Poisonous Kiss (2 page)

     Carl stands over the suspect, who is now crouched on the floor catching his breath, and tells the man he's under arrest.

     The suspect is generally known as Frost. No college would give him a position, but he could be a professor in the university of survival. He listens to Carl, slowly recovering, as his small pig-like eyes dart between the two detectives. There is a quiver in the upper part of his muscular arm, but the rest of him doesn't move. He looks up at the two guns against him, a slim, fit-looking white cop and a bull-necked ex running back, once the pride of Passaic High.

     Carl steps on Frost's hand and kicks the gun across the floor with his other foot. Arany bends on one knee to pull it out from under the bed. The gun leaves a wide trail in the thick dust.

     "You been resisting arrest," Carl murmurs. "You shouldn't have."

     The fear is visible in those little, pig-like eyes as Frost thinks about the men he's known who died "resisting" arrest—and all the stories he's heard.

     "It's all right. Everything's cool—"

     Carl backhands him. He hits Frost's cheek with his fingers outstretched, so the blow will hurt without doing serious damage. For a while it looks like several more blows will follow the first. Carl seems sorely tempted.

     "Don't tell me what's cool. You tried to pull a gun on me. I should shoot your fuckin' balls off …"

     He holds his own gun with such tension that his finger turns pale on the trigger. Arany gets the feeling Carl really will shoot.

     Arany steps toward his partner.

     "Let's go," he says softly. The woman on the bed is yawning, showing several gaps in her teeth.

     The anger drains from Carl's face.

     "Yeah right. Son of a bitch is lucky you were here. I would have done him. You saved my ass again, babe."

     Carl smiles sarcastically, picks up the prisoner's trousers from the back of a rickety chair and throws them to him.

     They both pretend that Carl was just kidding. But Arany had never heard him speak that way before.

     Frost dresses slowly, like he's playing for time, and a sense of foreboding creeps over Arany. He tries to brush it away as he opens the door and checks the hallway. Everything is silent; even the snoring has ceased. Nobody seems curious about all the noise coming from room 720—or at least they aren't opening their doors to see what happened.

     The nighttime city's reddish purple light filters through the hallway window, casting a long shadow from the trio that looks like a twisty dead tree. The tree disappears from time to time, when Carl flicks on his flashlight to see where he's going. They don't stop at the elevator, don't even hesitate. They're not in the mood to be squeezed into a tight space with Frost. That leaves the piss-smelling stairs again, and Arany begins to feel relieved as they make their way down. His foreboding had been a false alarm. They will get away with it—again. The car was parked only a few feet from the door. In twenty minutes they will type their report and have a beer to wash away the excitement. No more than one, because Carl will be anxious to go home.

     The fat man lies in the same position near the second-floor landing. But he stirs as the flashlight's beam passes over him. Unintelligent, cruel eyes blink at the descending trio. The fat trembles on his belly as he turns on his side and gropes for his dirty plastic bag. His hand comes up with a gun in it. They can't see the piece clearly, but it looks like it's old, and has a wide bore.

     Suddenly everyone is rigid. Everything happens in frozen images that burn themselves into the mind forever. Images full of murderous anger.

     Frost moves. He throws himself toward the wall, and Carl's gun follows him for a while, automatically. Frost's hands had been cuffed in the back, but now they're in front of him. He's holding a knife. It doesn't gleam, it just looks like a slight imperfection in the perfect darkness surrounding Frost's hand.

     Arany's gun is back out of its holster and in his hand, even before his mind can react. A thundering, nauseating echo fills the confined space. Figures move in the dark without practiced skill. There is nothing but bitter, hateful fighting. Another shot. The knife is close in front of him. A blow on his shoulder, then another one. Arany only feels the blow but he knows he's been stabbed. The paralysis is suddenly gone. He finally pulls the trigger and collapses firing. His last thought is to kill.

When I first saw him …God, I thought. This one will be a hard case. Different. A clear liquid dripped rapidly into his arm. A bandage covered one shoulder and most of his chest. He was lying on his back, staring at nothing. He didn't even glance at me as I entered the room. I stopped at the foot of the bed to check his chart, then moved closer to stand by his side.

     "Good morning, Mr. Arany."

     He slowly focused on my face. He had an empty look that caused an unfamiliar pain inside of me. I thought I had become immune to the sight of suffering. I used to comfort the dying, trying to give some hope to the hopeless and to breathe courage into widows and orphans. Once I sat for hours beside the bed of a young girl so I could be there when she regained consciousness and realized that one of her legs had been cut off. Then there were those long nights of frustration in the lab with Martin. We would sit there afterwards, empty of sentiments. Martin would serve me a glass of French red wine, saying, "I know it hurts, dear. I really know."

     And now this boy …I could tell he'd pull through fine. Just a few weeks in bed, and then the only thing that would make him remember the hospital would be a slight ache in the wound when the weather changes. His face looked irregular, the eyes dark blue. He wasn't especially attractive, but he was also not ugly enough to have "unique charm."

     I smiled at him.

     "My name is Dr. Alessandro. I'm a psychologist and I work part-time for the police department."

     Most people smile back. Even though they plan to refuse the psychological assistance that they badly need, they usually at least smile.

     Arany glanced at me. He had an appraising look as his eyes ran across my face and stopped first at my breasts and then at my legs. I suddenly remembered that I was wearing a thin white blouse, which might let light through, and that my skirt was just above my knees. He was almost staring, and it seemed rude, but it didn't bother me. It comes with the job. He was measuring up the person who wanted to explore all his secrets. He frowned, and I felt he was disappointed that I was a woman—and relatively young at that.

     "What do you want?" His voice sounded crackly and parched.

     I poured a glass of ice tea from the pitcher near his bed and offered it to him.

     "To help."

     He sat up slowly, looked hesitantly at the glass then took it out of my hand. A few drops ran down his cheek as he drank, but he ignored them. He put the glass back on the bedside table with shaky hands, then looked into my eyes and smiled at me. It was a sad smile, childish but also weary.

     "You just did. Thanks."

     His head sank back on the pillow. He stared at the ceiling again, but I was sure it was neither the light colored wallpaper nor the fluorescent lights he saw. I stood there a minute waiting, then quietly left.

     I roasted a lamb leg that evening. At dinner I was aware of that astonished look on Martin's face and I knew he was feverishly thinking. What had he forgotten? An anniversary? A birthday? Poor old, confused, brilliant Martin Baruch.

     After dinner he worked for another hour. I wasn't hurt. I knew those formulas and experiments were like a drug to him. His vaccine! I sat at the table with Arany's file and began to read, leaving pencil marks I would later erase.

     Then I suddenly felt his stare. I smiled at him.

     "Sorry, dear! I didn't realize you had stopped working."

     He stood up, walked behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. I knew I could be certain that he wasn't reading the file.

     "Anything interesting?"

     I shrugged.

     "A cop. His partner had been killed and now he wants to quit."

     "Why?"

     He astonished me. Martin's brain was sharp as a razor. How could he ask something so stupid?

     "I think he doesn't want to be next. He's fed up."

     "And you'll convince him to stay …" he began slowly caressing my shoulders.

     I let him massage away my stress. He had gentle hands—a little soft and chubby, and as clever and experienced as he, himself was. He knew what he was doing. I closed my eyes.

     "Will you convince him to stay?" Martin repeated.

     "Maybe. Maybe not. He doesn't even talk to me." I stood up, tearing myself from the warm touch of his palms. "My job is to help him make a decision, not to decide for him."

     "Of course, of course …but …" he stopped and I waited for him to resume. It wasn't unusual for him to go quiet like this and continue talking a minute later, when all the pieces were together. But he didn't this time. He let it drop.

     Later we made love. Maybe it was the lamb leg, the feast, that inspired him. Poor old Martin, my experienced, brilliant, tired lover. Sometimes I felt sex was a burden to him, that he did it out of a sense of responsibility and the fear of losing me to another lover. His attraction was clearly more than physical. This realization wounded my sexual self esteem while giving a boost to my professional ego. But when we were intimate he was always a wonderful lover.

     Now he was stroking me, kissing me into ecstasy. He was an expert in anatomy, especially mine. He can find my most sensitive places with his eyes closed and play me like a virtuoso on his instrument. "A strad," he answered once when I told him how I felt. He caressed, his tongue explored. This was the point where I lost self-control, my whole body was supple with obedience. A slight move of his fingers and I lifted my knees, arched my back, my hips writhed, my nipples were hard, my body was on fire.

     He was everywhere. Inside me and beside me, over and under me. And I lay prone, moaning quietly with my knees bent and my toes pointing at the ceiling, then I was on my back, as if I could spin weightlessly. My eyes opened up for a minute and I saw …not my husband's face but the canopy (yes, we have a four poster bed), then the Baroque ornaments I knew by heart. The familiar curves of these ornaments—which fill my mind during long discourses, sleepless nights, and gloomy dawns—suddenly disappeared. I saw the light colored hospital wallpaper, the flat neon lights. I saw a young man with dark blue eyes.

     Martin did something different to me and I reached climax while looking at Arany's naked, muscular, lanky torso. "You just did. Thanks."

     "It was good, wasn't it," asked Martin, contented.

     A tear smarted in my eye as I wearily caressed his face. Had he ever really enjoyed this?

     The next day I was there at the same time. My clothes were one degree more modest: a dark sweater and a skirt reaching just below my knees. I felt a little uneasiness as I knocked on the door, waited several seconds then entered.

     The infusion bottle was not beside the bed, and he had another bandage, a smaller one. He sat cross-legged on the bed and leaned against the piled up pillows, smoking. Why did the nurses let him get away with this? I felt a strange, fleeting jealousy—a feeling I can't tolerate. Why doesn't the fire alarm work?

     This time he turned his head toward me, his lips curved into a mocking smile.

     I stood beside his bed and glanced at the uncomfortable little chair.

     "May I sit down?"

     He gestured and I sat, unnecessarily pulling down the hem of my skirt. I wondered if he knew why I chose a dress like this. No way. He was almost ten years younger than me.

     "May I help you?" he asked suddenly.

     They resist in the beginning, it's something I'm accustomed to. A lot of people don't understand the difference between a psychologist and a witch doctor.
"Hey, I'm
not crazy!"
But this man knew better. Last night I learned a few things about him. A master's degree in criminology—very ambitious. A bright cop with a bright future. Until now. The file is going to be closed with a short, typewritten note: "Quit service. Psychologist suggests resignation was motivated by unprocessed mental trauma."

     "Yes, you may," I said. "By talking to me."

     He had an odd look on his face. His eyes dropped down to my chest and I could feel his gaze touch me. I had an uncomfortable, self-conscious sensation that reminded me of my teenage years, when my breasts had first begun to grow.

     "Tell me about yourself."

     I did my best to keep from sighing. I smiled instead. Smiles come easy in my profession—and they mean nothing.

     "What do you want to know? I'm thirty-eight. No children. I work part-time as a psychologist for the police department. But most of the time I help my husband." I hesitated only a second, he probably didn't even notice it, but I felt a certain embarrassment speaking about Martin to this man. "He is a researcher, you know."

     "What does he research?"

     I paused, hunting for an answer, then I made the worst decision. "It would be hard to explain it with a few words."

     He just nodded. He wore cotton pajama pants that were a little short on him, and his torso was naked, only the bandage covered one of his shoulders and his chest. He was drumming nervously on his shin with his long fingers. The bed sheet was crumpled, it was untucked from under the mattress. A soda and a book lay on the bedside table. A lively romance. What kind of woman had brought it, I wondered. And it occurred to me again that I felt jealous.