Unleashed (A Sydney Rye Novel, # 1) (6 page)

“What's your rush?” Marcus asked, watching me.

“I just need to get out of here. I need to go home.”

“But why?”

“Because this was a mistake, Marcus,” I said as I looked into his eyes trying to make him understand.

“A mistake, but it was great. Didn’t you think it was great?”

“Yes, Marcus, it was great sex, but that’s all it was.” I found my underwear under his jeans and pulled them on.

“Just a great fuck?  It didn’t mean anything to you? What about us?" Marcus sat up and looked at me.

“There is no more us,” I said, turning away from him.

“Then what the fuck was that?” Marcus gestured to his floor.

“That was sex. I needed to not think. Look, I’m sorry if you thought it was more, but do you really want to start seeing me again? We don’t even like each other. You’re constantly accusing me of cheating on you. You think I’m the kind of person who fucks strangers in bathrooms, which I’m not. You don’t get me at all.” I looked around for my jeans in the dark hallway.

“Well, you have to admit it was odd when you and Jeremy went to the bathroom at the same time at Mitch’s barbecue.”

“Jeremy! Jeremy!” I screamed at him. “You think I fucked your coworker in the bathroom of your friend’s house. That is just fucking insane.”

“I didn’t say you fucked him. I just said it was strange. A strange coincidence.”

“Alright, I’m leaving now.” I found my jeans flung into a corner.

“You know how you are Joy.”

I paused in my clothes-gathering search to look at him. “What do you mean, how I am?”

“You know, how you are in bed.”

“How
am
I Marcus?”

“You used me for sex. This is so like you.” Marcus puffed out his chest. I pulled on my jeans, falling against the wall when my foot got stuck for just a second.

“Look, we can talk about this later, when we’re not both still drunk.” I spotted my T-shirt and grabbed it off the floor, my pants still undone. I did not want to deal with another conversation about how my being good in bed proved I was a psychopath. Just because I was a woman who didn’t need to cry after every fucking orgasm.

“Oh sure, everything is on your schedule. Well, not this time.” Marcus picked up my flip-flops and held them over his head. “We’re going to talk about this now.” He looked ridiculous—butt-ass naked holding a pair of bright green flip-flops above his head.

“I need to go home now. Please give me my flip-flops.” I pulled my shirt on and held out a hand so he could put my flip-flops in it.

“No.” His lips pursed and his eyebrows set against me.

“Stop being childish and give me the flip-flops.”

Marcus faked a laugh, throwing his head back so I could see the hairs in his nostrils. He stopped abruptly and looked down at me. “No. Now, what’re you gonna do about it?”

“Look, I had a really fucked-up day, and I just need to go home.” I felt suddenly on the verge of tears.

“Right after you rip out my heart?” he screamed at me.

“You are acting like a child. I didn’t rip out your heart. This is bullshit. Give me my shoes.” He just smiled, proud that he was taller and stronger and didn’t have to give me my shoes if he didn’t want to. “I’m the one who had the traumatic day and you are trying to make this whole thing all about you. Now can you see why maybe, just maybe, I want nothing to do with you, you asshole!” I stood in front of him, breathing heavily.

“No,” was all he said.

“Fine! Just fine!” I screamed at him and then ran out the door, down the steps, and onto the street, leaving my flip-flops and Marcus behind. I started to cry as I stomped down the street. Big heaving sobs that made it hard to walk. I was angry and crying, and I didn’t have any shoes.

Peanut Butter

I arrived home to my feather-covered house around four in the morning. “What a day,” I told Blue as I sat on my bed, eating peanut butter directly from the jar. I jumped when the phone rang, and Blue took the opportunity to lick my peanut butter spoon. I didn’t want to answer. It was probably Marcus. My machine picked up, and I heard James’s voice.

“Where are you!” he yelled. I picked up. “Joy, Jesus. What happened to you? I’ve been calling your cell and it’s been going straight to voice mail. The last thing I heard was you scream and your phone crash. I’ve been worried.”

“Sorry I didn’t call you back. My phone got slightly destroyed. Don’t worry. I’m fine. I just had a really fucked-up day.”

“What happened?”

“Listen, I’m exhausted. I’ll come over tomorrow and tell you all about it.”

“You’re fine, though?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Ok, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t do that again.”

“I won’t.”

“OK, goodnight.” I hung up the phone, put my peanut butter aside, and slept.

I dreamed that my mother was drunk and hitting James with a dead hand covered in congealed blood. I woke up sweating and screaming.

Headlines

The next day, the front page of the Post was splashed with, “Upper East Side Slaying,” over a picture of a body bag being loaded into a van with the word coroner stenciled on its side in big black letters. I picked up a copy and a cup of coffee at my corner bodega before getting on the subway.

On page three was a picture of the victim in happier days, his loving wife and devoted dog. I instantly recognized not only the dog but also the man and his wife, even the photo itself. I had seen it only yesterday hanging on the wall of the Sapersteins’ home. The caption, “Joseph Saperstein with his wife and dog at the Grand Canyon,” confirmed what I had feared—the man whose dead body I had discovered was my client.

I couldn’t believe it. Not only had I found a dead body, but I knew him. Well, not him so much as his dog, but I had been in the man’s house. I devoured the rest of the article and learned that Mr. Saperstein was an accountant with the recently disgraced firm Pilfner & Brown. He and his wife had been married for ten years. He was 43 years old. The police had several leads but couldn’t comment on them at this time. He had been shot in the face at close range.

The
Post
hinted at the possibility that his marriage was rocky, that his job was dangerous, and that a serial killer could be on the loose. I vowed to pick up the
New York Times
as I approached my stop.

Everyone at the dog run was talking about the murder. Clustered into small groups, they gossiped away their fear. In one corner, the dog-walkers were huddled around Marcia and her fanny pack. A silence fell over the group when Snowball and I entered the run. It wasn’t until the gate squeaked shut behind us and Snowball sprinted off to hump a pug that the buzz of conversation resumed.

A tall, thin woman with mousy brown hair in her mid-thirties, who I recognized as either Fiona or Elaine, broke away from the pack and headed my way.

“Have you heard the news?” she asked me. I looked at her with my haggard, hungover eyes. She was wearing a floral-print, ankle-length skirt and a white tank top. She was smiling at me.

“Yeah, I have.”

“Isn’t Snaffles one of yours?”

“Yeah.” The woman furrowed her brow, clearly not satisfied with my one-word answer.

“You’re new, right?” She decided to try another tack.

“Yeah.”

“How are you liking the job?” I could tell that the rest of the run was listening to our conversation. Elaine and Marcia were on a bench nearby not even pretending to have their own conversation while a couple of women with big sunglasses wearing expensive sweatpants inched closer.

“Look, I don’t really want to talk.” My head was pounding from the night before and I couldn’t get rid of the image of that faceless body, especially now that I had a face to go with it.

“There some rumors that you found the body,” she whispered, leaning toward me, attempting to create an intimacy between us. Her breath smelled like she’d been chewing bubble gum. A strange scent on a woman her age.

“Oh, yeah?” She waited a moment for me to continue and then gave up.

“Alright, my name is Fiona, and if you want to talk, we’re all here for you.” She gave me a big smile and rejoined the pack. I heard Marcia say something about shock and grief as she dropped a tiny bag of shit into the nearest trash can.

Left alone, my mind wandered in disturbing directions. I shuddered as I remembered the chill in the alley, the unnatural color of Joseph Saperstein’s skin, and the pool of congealed blood at my feet.

Snowball and I left the run to the whispers of the crowd. All those people, enclosed in that little fence, were scared. You could smell it. I was the breathing, walking reminder that a respectable man’s face had been blown away where they lived—where they did their grocery shopping, where they picked up their prescriptions, where their dogs played—The place where you couldn’t even hear the highway.

The Widow Saperstein

When I got to Snaffles’ door, I took a deep breath, inserted the key, and creaked the door open."Who’s there?" a clearly intoxicated female voice asked from another room. I realized that I should have knocked.

“I’m sorry, I’m the dog-walker.” A woman I recognized as Mrs. Saperstein stumbled out from the kitchen holding a nearly empty glass. I could smell the Scotch on her from the door.

“Well,” she paused to regain her balance, “Isn’t that nice. Life goes on. You want a drink?” She held her glass out toward me. Mrs. Saperstein was about my height with the lean body of a jogger. Her skin was tan and her hair bleached blond. If she hadn’t been so drunk, I probably would have called her pretty.

“Um, well, I’m working, so maybe another time.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Or right now would be fine.”

“"Great,” she replied as she started back to the kitchen. I heard her smash her shin on the dog gate and swear. I followed her over the gate and said hello to Snaffles. While she pulled out a clean glass and began filling it with ice, I prepared Snaffles food. “You know what happened?” she asked me. “It’s all over the papers. You must know.” She sloshed Scotch into my glass and then refilled her own.

“Yes, I do.” I wondered if I should tell her I found the body.

“"He was an asshole, you know,” she told me, leaning on the counter. “He was an asssshooollle.” I figured now was not the time to tell her anything.

“Oh,” was all I said.

“He loved that dog, though.” She gestured her glass in Snaffles’ direction. Scotch spilled over the edge. Snaffles abandoned his lunch and began licking it up. “He didn’t love me. No, no, he did not.”

“Oh.” I sipped my Scotch. It burned my throat and helped a little with the shooting pains inside my head.

“I should have left him years ago. He was having an affair, you know.”

“I didn't.”

“Why would you? But I knew. I’m not a fool, you know.”

“Of course not.”

“Women know these things, you know. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. I can see through the wool.”

“I understand.” She leaned back and examined me.

“You look like you understand. I’m gonna tell you something that I probably shouldn’t. But I don’t care, not anymore. What’s the point of caring, I ask you.”

“Uh, the point of caring is—”

“Exactly. You don’t know the point.” I shook my head. “That’s because there isn’t one.” I wondered if that is what she had planned to tell me that she thought she shouldn’t.

“I was having an affair, too,” she whispered loudly and then laughed. “He deserved it, the fucker.” She looked into her glass and became quiet. Then she asked, “Are you married?”

“No.”

“You got a boyfriend?”

“Nope.” She thought about that for a moment while she sipped her drink.

“You know, I thought when I got married everything would be wonderful.” She released a snort of a laugh. “And now he’s dead, and I don’t know why. And now Julen wants to marry me. He thinks this was fate.” She laughed again. It was hollow and a little frightening.

“Julen?”

“The man I’m having…had…what tense should that be in?”

“You mean the man you had the affair with.”

“Yes, but what tense should it be with?”

“I don’t know.”

“Me neither. Strange all the things you realize you don’t know when your husband has been murdered.” She refilled her glass again. “Julen wants us to run away together.” She spilled more Scotch, this time down her shirt. She didn’t notice.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm is right, honey.” She leaned toward me. The smell of Scotch was overwhelming. “He’s the doorman,” she said in a harsh whisper.

“Wow.”

“He’s Latin.”

“Wow, a Latin lover.”

She giggled. “I like you. You’re nice.”