“Wendy?”
“Robert?”
“Nice to meet you,” I said with a smile, joining her at a small table in the back of a Starbucks, holding a cup of java in my hand.
“It’s nice meeting you, too, Robert.”
She sounded pleasant enough. I had taken a cab uptown to 98th and Broadway, and watched the meter run up the fare as we waded through heavy traffic. I’d forgotten how painful it was to watch. The place was crowded like every other establishment in this bustling town, and she was lucky enough to have found a table. Somehow she had me pegged as I was ordering at the counter and waved at me to catch my attention. I sure wouldn’t have guessed right about her. The place was filled with women her age staring into newspapers and laptops with the same smarmy air and weathered look – pert, officious, over-educated, and quite oblivious to everyone around.
“It’s getting easier to find a place to sit and chat in Manhattan,” I began. “There’s a Starbucks on every corner nowadays.”
“They sprout up like mushrooms. It’s horrible.”
“Yeah, but I remember when you needed a search party around here to find a coffee house that wasn’t a greasy spoon,” I countered.
“You go back pretty far.”
It seemed she was already brandishing her saber. I could fill a tome trying to explain that, but I soldiered on. “New York seems more inviting these days.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well...” I fished around for an answer. The tables nearby reverberated with loud conversation, so I had to raise my voice a couple of decibels. “It’s a lot safer than it used to be.” I looked at her for approval and she seemed to finally agree. “The mood is more upbeat,” I added. “There aren’t as many homeless around, either.”
“A lot’s changed but not the mood,” she corrected me. “When did you last live here?”
Her petulance reminded me of a grammar school teacher I once had. “Whew,” I sighed. “It must have been fifteen years ago.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I had my reasons. I don’t feel like talking about it right now.”
She took a long, reflective sip on her coffee. I was expecting her to scoot out very shortly.
“It’s a big move relocating to another city. Do you like it there?” She set her coffee cup down on the table.
“L.A.’s got the weather but not much else. You get used to the mild winters. Kind of like that Neil Diamond song…L.A.'s fine but it ain’t home, New York’s home but it ain’t mine no more.”
I sang part of the verse for her at the risk of looking like an idiot, but she flashed a smile back.
“Absolutely,” she said, and took another sip of her latte. “Susan tells me you’re a teacher. What do you teach?”
“I used to teach high school. But I left the profession.”
“What do you do now?”
I knew the question would pop up so I jumped on the bullshit train.
“I’ve been working in private detection for the past few years, helping law enforcement solve murders and the like.” I said all that with cocky aplomb, even if I was greatly exaggerating the facts. She was gonna buy in or take a powder. I had nothing to lose either way. “That’s exciting,” she rang out, her eyes sparkling with admiration. “What kind of cases do you work on?”
Her reaction didn’t surprise me. Most women go in for risk takers. Given the choice, they prefer the maverick over the humdrum male – as long as the money well stays deep enough.
“I’ve worked on murder cases, theft, adultery...” I continued unabashedly, watching her watch me as I got cockier than a kid on a skateboard. “I’ve cracked cases for the L.A.P.D. and the Arizona police department.” I was pouring it on.
“Did you come here on a case?”
I was beginning to enjoy this charade. It’s not often a gal buys into my conceit.
“Yeah, I’m investigating stolen art for the L.A.P.D. – a couple of seventeenth century landscapes by Dutch and Flemish painters that were taken from the Getty Museum. But I can’t talk about it. And don’t mention this to your sister or anyone else.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
“Good,” I returned in classic gumshoe fashion. I had her in the palm of my hand.
“That’s fascinating what you do. I could spend all day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art with a Rembrandt or a Vermeer exhibit. I’m enthralled by the realism in their paintings and by their technique.”
“Yes, it was a very productive period.” I had no idea what she was talking about. “There’s a lot of money in art, as you know. I was surprised to find out firsthand just how much.”
Her eyes were popping out of her head. I had hit on a gold mine of appreciation in this gal.
“My favorite artists are actually French Impressionists,” she said with professorial aplomb. “But I really admire the landscapes and portraits of the Flemish Baroque period and of the Dutch Golden Age. In fact, I wrote a term paper on it in college.”
“No kidding?”
“I spent hours after school at the Metropolitan Museum walking through every exhibit.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” I said in a whisper. “I’m looking for a Rembrandt. But keep that between us.”
“A Rembrandt!”
“Shh...not so loud.”
“Sorry.” She lowered her voice. “I won’t say a word.”
“Good.” I took a sip of my coffee and slyly moved on. “It’s great to be near so many museums. Do you live around here?”
“Riverside and 101st street.”
“You must have a view of the river.”
“I do, actually. It’s a small studio, but the view is probably worth a million dollars.”
“Why don’t you sell it?” I asked curiously.
“I don’t own it. But it’s rent controlled. I’m lucky to have found it.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“It’s a long story...” she hesitated, then delved right in. “A choreographer for a Broadway show died of AIDS and I was at the right place at the right time. There was a lot of competition, as you can imagine, but I knew the building manager. That most definitely helped.”
She grinned for just a second then demurred, trying not to let on just how much she knew this stud.
I didn’t have anything to add. I stared mindlessly through the plate-glass window, watching headlights skim up and down Broadway, waiting for her move.
“Do you want to see my place?” she asked innocently. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all.”
She got up and I followed suit. I pulled her coat off the chair and politely helped her into it, making sure it was on nice and snug. She quickly started for the door and I tagged right along.
Before I knew it we were casing her one-room cubicle like it was a guided tour. This setup was like painting by the numbers. We ended up on a cushy sofa, sinking back into a pair of huge silky pillows.
I began enchanting her with tales of P.I. derring-do in the netherworld of Hollywood and parts thereof. She listened doe-eyed like a kid on her daddy’s lap. When I finished telling my torrid tales I planted a kiss on her lips and she reciprocated in kind. Taking her to bed was a quick move in more ways than one; her mattress was parked next to the sofa we were sitting on.
I was pretty rusty when we finally got down to it. It’d been quite a while since my last official coupling, prison time being what it is. But she was kind and forgiving and kept a smile on throughout. I stayed past midnight, lying beside her naked form, soothed and cuddled like a nursing baby. My younger days were behind me now – I couldn’t summon up the old mojo like I used to. But I thought I did pretty well without resorting to expensive pharmaceuticals.
I got up, dressed, and said goodbye to her at the door, and mumbled something about staying in touch. You gotta leave them expecting a next time, it’s only right to do.
I headed back to my cousin’s place in very good spirits for a change. It seems there’s nothing a lady’s soft touch couldn’t cure.