N.Y.U. Summer break, 1985
We got off the train at Christopher Street and headed down West Fourth toward my place. Our tickets for that evening’s Shakespeare in the Park performance of Measure for Measure were in my back pocket. Her gym bag was slung over my shoulder.
Nancy slowed down and said, “Do you need to go to the pharmacy?”
“You feel okay? What do you need?”
“Do. You. Need. To. Go. To. The. Pharmacy? Or do I need to spell it out for you?”
“I think you just did.”
* * *
“This place is gigantic, Mac. Three bedrooms. Hardwood floors. Nice,” she said while slipping off her sneakers.
“Make yourself at home,” I said, nodding at her sneakers by the door.
“Sorry–force of habit. My dad makes us take our shoes off when we come in.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said as I slipped off my sneakers in solidarity and continued the tour of the apartment.
We were in the middle of our third date, which consisted of waiting in line all morning for tickets for that evening’s performance at the Delacorte. Time flew, as it does when you’re young and falling hard.
Nancy and I sat next to each other in Elizabethan English during the spring semester. She was a junior economics major who took the class as an elective because she loved Shakespeare. I, on the other hand, was a 23-year-old freshman theater major scraping by on the G.I. Bill after four years in the army. She was so smart and so pretty, I figured I never had a chance, so I never made a move.
But we ran into each other at the South Street Seaport and, to my surprise, she made the first move. We saw the Back to the Future movie and went to the fireworks. I was smitten, and couldn’t believe my luck.
“You guys are really clean. For guys. By the way, where are they?”
I had two other roommates in our three-bedroom walkup just off Sixth Avenue in the Village.
“They’re at their internships. You’re the only one that bags work on a Wednesday afternoon to hang out with a guy.”
She smiled. “I prefer ‘play hookie,’ which begs the question, how come you’re not working at your new fancy private investigator job.”
“Eddie gave me the day off.
Earlier, during our four hour wait for Shakespeare in the Park tickets, I told Nancy about the stake out the day before and the surveillance photos I took of a couple of cheating spouses. The pay was good, and it was a kick.
“It kills me you’re a P.I. Where’s your Hawaiian shirt, Magnum?”
“I left it in the Ferrari.” We both thought that was funny.
We continued the tour. “You each have your own room? Which one is yours?” I led her down the hall and opened the door.
“Nice. Fresh paint.” She pointed to the Buddha incense burner I inherited from the stoner who used to have my room. “What’s with that?”
“You didn’t know I was religious?”
She rolled her eyes, then sat on the foot of the bed and bounced up and down. “It’s cushy. And you made it.”
“The army brain-washed me.”
“What college freshman has a queen size bed? Big plans with the ladies?”
“I’ll be a sophomore in September,” I said defensively. “There was a summer sale at 1-800-MATTRES. Queen size for the price of a full. They even threw in a frame.”
“Are we really going to discuss economics?” she asked while patting the mattress.
I sat down next to her. “How about biology? Young, healthy, and full of hormones.”
She smiled, “Good things can happen.”
We were so young and so healthy and so energetic that my creaky air conditioner couldn’t keep the room cool or drown out the noise. The new bed frame scratched the old hardwood floor. So many words and actions came out of Nancy and me that the Buddha could have used a blindfold and ear plugs.
* * *
We were lying in my bed, drenched in sweat. She was resting her head on my chest. I swear she was purring.
“Nance, what are you doing with me?”
Immediately, I wished I didn’t say that out loud. No good could come of it.
“I like you, Mac. Isn’t it obvious?”
“But I’m just some schnook living hand-to-mouth in a walk-up in the Village, four years behind everybody in my class. You’re an economics major, living in Sutton Place. You must have better options.”
She sat up and said, “Options? Let me tell you about a guy who I went out with a couple months ago.”
“This is appropriate pillow talk?” I asked as I sat up.
She put a finger up to my lips. “Just listen. We met in accounting class. He took me to McSorley’s. McSorley’s! All they serve is warm beer. It smells like sweat and sawdust. They don’t even have a freakin’ ladies’ room. You know what he talked about?” I gave her an ‘I give up’ shrug. “Amortization and accretion.”
“What are those?”
“What difference does it make? He was a drip.” She picked up my hand and looked in my eyes. “Remember what restaurant we went to and we talked about when we went to the fireworks?”
“Let me think. We went to the place on Second Avenue. I asked you about your internship. You told me about your younger sister, how the fourth of July is the slowest day of the year for restaurants, what you wanted to do for a living. That kinda stuff.”
“Exactly. You didn’t brag about yourself. You asked me about me, and what I was about. What I thought about things. You had me pick the place to eat. No guy I ever met did that.”
“I was just being polite. You’re going out with me because I’m polite?”
“You still don’t realize it, do you? I had a crush on you since the day you sat next to me in Shakespeare class, and kept waiting for you to make the first move. But you move so slow, you can be timed with a calendar. When you did soliloquies in class, I thought you were performing just for me. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.” She began reciting, “But love, first learnèd in a lady’s eyes,”
I cleared my throat. “Lives not alone immurèd in the brain, / But with the motion of all elements / Courses as swift as thought in every power, / And gives to every power a double power, / Above their functions and their offices.”
“And now I can’t keep my hands off you.” She pushed me flat on my back and kissed me on the lips. Then the neck. Then the collar bone. Then the chest. “Let’s see how cushy this new mattress is when you’re on the bottom.”
* * *
We were getting ready for the show and Nancy asked me to get her gym bag and bring it to her in the bathroom. “You brought a change of clothes? On a third date?” She had a towel wrapped around her and was drying her hair with another.
“Fourth date.” She counted off with her fingers. “Pier 17, fireworks, Michael J. Fox, today. What kind of strumpet do you think I am to sleep with somebody on the third date?”
“A hookie-playing strumpet?” A loud banging at the door interrupted our mutual needling. I closed the bathroom door and went to answer.
Before I got to the door, Eddie came barreling in. He noticed the size seven Reeboks on the floor, and yelled down the hall “Nice to meet you, Nancy. The kid’s told me a lot about you.”
Eddie was my upstairs neighbor, the P.I. who hired me to take photos of a woman cheating on her husband. For Lord knows what reason, Eddie has referred to me as kid since the moment we met. He took me under his wing, and had me doing his legwork on simple jobs like unfaithful spouses.
“Hi. He’s told me about you, too,” came out from behind the bathroom door. I was secretly pleased that she wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed. We might only be college students, but we were adults who didn’t have to explain to anyone.
Eddie started pacing. I hadn’t known him for long, but I could tell he wasn’t the nervous type. “We got problems, kid.”
“Eddie, I’m kinda in the middle of –”
“She’s dead.”
“Who’s dead?” We both turned to see Nancy wearing tailored slacks and a summer sweater. She was still towel drying her hair. “You have got to get a blow dryer.”
“The wife. She’s dead.”
“Ummm, do you two want me to go fix my hair, or something?” asked Nancy.
Eddie formally introduced himself to Nancy, and apologized for bursting in on us. He just wanted to make sure I was aware of the new complication.
Eddie looked at me and said, “You trust her, right kid?” I nodded, and Eddie turned to Nancy. “You can’t possibly be involved. Besides, he’ll just tell you later.”
We made our way to the living room where Eddie told us what happened. “I called the client to report after I got the prints back. Good job, by the way. He was crying on the phone. The cops were at his place. His wife was killed by the guy with her on the bench. It looks like you got it on film. When they were kissing and he had his hand up under her jacket. He poisoned her.”
I could see a look on Nancy’s face wondering what she had gotten herself into. She knew I was taking pictures the day before for Eddie, but didn’t expect to be involved in a murder. Neither did I.
“Poisoned? I didn’t see any poison. She looked fine.”
“Of course you didn’t see anything. He’s a pro. You’re not.” He paused, realizing he just insulted me. “Yet.” Another pause. “No offense.” I motioned for him to continue.
“The detective on the call told me it was just a small puncture, like a syringe or a pressurized air device. She pushed his hand away because of the pinch. She didn’t die right there. The toxin took about three hours to take effect and she started having convulsions at her office later.”
“James Bond stuff,” Nancy said. She was composed, but I could see that she was unsettled.
“So why do we have problems? You gave the cops the photos, right?”
“Of course. That’s where I just came from. I told the police I took the pictures so you wouldn’t have to get involved. It’s your first case. But that may not matter, because the killer will assume somebody took photos and he might come looking for him.”
“Why would he assume somebody was taking pictures?” I asked.
“I just told you. He’s a pro and leaves no stone unturned. Carver hid his copies. I have my copies already stowed away.” Eddie then handed me an envelope that contained a contact sheet of the photos that was no bigger than an index card. “You need to hide yours.”
“Hide. Where? Here?”
“The junk drawer,” said Eddie.
“Isn’t that too obvious?” Nancy asked Eddie.
“So obvious, nobody ever looks there. Believe me.”
I wondered to no one in particular, “Do I even have a junk drawer?”
Nancy looked at me like I didn’t know how to tie my shoes. “Everybody has a junk drawer.”