get me some Band-Aids. He smiled. ”Let's go over this again. If someone pulls up next to you on the street and says 'get in the car,' what do you do?” he asked in a patronizing tone, I guess for the benefit of all of the other cops who were watching the two of us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a couple of the uniformed cops chuckle. I resisted the urge to give the whole lot of them the finger as he took my arm and led me to a staircase next to the high desk.

We walked up a flight of stairs to the detectives' area and went through a swinging door. ”He had a gun, Crawford.”

”Did he point it at you?” he asked, concerned.

I thought for a minute. ”Well, no, but he had one. And it was big.”

”As big as mine?” he asked.

”I don't know,” I said, out of patience with him, too. ”I haven't seen yours up close.”

He looked down at me and couldn't control the urge to laugh out loud. We went down a short hallway, pa.s.sing a couple of detectives, who fortunately did not have prisoners angry about the fit of their handcuffs or otherwise. He asked one of them as they pa.s.sed if they could bring a first-aid kit to Interrogation Room Number One.

He knocked on the door of the interrogation room and, satisfied that it was empty, brought me inside and closed the door. Once we were alone, he wrapped his arms around me, and I let out a couple of the sobs that I had been holding in.

He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to me. ”Here.”

I sat down at a chair next to the table. ”Thanks. You bought a new package of handkerchiefs, huh?” I wiped my eyes with the new, pressed handkerchief.

”Do you want a cup of coffee? Water? A c.o.ke?” he asked, pulling out the chair next to mine. He took a yellow legal pad and a pen from the center of the table and began to write-the date, time, and our names.

I shook my head. ”I just want to go home.” I noticed two black marks on his clean white s.h.i.+rt and knew that they were from my supposedly waterproof mascara. I blew my nose again. ”I'm sorry I had to call you. I didn't know what else to do.”

He grabbed both of my hands in his; his were warm and mine were like ice. He rubbed my fingers. ”You did the right thing. Tell me what happened.”

I started with the walk down the street toward the train and ended with being dumped out of the car in the Bronx. I told him how Peter said that whether I helped him or not, he ”owed” me. I told him that Peter knew that we had gone to the beach, and his sharp intake of breath told me that that wasn't good news. I managed to get the story out without crying until I got to the part where he threatened first Ray, and then Max.

I had never seen him look alarmed, so the fear and concern on his face now made me nervous. ”Where's Max now?”

”I suppose she's eating at n.o.bu on Hudson Street. I was supposed to have dinner with her, but I got kidnapped instead.”

”You get kidnapped a lot.” He stood and went over to a metal credenza against the wall. There was a phone; he picked up the receiver and punched in some numbers, mouthing ”Fred” to me. ”Hey, it's me. Yeah.” He laughed at Fred's apparent witty repartee and then turned serious. ”Listen, we've got a situation.” He explained where he was and why. ”Miceli kidnapped Alison and has made a threat against the ex and Max Rayfield.” He listened for a few minutes and then turned to me. ”Where does Ray live?” he asked me, his hand over the mouthpiece.

”Twenty-two-thirty Kappock Street. Apartment five,” I said.

He repeated Ray's address into the phone. ”And Max is probably at n.o.bu . . . One-oh-five Hudson Street,” he said, as I recited that address and then her home address, which he also gave to Fred. ”Send a patrol car,” he said. He listened for a minute, ”You want to go?” He seemed confused. ”OK. Just make sure someone picks her up outside the restaurant. You can tail her or let her know what's happening. Whatever you think is best under the circ.u.mstances.” He hung up. ”Fred's going to get Max. He says he's not too far from downtown and that it won't take him long to get down there.”

I felt better. At least I knew that if she got mowed down, gangland-style, in front of the restaurant, she would have spent her last moments with her new crush.

”Do you want Miceli picked up?”

”No!” I screamed, startling him. ”Don't pick him up. I don't want him to know that you know what he did. He'll kill me for sure then.”

He thought about that for a moment. ”I think you'll be safe for a little while. I'm thinking that you are more valuable to Miceli alive than dead. But I'm going to stick a detail on you anyway. I'm sure Miceli will have one on you, too.”

Oh, good.

He put a few more notes on the pad. He continued looking down. ”I'm your detail for tonight.”

I shook my head. ”Oh, no, you're not. You've got your daughters for the weekend, and I don't want to ruin that.”

”My aunt Bea lives in the apartment below me, so she'll take care of them.” He ripped a few pages off the legal pad and put them in his pocket.

I could only focus on one thing, having grown up watching The Andy Griffith Show. ”You have an aunt Bea?”

He nodded. ”And she's already up in the apartment, engaged in her favorite activity: torturing the girls about why they don't go to weekly confession.” He stood. ”See? Everyone wins.”

There was a knock at the door and a detective walked in with a first-aid kit. Crawford thanked him and closed the door again, putting the kit on the table. ”Let me see that cut.”

I stood and turned to the side. My right pant leg, which was in tatters, was stuck to the wound, the blood acting as an adhesive. I winced as he knelt and pulled the flap of my pants away from it and took a good look. ”I think you have to take your pants off.” Sad face. That was a new reaction to my being pantless.

”Nice try. You going to invite me up to your apartment next to see your etchings, too?”