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grinned at me and asked, “Ever do him?”
“Jesus, Chapman, no!” I shouted back at him, laughing for the first time in hours.
“He’s my neighbor.”
“Well, that’s no answer. You did 31C, didn’t you?”
“It’s my own fault. Why did I ever start playing this game with you? I really asked for it, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you pump me more than I’d ever have the nerve to ask you. But then, I’m a year older than you are, so I probably have a bit more experience.”
“Where did that expression start do somebody? Is it a squad term? I can’t believe I even answer you when you ask if I’ve ever had a sexual encounter with someone.
“Did you do him?” It’s disgusting, Mike I’m beginning to agree with my father that I’ve been at this job too long.“
“So who’s Dr. Mitchell? Good-looking guy didn’t he ever ask?”
“As a matter of fact, no, he never did.”
David and I had been neighbors for more than two years.
He was in his late forties, divorced, and with a thriving private practice that made him one of Manhattan’s most successful shrinks. For someone like me, convinced that psychobabble and therapy are for other people, I had an abundance of free sessions just by having cocktails with David once a week. He listened to my problems, jogged with me on the occasional mornings he could coax me off my treadmill and around the reservoir, and regularly critiqued my social companions.
“I must be losing my touch, Mike. Anyway, I’ll get the ice out. You call Steve’s Pizza it’s auto dial number four.”
“Who are the first three?”
“My parents, and each of my brothers. And they should consider themselves very fortunate to be placed above Steve’s in my list of priority numbers. When I’m on trial, Steve’s is my lifeline.”
Most of my acquaintances were pretty quick to learn that one of the things I had never managed to take time to master was cooking. I had dinner out most evenings it was usually when I spent time with friends and when I was at home by myself, I could whip up a very tasty tuna salad by opening a can of Bumble Bee and adding a dollop of mayo.
But I lived on a block surrounded by great take-out stores and delivery places: Steve’s for superb pizza, which always arrived hot; P. J.
Bernstein’s, the best deli in town when I craved a turkey sandwich;
Grace’s Marketplace for elegant dinners that simply needed a five-minute microwave zap; and David’s for a moist roast chicken when I felt like being virtuous.
“What do you like on it, Coop? I can never remember.”
“Extra-thin crust, well done, no anchovies, and any combination you want. I’m just going to change help yourself to a drink. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I went into the bedroom and closed the door behind me.
I walked over to the dressing table next to my bed and stared at the answering machine, flashing its red light in the dark. There was no one I wanted to hear from, not even my friends, because I couldn’t deal with calling anyone back right now and explaining the situation.
Sitting at the table, I laid my head on my arms and let the tears slip out, debating whether to play the messages now or later.
Later. At least two Dewar’s later.
I rested a few minutes then picked my head up, turned on the lights, pulled off my panty hose, and draped my suit over the grip on the treadmill. My leggings and t-shirt felt much more comfortable, and I washed my face in the bathroom sink, sprit zing on some Chanel 22, before going out to join my baby-sitter in the den. There was something about my favorite perfumes that always soothed me, and I was sorely overdue for soothing.
Mike muted the television as I walked into the room, handed me my drink, and let me settle into my chair before he asked me whether I still wanted to talk about the case.
“Is there anything else we have to talk about tonight?”
“No,” he responded.
“It just bothers me. You know as well as I do that most homicides
“Jesus, Chapman, no!” I shouted back at him, laughing for the first time in hours.
“He’s my neighbor.”
“Well, that’s no answer. You did 31C, didn’t you?”
“It’s my own fault. Why did I ever start playing this game with you? I really asked for it, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you pump me more than I’d ever have the nerve to ask you. But then, I’m a year older than you are, so I probably have a bit more experience.”
“Where did that expression start do somebody? Is it a squad term? I can’t believe I even answer you when you ask if I’ve ever had a sexual encounter with someone.
“Did you do him?” It’s disgusting, Mike I’m beginning to agree with my father that I’ve been at this job too long.“
“So who’s Dr. Mitchell? Good-looking guy didn’t he ever ask?”
“As a matter of fact, no, he never did.”
David and I had been neighbors for more than two years.
He was in his late forties, divorced, and with a thriving private practice that made him one of Manhattan’s most successful shrinks. For someone like me, convinced that psychobabble and therapy are for other people, I had an abundance of free sessions just by having cocktails with David once a week. He listened to my problems, jogged with me on the occasional mornings he could coax me off my treadmill and around the reservoir, and regularly critiqued my social companions.
“I must be losing my touch, Mike. Anyway, I’ll get the ice out. You call Steve’s Pizza it’s auto dial number four.”
“Who are the first three?”
“My parents, and each of my brothers. And they should consider themselves very fortunate to be placed above Steve’s in my list of priority numbers. When I’m on trial, Steve’s is my lifeline.”
Most of my acquaintances were pretty quick to learn that one of the things I had never managed to take time to master was cooking. I had dinner out most evenings it was usually when I spent time with friends and when I was at home by myself, I could whip up a very tasty tuna salad by opening a can of Bumble Bee and adding a dollop of mayo.
But I lived on a block surrounded by great take-out stores and delivery places: Steve’s for superb pizza, which always arrived hot; P. J.
Bernstein’s, the best deli in town when I craved a turkey sandwich;
Grace’s Marketplace for elegant dinners that simply needed a five-minute microwave zap; and David’s for a moist roast chicken when I felt like being virtuous.
“What do you like on it, Coop? I can never remember.”
“Extra-thin crust, well done, no anchovies, and any combination you want. I’m just going to change help yourself to a drink. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I went into the bedroom and closed the door behind me.
I walked over to the dressing table next to my bed and stared at the answering machine, flashing its red light in the dark. There was no one I wanted to hear from, not even my friends, because I couldn’t deal with calling anyone back right now and explaining the situation.
Sitting at the table, I laid my head on my arms and let the tears slip out, debating whether to play the messages now or later.
Later. At least two Dewar’s later.
I rested a few minutes then picked my head up, turned on the lights, pulled off my panty hose, and draped my suit over the grip on the treadmill. My leggings and t-shirt felt much more comfortable, and I washed my face in the bathroom sink, sprit zing on some Chanel 22, before going out to join my baby-sitter in the den. There was something about my favorite perfumes that always soothed me, and I was sorely overdue for soothing.
Mike muted the television as I walked into the room, handed me my drink, and let me settle into my chair before he asked me whether I still wanted to talk about the case.
“Is there anything else we have to talk about tonight?”
“No,” he responded.
“It just bothers me. You know as well as I do that most homicides
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