A Body to die for

hers. It was a pleasure to watch her go—she had a nice butt and she was a real downer. Ameleth hadn’t mentioned where she slept the night before. I wondered if the samples were in pill form, or a liquid. I tried to think of who I could ask.
    I looked around. There was a new lineup of women in Lycra and strategically ripped T-shirts. Some were fit; some were fit to be tied (or lassoed, as the case may be). Losing weight takes effort and time—two things New Yorkers have little to spare (the third being loose change). I watched the ice cream mountain eater shovel the last spoonfuls of faux yogurt into her now sticky mouth. She wore a pair of black leggings and a loose parachute material sweatshirt. Her curly brown hair was tied up in a high ponytail. The ring on her left hand dug into her plump index finger. I wondered how much weight she’d gained since her wedding day. Her eyes jogged around the room, inspecting other women’s butts and abs. Her jealousy was so fierce I could taste it.
    I fantasized about going over to her table and saying, “A perfect body isn’t going to solve your problems or make your husband love you.” I didn’t think she’d appreciate it.
    But that’s not the reason I didn’t go over. Another woman, one of the wait staff in the restaurant (I could tell by her little white change apron), approached the fat woman’s table with the check. She whistled an old TV tune while she walked. Chubster gave the waitress a fifty-dollar bill (I was wearing my glasses). I thought that was a lot for a scoop of ice cream. The waitress glanced quickly around the room, reached into her change apron and deposited a clear-plastic Baggie and two single-dollar bills on the counter. Chubster scooped the bag into her fist. She offered the waitress a wan smile, and then split the shop like a furtive banana.
    I couldn’t quite make out what was inside the Baggie. If only I’d worn my magnifying glasses instead. If I had to guess, I’d say there were drugs in there. Maybe the missing samples of the missing chromium compound? The waitress glanced around the joint again, this time noticing my stare. She frowned, making lines on her face. She was about thirty, skinny in the way that makes you look older. Her hair was straight and dark, her neck long and graceful. She seemed to have no hair on her arms. Her legs were equally bald. I smiled when we made eye contact and called her over with a head bob. She scowled slightly, did a bad job of pretending she didn’t notice, and disappeared behind the door to the kitchen, whistling the TV show theme music nervously.
    I left a quarter on the table for my waiter and followed the Baggie lady. Just as I swung the kitchen door open, I saw her hairless limbs fly through another door in the back. I raced through the room, remarking as I dashed by how clean the kitchen was and how shiny the silver countertops and stove were. Slamming hard into the back door with open hands, I bounced off with enough force to send me reeling into a freezer behind me. My head hit the handle. I felt myself float toward unconsciousness.
    Remembering what to do from the time I passed out while having drunken sex in a too-hot shower, I counted my breaths, lowered my head and tried to relax. The waiter who’d served me—Larry, was it?— rushed over. He said, “Are you all right?”
    I said, “Water.”
    “Sink’s over there,” he said and pointed. “For that quarter tip, you can get it yourself.” I should have stiffed him.
    I took a woozy walk to the sink and helped myself to a cold drink. I tried the door again. Push as I might, I couldn’t get it open. The waiter watched my efforts closely. Finally, after I’d broken a sweat, he said, “Try pull.”
    The bastard. Pull worked. The door opened into an alley. A few Dumpsters were lined up against a brick wall, overflowing with empty Haagen Dazs ten-gallon containers and cardboard boxes with tomato and lettuce stains. I said to the waiter, “Don’t you recycle?”
    Arms folded across his chest, he said, “I bet you want me to tell you her name.”
    “Whose name?” I asked. The bump on the back of my head was now Ping-Pong-ball size.
    The waiter smiled. He said, “Janey told everyone that you’re an undercover cop.”
    I grumbled inside. I’ve spent my whole detective career dukeing it out with the fuzz, and now to be called one. It cut. Deeply. “Let’s start with you. Name. Age. Address.” I waited patiently.
    His shiny