"What's your name?" he finally said, and I realized by the question he was biding his time, having failed to settle on a course of action.
"MinHee."
"Did you say Minnie?" I asked, astounded at the coincidence.
"MinHee. Close enough," she said. "You're Ruben's neighbor. The angry one. Ruben told me about you. He tells me everything. He didn't even want to move into this building except his neighbors on Park Avenue hated classical music 'cause they're losers. And now he's not answering his phone. And now he's missing. And now you're talking about a body. What happened to Ruben? I'm going to the popo."
Did this little Korean girl just say popo? As in police? What Juilliard violin major actually uses the word popo?
"He's barely been missing for two days, and you're not family. The police won't listen to you," Marzoli explained patiently.
"You know Ruben's been missing?" she asked. "You know for sure?"
"Ruben's missing?" Mrs. Abraham croaked from down the hall, sticking her head out of her door, yappity-yap-yap in arms. "What happened to him?"
She waddled down the hall toward us.
Marzoli rolled his eyes as the Kind Little Old Jew and Yappity-Yap-Yap joined the gathering of the Neurotic Flamingo Pink Korean Girl, the Depressed Housebound Sludge, and the Puerto Rican Sicilian Gift from God at my entryway. I decided to give the bullhorn over to Marzoli entirely. His career was on the line as he was losing his handle on the situation.
"Hello, Mrs. Abraham," he said. "We don't have any facts at all about anything. He's not even legally missing."
"He never ignores my phone call," MinHee said. "He never flakes on our rehearsals. I can't graduate unless he plays for my solo. He knows that. He'd never do that to me. He's missing. Something happened to him."
"Sweetie," Mrs. Abraham offered, "he could be out tricking. You know how boys in New York are."
I gasped in surprise at the little old lady volunteering that info in that way.
"You said his body is in a closet. Why? Where? I'm going to the popo!"
"Oh! Dear me!" Mrs. Abraham exclaimed. "Another one murdered? From the same apartment?"
"What!" MinHee barked. "What do you mean another one? Was this disclosed to Ruben? Isn't the landlord supposed to tell tenants of murders in apartments? Ruben never would have moved in if … OMG! … I'm going to the popo!"
Marzoli finally raised his voice above the panicked Korean girl. "I work for the New York Police Department. I'm a detective. I'm on top of the investigation."
Specious, but all factually true.
"What's your cell?" he asked as comfortingly as possible.
"I don't know you."
At last he employed a deep, powerful no-nonsense tone of voice. "If you want to know what happened to Ruben when I find out, you will give me your number."
MinHee released a breath of exasperation.
With a sharp rip of a Velcro flap on a pocket of her violin case, MinHee whipped out a glossy business card with pink lettering.
"I play for weddings," she stated.
"Oh!" Mrs. Abraham exclaimed in sudden delight. "Every wedding should have a violinist. You two boys should consider her."
I replied, "What makes you think … "
"Dear … " Mrs. Abraham informed us, lowering her eyes to our crotches.
MinHee followed the old woman's eyes down to our inappropriate bulges. Although they had deflated somewhat since the interruption, they were still too engorged not to be noticed. Flamingo Pink's almond eyes widened as she covered her mouth with both hands, yelping with high-pitched horror.
Any shame at displaying my engorged boy-bulge was hijacked by embarrassment. To slap my face with the notion of getting homo-hitched only milliseconds after crossing that gargantuan threshold of acknowledging my attraction to a male.
Too much! Too fast! Too … too … too fucking delicious …
Marzoli had to be feeling equally awkward for his cheeks were rose red, and he was not looking anybody in the eye. Mrs. Abraham seemed to register the flushes in our cheeks.
"Come, love," Mrs. Abraham said, putting her arm around the shocked flamingo pink Korean, guiding her down the hall. "Men are pigs, and we'd have them no other way. Are you hungry?"
"I have to rehearse!"
"Hot apple strudel."
"I love apple strudel!"
They disappeared into Mrs. Abraham's apartment and the door closed.
The yapping ended.
I owed Mrs. Abraham so much.
I looked at Marzoli from the side of my eyes. I smirked, then grinned, then smiled, then … then …
There was so much unresolved, so much unanswered, and so much fucking uncertainty, but shit! This larger-than-life mofo in the perfectly fitted jeans and polo shirt was attracted to me! He actually loitered in my doorway because he was drawn toward me! Needed nothing from me but … Goddamn … me! I was actually laughing … audibly laughing … .fucking laughing!
This was … this had to be … it.
The Next.
Marzoli observed how totally out of control I'd become. His eyes started sparkling too. I held my stomach with my hands, trying but failing to regain control. As I ran out of breath, I started snorting like a hog. This immediately thrust Marzoli into bowel-constricting raucous laughter.
Marzoli pushed me inside the apartment, following me as he closed the door and grabbed his side in laughter.
"My sides! Cramping!" he exclaimed.
This only fueled our uproarious belching. As I collapsed on the couch, my foot stubbed against Marzoli's foot, destabilizing him. My back sank into the cushions as his barrel arms caught the back and arm of the couch to prevent him from landing all two-hundred pounds of muscle on top of me.
My eyes were streaming with tears. As I wiped them away, Marzoli remained hovered above me, bathing my soul like warm sunlight on a frosty morning. My laughter stumbled its way to a slow halt.
"Normally," he said, "I'd tell uptight, depressed sons-of-bitches like you all you really need is a month of Outward Bound in Australia. Snakes and starvation and shit. But you … god almighty … you needed that."
His full lips glistened. I felt mine pulling towards them like a tidal wave toward a pink shore. He lowered his head just an inch toward mine.
Then another inch …
A cold breeze suddenly gushed through the window, and the curtains whipped like a flag. His eyes became sterner. The heaviness of a new moment rolled over him. He reversed the slow fall of his lips toward mine, distancing himself an inch.
What suddenly repelled him? Was it me? Was it my body? Come back! Let the fucking wind blow!
Marzoli pushed himself upright with a strong thrust and walked to the window. He closed it with a clunk. He peered out the crack in the curtain to the courtyard.
It had been the perfect moment to kiss. The perfect one. Why did he stop?
"It won't be long," he said quietly, "before a real, sanctioned investigation into Ruben's murder begins. That girl won't stay away from the popo for long. If they don't assign me, they'll discover how much protocol I've disregarded. I already entered a victim's apartment without even knowing he was a victim. I contaminated a crime scene of a murder. Possibly two. This is not good. I'm in trouble. We … if you'll help me … and I have no expectation you will … we must get more than evidence the Layworths killed Ruben. We must uncover Ruben's body in that apartment. Catch them red handed. Go for broke. Otherwise … "
He let out air like a deflating balloon. On the other side of that word otherwise was a whole world of struggle to move up in the world from his scrappy childhood: years of night school after twelve-hour work days, years of racial slurs by his asshole white peers, and a whole slough of abandonment crap he'd struggled to rise above his whole life. All the shit he sympathized with Nathan about. All flushed down the toilet if we didn't take action.
I heard his words, but I couldn't shake this feeling that his redirect from kissing me to these ominous suppositions had something...everything … to do with me. Against me. I lay on that couch, looking at this beautiful, intelligent man, feeling like I'd just been politely rejected. An invisible boot on my rear urging me gently but firmly toward the exit door. I'd been asked to abandon a delicate, rare, and precious voyage I'd hardly set sail on.
Worst of all, I did not understand why.
He turned toward me briefly, but wouldn't make eye contact.
"Remember that letter we found in the garbage?" he began.
"Layworth has a meeting with the Tea Party Fundamentalist Coalition in Salt Lake City on Thursday."
"I think it's a safe bet he's got until Wednesday afternoon before the kids come home from school to get rid of Ruben. Didn't it seem like that angry phone call we watched him make was about scheduling the removal of the body?"