A Body to die for

closing in.” He started to jog around the cell in tiny circles. “Jesus, help me—I can’t even work up a good sweat in this hellhole.” He winked at me.
    “Something in your eye, Jack?” I asked.
    He seemed annoyed. “Nothing is in my eye. Just give me that money.”
    “If I give the money back, Jack, you’re on your own.”
    “My God, Wanda. Are you some kind of sadist?” Just sadistically cheap at times, perhaps. “I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I’ll go talk to Ameleth and see if I can get her to drop the charges. If it gets too hairy, I’ll just give you the money.” So I lied.
    His whole body sagged with relief. “Thank you,” he breathed. “You’ve been indispensable during this whole nightmare.”
    “Save your sweat for when you get out, Jack.” I turned toward the bars and called for the guard. She came and I went.
     
    I went in search of Ameleth. I kicked myself pretty hard when I realized I hadn’t the faintest idea where she and Jack lived. I found a working pay phone on the street and dialed 411. Information had none— Ameleth and Jack were unlisted. I asked a homeless guy by the subway entrance. He didn’t know where to find their apartment, but he did tell me where I could shove a broom. I thanked him for all his help and tossed him a shiny red penny. He flipped me the bird.
    I wandered the streets aimlessly—but educationally—in search of Ameleth’s lair. My tour of the neighborhood included a quick sweep of Montague Street, the heart of the shopping district. Most of the restaurants on the street were serving al fresco summer luncheon. Each joint had terra-cotta pots of fresh flowers on the sidewalk out front and its own ethnic specialty: Italian, French, Irish, Polish, Mexican, Chinese, Japanese. This one block could satisfy the needs of the United Nations, if the delegates could live without Big Macs.
    My favorite was a little Greek joint called Mr. Souvlaki. I went there often. They didn’t deliver. It’s been a while since I discovered a food. Stuffed grape leaves and spanekopeta had become an important part of my life. I ran inside and I broke a hundred spot for a chicken gyro, extra white sauce, hot sauce and napkins.
    “Do you know where Ameleth Bergen lives?” I asked the gyro man named George Mouscatopolis. He shrugged. It was all English to him. I went outside with my lunch. I sat down at one of the sunny tables. The sky was blue. The sidewalk had waves from the heat. A few people slowed down to admire my sandwich as they walked by.
    I considered falling into the Gap when Í finished eating. But I thought of Jack running in tiny circles in his cell. Was he for real? I wondered. I chucked my used napkins in the trash and headed toward the club. I doubted Ameleth would be there. Her lover had just died. She probably wanted to spend some time alone, mourning in a black Lycra bodysuit. But, then again, damage had to be controlled at the club. And if she wasn’t there, I’d find Alex and get ammunition to tease him about his so-called bulging pectorals.
    As I rounded the corner of Pierrepont Street, I didn’t see the ex-cop steroid monster on guard in front of the club. Shit, I thought. Maybe the place was closed after all. As I got closer, I saw I was wrong. The club’s iron-work doors were wide open. A board was put over the window Jack must have broken. And the steroid mountain was just inside, leaning on a mop (which, any second, would splinter under his weight). He was talking to Janey at the reception desk. She tolerated it. He was telling some story, his mouth twisted into a leer and his sausage-link fingers stumbling in the air. Could the behemoth be flirting? Apparently so. Janey was actually listening. I let myself imagine giant Ergort and Janey in bed together. I was repulsed, but puzzlingly transfixed at the same time.
    I walked toward the odd couple. After a slippery step, my feet flew out from under me. My butt hit the tile with a crunch. Some kind of fluid seeped through my jeans. I looked down and saw a puddle on the floor. I touched it, and sniffed. Lemon-flavored. I’d slipped on a Gatorade spill—an unanticipated hazard to gym life.
    The steroid junkie grabbed my arm, lifted me off the floor and shook me like a martini. Through the rattle in my ears, I heard him say, “You okay, lady? You okay? Listen up, lady, you sue us, I’ll get fired, and then I’ll track you down, you hear me? I'll track you down and twist your head