The Next(32)

What did he so desperately need done with these measurements?

There'd been the usual activity from the Layworth's one would expect on a  Monday morning as they ushered the children out the door to school with  all the contained tranquility of expelling two Tasmanian devils from  the New York Public Library. In the midst of the bowls of Cheerios, the  brushing of little teeth with little glittery Disney toothbrushes, and  tying of little shoelaces on little bling-bling high-tops, the cleaner  arrived with her placid smile of barely buried Dominican disdain that I  knew meant: "Get your spoilt bratty offspring out of my way so I can  scrub your gigantic Manhattan apartment in peace."

In her haste to get the hell out of their apartment, Mrs. Layworth  simply rubbed her armpits with deodorant, splashed water on her face,  spritzed some perfume on her neck, threw on a loose black silk dress,  grabbed her heavy navy pea coat and leather tote bag, and dashed out the  door to work without even a farewell peck to her husband.

The cleaning lady first attacked the kitchen, then moved on to the  living room, and tackled the children's bedrooms. I watched her  listlessly gather clothing to be washed then Windex all the white and  espresso brown surfaces. I watched her wrestle the vacuum cleaner up and  down the stairs. She spit on a spot on a mirror in the entry hall and  wiped it clean with the sleeve of her shirt. Then she moved towards the  master bedroom.

Footsteps …

I heard soft footsteps above me.

What the hell!?

Only two people had keys to Ruben's apartment that I was aware of, and  one of them was in the pocket of a body hidden in the apartment across  the courtyard.

Unless he was alive!

I dialed Marzoli's phone number.

I could hear it ring above me faintly through the ceiling.

On one hand, I was relieved my hypothesis of Ruben's murder remained  intact. On the other hand, I felt guilty for hoping Ruben remained dead  to keep my hypothesis intact. But more importantly …

The Puerto Rican Sicilian asshole was ignoring my call!

It's one thing for Marzoli to get angry at me, it's another thing for  him to remain angry. And it's one thing for him to remain angry with me  across town, but how dare he remain angry right above my ceiling?

I ended the call and resisted the urge to shatter my cell phone against  the wall. What exactly had I done to Marzoli to piss him off so much? If  he was motivated to investigate Ruben's murder enough to use me for my  apartment's location across from a suspect, what the fuck did he care if  I suggested bitchily for him to use the apartment above me? Why would  he be emotionally invested in my apartment? I didn't understand, nor  would I as long as the nitwit ignored my fucking phone calls.

I heard his footsteps move across the wood floor to the window and settle.

He was on top of me, spying on Mr. Layworth just as I was.

When Mr. Layworth finally ended talking to whoever had frustrated him so  entirely, he crumpled the piece of paper with the measurements and  threw it with anger into the wicker garbage basket next to the bed. He  removed his silk maroon pajama top in preparation for a shower,  revealing his firm, hairy chest and the muscularity of his shoulders and  arms. His red nipples peeked out from underneath a swirling mat of dark  hair. My mouth moistened. Allowing myself to hanker for man-hunk was  still so novel I couldn't help digging the corner of my desk underneath  under my balls and squeezing my thighs together. The hard wood wedged  into my crack. I pressed my body weight down onto it.         

     



 

Yes, he was a murderer. Yes, I was an opportunist.

I wondered if Marzoli above me had a similar visceral reaction to spying on the same rippled piece of meat across the courtyard.

Or was it just me?

Layworth dropped his matching pajama bottoms sloppily to the floor,  revealing his tight briefs, hugging his tightly bundled buttocks and  package atop his solid, hairy, thighs. As I ogled the fucker, it  occurred to me that the mofo hadn't been to the gym since my curtains  opened a couple of days ago. His was a body that obviously required  pumping for at least an hour every day in order to maintain its size,  tone, and definition. To refrain from the gym for this many days on the  weekend required quite a distraction, like, for instance, six feet of  rigor mortis. Or something.

Why were they waiting to remove the body? More importantly, how does an  ordinary married couple in the heart of New York City remove a body  inconspicuously at all? No couple with children would voluntarily keep a  dead body in their flat for longer than necessary. Waiting until Monday  had to indicate something about the method of the removal of the body.  But what? Is that why Marzoli had returned? To find out the answer to  that question?

Layworth removed his briefs as he disappeared into the bathroom.

The cleaning lady entered the master bedroom, hauling the obnoxiously  heavy vacuum cleaner. Steam was coming out of the bathroom window as she  began to vacuum the floor. After covering all four corners, she used  the hose to hoover underneath the bed. The hose pushed something from  under the bed into view. She bent down and picked up a pair of Nike  sneakers.

I bet the gym was where Layworth released any and all of his non-hetero  urges. I imagined the stir he caused by entering the steam room with his  pumped, hairy, tanned, imposing massiveness and allowing his towel to  fall loosely to his side as he took his place next to some salivating  Chelsea queen. The hardening, the gripping, the jacking, the coming, the  cleanup, the covering, the exit to the shower. Where else would a  closeted family man in Manhattan find his man-on-man mauling? Aside from  the intern he harasses and then loses his job over? Aside from the  neighbor he invites over and slaughters?

Mr. Layworth must be restlessly pent up having not been to the gym and,  even more maddening, not gotten off since his last thwarted attempt with  Ruben several nights ago.

The cleaner approached the walk-in closet with the sneakers.

As she placed her hand on the knob and opened it slightly, Mr. Layworth  quickly darted out of the bathroom, covering his dripping man meat with a  large white fluffy towel. In rather pathetic Spanglish sign-language,  he indicated she should not bother with the closet. He closed the closet  door firmly. The cleaning lady acquiesced in confusion and began  rolling up the vacuum's electric cord. Although she was slightly  irritated, I watched her secretly eye the hairy, dripping, towel-wrapped  piece of hot Bod-B-Q back into the bathroom. She shook her head, and  crossed her heart in rapid Catholic penance before exiting out the  bedroom.

Why the hell would the cleaning lady be shepherded away from the closet?  Was Ruben's body callously stashed all this time just feet away from  where Layworth slept? Right there in the closet? And if not there, where  the devil else?

My phone beeped.

I read Marzoli's text: Did you see that?

Holy shit! Was Marzoli reacting to the same thing I was reacting to?

My heart was pounding as I responded with my thumbs: Yes.

Two seconds later he texted: We need to get into that closet.

Fuck texting.

I dialed Marzoli's number.

He answered. "That's unfair."

Even over the phone the timbre of his voice was rumbling and powerful.

"What's unfair?" I asked.

"I need to get into that closet. You don't need to do anything if you don't want."

As I ought to have expected, he hop-stepped right to the business at  hand rather than acknowledge that we'd separated moodily only yesterday.  Tonally, at the very least, I expected an undercurrent of hostility,  but to my surprise he sounded kind of sheepish. As if it was he who had  misbehaved and felt a need to apologize. I did not know how to react to  this reversal.

"How do you intend to get into their apartment?" I asked.

"Get proof of Ruben's murder to get a warrant."

"Did you find any?"

With the low tone of irritation he responded, "Not yet,"

"Nothing in their trash?"

"No."

"I did."

"Bullshit. What?"

I had the power again, and the asshole in me relished it.

"Why are you upstairs?" I asked.

He paused. "I got the impression yesterday you wanted to be alone."

"I'm using up minutes talking to you."         

     



 

"Do you want me to come downstairs?"

Yes, you goddamn Puerto Rican Sicilian! Yes! Yes! Yes!

I responded cautiously, "Do you want to?"

Marzoli paused, and it frustrated me to hell I couldn't see his face to understand the meaning of his pause.

Finally, he responded. "Ruben is out of toilet paper."

Fucker.

We hung up. I looked around at my six hundred fifty square-foot bomb fallout.

How do you tidy up Nagasaki?

It occurred to me I'd not had the impulse to tidy up any aspect of my  life let alone my apartment until this moment. Was this stubborn  shithead heading down to my front door really the thing to instigate my  first authentic impetus to aspire to better?

I heard Minnie's yapping followed by knocking on my door.