Over My Live Body (21 page)

I gape in his direction, my mouth forming a perfect O as in
oh, shit
!

“That going to be your pose, Delilah?” one of the artists asks me.

This all reminds me of days, before all this began, when I was nude and feeling
very naked
standing before an uptown studio class, because people who had no business being there criss-crossed in and out with their tool kits, copping a peek at me until the security guard on duty shooed them out.
Who was the security guard on duty uptown anyway
?
This
is
worse
, of course, a
lot
worse, punishment from the gods for having fantasized about Quick that way in the
first
place. Except in my fantasies
he
was the one getting undressed and I was helping him. There’s nothing remotely egalitarian about
this
set-up and it sucks. I can’t even object. He’s not some electrician making like he’s checking for faulty wiring. He’s here to
protect
me. Either
he
stays or Curtis gets me.

My dress flutters to the floor.

I feel self-conscious about feeling self-conscious.
It’s not supposed to be this way.
Most artists see their models’ body parts as geometric shapes, measured for proportion from eraser tip to pencil point of their charcoal pencils—at least they’re
supposed
to,
at least I
do. I’m there to be drawn or painted or sculpted, not judged. While I’m modeling, I feel like I’m closed off from my audience by that fourth wall of theater lore.

But not today.
I feel like Quick is looking me over through a huge picture window. He’s going through all the motions like everyone else in the room, squinting, sketching, erasing, and I have to give him credit for
that
. What’s more, he seems
not at all
self-conscious about me stealing looks at
him.
It seems to goad him into making heavier pencil strokes.
My skin prickles at the soft swoosh sound of charcoal making contact with paper. Each geometric circle of breast, triangle of pubic area tingles as he captures it. I have no need for a space heater today. Fifteen minutes into the pose, I feel like I’ve spent an hour in a sauna. Twenty-five minutes and I’m in Dante’s Inferno. At the half-hour, a cell phone rings. Quick drops his pencil and whips out his Droid and walks into the hall. When he returns, he says, “Remember what I said about your phone.”

“I don’t have it any more. I uh…dropped it off the bridge.”

His glare tells me that
this
is what I should feel shame about. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Like where would I go?
Footsteps echo in the hall, sounding like thundering hooves as they come closer. The guard from downstairs stops at the threshold and chokes out, “Ten-Thirteen down the street! Officer down!”

Quick reaches for his semi-automatic and holds it facing down at his side as he darts out of the studio past the gawking uniform, who takes a few seconds to recover before following him.

“I’ll say
this
much for him,” Morgan says as he smudges and erases, “he
sure can
draw
.”

Quick’s easel is set up so that no one else in the room can see it, so it’s not artistic aptitude that Morgan’s talking about. I’m curious enough to steal a glimpse at Quick’s newsprint pad, and what I see surprises me. My arms and legs are in true proportion to the rest of my body. Nothing in his sketch of me is exaggerated or diminished.
He really does know how to draw.
I pick up his pencil before anyone else can get their hands on it. He may want it back later. I don’t know where he’s gone or what’s going on, but the wails of one siren after the other pierce the silence of artists at work. After a few minutes of trying to ignore it, everyone around me packs up their wares and herds into the hallways and down the stairs to take in the street scene.

I’m the last one to leave. I’ve got to get dressed.

I hear murmuring in the hallway about “some cop bleeding all over the place, right up on the corner of Fifth,” and for the first time this morning chills teem up and down my spine. My fingers tremble as they force each button through its matching denim hole. I’m breathing the way I would after running a marathon. I hear stirring behind me and look up expecting to see artists coming back in the room to claim their supplies, bring them back to their studios with them.

I only see one person in the doorway. I catch a glimpse of dark-spattered blue uniform, the glitter of gold badge that was probably bought in a police supply store or maybe ripped right off the heaving chest of some cop bleeding all over the place, right up on the corner of Fifth.

He’s no artist.

I open my mouth to scream as Curtis grabs me, and he thrusts something between my teeth before I can get out a sound. My jaw clamps down on a ball of something cold. As I try to wriggle out of his grasp, something pokes the small of my back. It doesn’t feel like a finger. “Move and I’ll scoop out a chunk of you like clay.” He jiggles the gag he’s got wedged between my teeth with his thumb and index finger. I wonder what piece of work it was gouged from. “You’re familiar with what carving instruments can do, aren’t you, Delilah?” I feel a sharper poke. “I’m going to show you a first-rate exhibit of what carving instruments can do. You’re going to be real impressed, I promise. First you’re going to get us out of here. I’m going to take this out of your mouth so we don’t attract undue attention. People around here oughta be
used
to seeing you with cops by now.” He pauses as his fingers caress my lips. “Just remember,” he whispers, “you make a sound and,”
sharp
jab now, “you’re shish-kebab.”

“There are cops all over the place. You’ll never get away with this.”

“
Look
at me.” He pounds his chest with both fists, a regular Tarzan, pats the badge, gestures to the triple triangle patch on his sleeve. “Who’s gonna question a sergeant? Besides, they’re all
way
too busy out there. Tending to one of their own who, last I looked, was bleeding like a
stuck pig
. Who d’you think’s gonna come
first,
Delilah, you or him? Come on, lead the way.”

Prodded by heavy metal and an iron fist, I steer Curtis toward the main stairwell. Staccato squawks of a police radio bleat somewhere down below.

Curtis reels me back in like a fish. “Isn’t there
another
way out of here?” I feel the cold metal against my back now, a stinging sensation, and realize he’s cut through fabric and nicked skin to boot. I have no choice but to lead him to the back of the drawing studio, where double doors lead out to a stairway that leads down to MacDougal Alley. I weave my way around the easels like a mouse careening through a maze, giving those footsteps I hear downstairs a chance to catch up. Curtis catches on, digs the tip of the blade a little further into my flesh. I see light from the top of the stairs.
Maybe I can trip him
. His arm goes around my waist as we descend the stairs, and he releases me only for as long as it takes to open the exit door.

“After
you
, m’lady.” The tall black gate leading to the alley is closed, but not locked; all it takes is a shove and it swings open into the private cul-de-sac lined with row townhouses. I look up at each window of each house as Curtis propels me toward the black gate leading to the main street that I
know
is locked. Is anyone watching
this
? Even if they are, what are they going to make of this scene? The guy’s in a uniform, in a
sergeant’s
uniform, authoritatively leading me
out
of the alley,
away
from their pristine homes, into custody.
This could be the end of the road.
I hear so many sirens, so much shouting, all of it up on West Eighth Street, too far away to do me any good.
Help
, I need help
here
! I look over my shoulder.

Curtis slams me into the fence. “Climb!” he commands.

I wedge my foot in the space between the fence spokes and hoist myself. He lifts from under my arms and throws me over on the other side. I scramble to my feet. “Oh no, you don’t!” He hurdles the fence and tackles me before I can make it to the Capezio store across the street. He steers me to the left, down MacDougal, then jerks me to the right at the next block. People walking by look at me, then at him. “
Careful
, folks,” he says genteely as he shoves me along, radiating protect-and-serve seriousness. Passers-by obligingly step off the curb, keeping their distance, careful not to interfere with justice. Doesn’t it occur to
any
of them that it’s pretty odd that there’s only
one
officer making this supposed bust, odder still that this officer is leading me
away
from where the action is,
away
from where all the radio cars are parked? “What d’you know, we’re on the street where you
live
, Delilah!” he exclaims, circling back to a gray Chevrolet Caprice when all the pedestrian traffic has cleared. He wrenches my arm as he fiddles with the trunk lock. “
When’d
you say this was broken into, Miss?” he bellows as another cluster of pedestrians sidle by us. I watch their backs, waiting for someone,
any one
of them to turn around, but
why should
they? The situation is
obviously
under control. Curtis swoops me up like a piece of luggage and hurtles me with full force into the steel jaws of the trunk before I can call out or even
try
to physically resist. The lid snaps down, forcing me into a fetal position with a thud.

This is it, I’m going to die.

When I was very little and there was a thunderstorm, I’d scream and hide in the closet. That way I wouldn’t see the bright flashes of lightning, wouldn’t hear the loud rumbles. It turned out to be the darkness that scared me more, particularly after being locked in there once as part of a perverse application of tough love.
Let’s see if she minds thunderstorms as much once she gets out of there
. Nothing like getting over one fear by replacing it with another. This trunk space would make that broom closet seem almost the size of the Metropolitan Museum, even if I were in it now, fully-grown.

But I’m safer in this trunk than I’m going to be with Curtis once he lets me out.
If
he lets me out. Majesty Moore’s body was found in a car trunk.

This is it, I’m going to die.

I grope around me, feeling around for wires I could disconnect to incapacitate the car, draw attention to it before it’s too late for me, but as my hands pat the rough surface, all I feel is dampness against my skin. A sudden stop makes me cry out.
Can anyone hear me
? I pine over the cell phone I dropped over the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge. My only means of communication now is banging my fists on the metal roof over my head, hoping out there it sounds like something more than the ping-ping-ping of a faulty muffler. The rank smell under me makes me think of something that must have died a long time ago.

A siren seems to be coming closer and closer.

Please pull this car over, whoever you are.

I realize that it’s
this
car that’s equipped with the siren, making everyone move out of its way as it speeds me to my demise.
How the hell did Curtis get his hands on a car with a siren
?

I scrunch myself up even more, wincing as the car skims rough surface. I’m bearing the full brunt of bump-bump-bump vibrations that make me think we’re crossing through a construction site or over cobblestones or bricks. I pound the roof even harder. If there are construction workers out there, maybe they’ll hear.
Over the shriek of the siren
?
Forget it
,
I’m dead meat
.

My stomach churns as I recognize the smell permeating the trunk. Meat smells like this when it’s been left out in the air to defrost too long and gone bad. A sharp turn pitches me against something sharp. I cry out and fold my arms under me protectively. The skin on my hands stings from friction burns. I couldn’t hold a sculpting tool or a pencil or a cell phone if my life depended on it. My life
does
depend on it.

He’s stopped. This is it.

I hear a car door slam. I could kick him when he swings open the trunk, just straighten out my legs like I’m stretching and catch him hard right in the nuts. My legs are tucked up under me now; all I have to do is swing on my back and jackknife them out at him and he’ll be Blue Boy while I make it to safety. I hold my breath at the sound of approaching footsteps.
This is it
. A metallic click welcomes the key into the lock over my head and I see daylight and the flash of a white smock smeared with something that reminds me of clay. He must have pulled it over the uniform before he got out of the car. Curtis leans over me appraising the damage done to me
so
far, holding the tip of his knife up to the cleft in my chin. “Don’t make a sound or you’re going back in and
staying
there,” he warns as he reaches in for me. I count one-two-three-
kick
. My legs stay locked in semi-fetal position and tingle painfully. Curtis grabs my left arm and thrusts his beefy other arm under my legs. I feel fingers reach up and give me a hurried grope in a part of me that isn’t insensate.
Why’d I have to wear a damn dress
. I squirm and he swings me down to my feet. I stagger and fall.

“Get up!” he orders, looking around to see who might be watching. I follow his gaze and spot the big brown eyes of a black and white Holstein painted on the side of a whitewashed building down the block, but no human eyes staring in this direction.
No witnesses.

I make like I’m even more dazed than I am, looking up and down the street at boarded-up buildings, most of them scarred brick representing every shade of red. Even the
street
surface
is overlaid unevenly in red brick, glistening with spillage from cars and trucks parked front to back against loading docks. Graffitied door grates are all that break the block pattern. A sign down the corner advertises Fresh Cuts.

“Get up before somebody comes!” Curtis hauls me to my feet and digs the point of the blade against my back to prompt me to
move
it, inflicting another fresh cut. I yelp. “And
shut up
, for Christ’s sake.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“
Apparently
you didn’t read my invitation. Where’s your
artistic curiosity
, Delilah? I’m disappointed in you. Well, once you see
this
,
you
aren’t going to be disappointed.” He pushes me in front of him toward a sealed door, pinning me against the building with the point of the blade. He reaches in his pocket with his free hand and retrieves a key ring that jingles like a tambourine as he riffles through the assortment of keys looking for the one he wants. “A private showing, just for
you,
how about
that?” He inserts the key and pulls up the grate. I see a trio of men in white smocks just like
his
walking over to a truck parked in front of a dumpster at the corner and wonder what it would take to divert their attention from what they’re doing. A show of legs, maybe.
Thank God I’m wearing a dress
. I wiggle my butt against the back of the building while Curtis shoves the metal door up and feel my dress ride up by inches. Not that there were that many inches of it there to begin with. I notice one giving another a hey-will-ya-look-at-
that
elbow poke while the third reaches into the cab to retrieve something. The wagon tilts back and relieves itself of its load of scraps into the dumpster. Curtis unlocks a glass-paned door and gives it a shove. “After you.” He propels me inside with his bent knee and pulls a chain, lighting a bare bulb suspended from a ceiling beam.

I look around. No masterpieces here, not that I expected any; just piles of stripped lumber that once must have been walls. The damp floorboards creak under Curtis’ heavy step as he retreats to pull a dark shade over the glass. I look down and see marbleized scraps of something that doesn’t look like wood. I step around the pile and stoop down. Curtis gives me a yank, hurling me to the ground. The stench makes me glad I didn’t have time to eat this morning. Nothing to throw up. Curtis takes my right arm and drags me along the bloodstained floorboards. He stops just short of a stairwell going down. “You want to see my work or don’t you?”

I don’t think the latter is an option here. I nod wearily and crawl over to the railing to get my balance before I can stand. Once I go downstairs, there’s
no way
I’m going to get back up to safety. There’s
no way
I’m going to get out of here alive.

This is it, I’m going to die.

Curtis thought ahead. He probably even stole the
flashlight
in his pocket from the cop he assaulted on Fifth Avenue. After making sure that I tramp in front of him, he lets the beam glance off every couple of steps so I won’t fall and break my neck before I see his exhibit. A Soho gallery this
isn’t.
It doesn’t even come close to being an out-of-the-way Chelsea garage. Either Curtis thinks he can corner a new art market in this district as others have started to do or he’s crazy.
Either way, he’s crazy.
He pulls another ceiling chain. “Almost there, Delilah.” He prods me in front of a door that makes me think of a safe.
I’m not going to be safe in there
. The rusty handle moans as he pushes down on it. I moan too. Curtis glares at me, then his look softens as he shoves the door open, as if he expects me to soften too, once I’m pleased by what I see inside. I don’t see anything yet. The smell is enough to kill me. I hear thumping against the wall as Curtis fumbles around for the light switch and I take a step backward, then another. Fat fingers burrow deep into my arm. “Where d’you think you’re going, huh?”

“Want to be in a position to get a better look,” I croak.

“You’ll see fine.” He doesn’t let go, just drags me along with him as he gropes along the wall. I close my eyes and then I hear a
click
, like the snap of a camera.
Someday somebody’s going to snap this crime scene. I wish it would have been before I was part of it.
My teeth dig into my lower lip to keep from screaming. There’s no telling
what
Curtis will do to me if I scream. The reek of meat long removed from hooks still haunts the room. Tacked on sheet rock is a mini-gallery of drawings of someone who might be me. They don’t look much like me, but few drawings
ever have
looked much like me. Most of
these
look less like me than usual. I can picture some being torn out of sketch pads in unlocked studios. Where did he get them? How long has he had them? Did he do any of them himself? Mounted next to them are putrefied human fingers, five of them, spread in a way to suggest they were about to touch their subject but lopped off before they could defile her. I back away, but even before Curtis can stop me, my heel jams against something hard. I look down at the plaster head I did of Ivan, leaning on its side on a pillow of sawdust on the floor, its eyes gouged out. Next to them are two armatures, their wire heads unraveled, sticking upward and out, like the hair on Einstein’s head, ready to receive clay.
Or a live body
. It doesn’t take a genius to guess where they came from.