A Body to die for

except she took a swipe at me and caught me on the tip of my nose. It bled. I made a mental note to pick up a tube of poultry flavored toothpaste at the pet store.
    I returned to the bedroom. I had to burrow in some boxes, but eventually I found a cute little sundress from French Connection that would go perfectly with my purple and blue bruises. My shoulder and ribs were still sore. I couldn’t find any aspirin. I settled on a few snorts of tequila. I felt all warm and toasty inside. Then I split like a beaver.
    The day was sunny. Good thing I wore a sundress. The subway ride to Manhattan was uneventful. My dress wasn’t long enough to cover my butt when I sat down. Good thing I wore underwear. I wondered if I could contract any diseases from a subway seat, and then remembered that I was impervious to human strains.
    The Number 4 train pulled into my stop—Grand Central Station—about twenty minutes later. I headed toward the Do It Right office in Times Square. A few early lunchers and late commuters sprinted around, fanning themselves with newspapers, trying to cool off and avoid staining their work clothes with perspiration. Along Forty-second Street, on the sidewalk bordering the Public Library and Bryant Park, vendors set up stands selling hippie beads, tarot cards, bootleg CDs and tapes. Three years ago, the only vendors in Bryant Park sold drugs and urine in bottles. The city spent a few million taxpayer dollars to clean the place up. And now, every spring—prime outdoor season—the city puts up big tents in Bryant Park to house the New York designer fashion shows. Of course, unless you’re a designer, fashion mag editor or department store retailer, you can’t get in to see them. That’s what I love about Manhattan’s public parks. Either you don’t want to visit them, or you can’t get in.
    Despite my dress, not one guy made any comments along the ten-minute walk. With every year, the amount of street harassment I get drops. I find this puzzling because my breasts haven’t. Dropped, that is. I stuck them out and walked the last half block to the Do It Right office. A bum lay in his own spilled Boones Farm in the vestibule of my building. He said, “Nice stack.”
    I said, “Bless your alcoholic heart.” I walked up the four flights of stairs to my office. I wasn’t planning to stay long—just make a few calls, find out when the next bus left Port Authority Terminal for the Ikea outlet in Elizabeth, New Jersey. It’d be useless to use the phone to try and find Jack. If he had half a brain (even one-quarter a brain), he’d be long gone.
    I reached my floor slightly breathless. If it wasn’t for the broken elevator, I’d get practically no exercise at all. I was just about to fit my office key into the lock when I heard a small moan from inside my office. It didn’t sound like one of the mice who lived there. Their moans were smaller and squeakier.
    There was no sock on the door handle, so it couldn’t be Alex with some chick. We’d made rules about this kind of thing: The sock was my idea. He kept a clean sheet in the filing cabinet. That was his rule: You had to replace or clean the sheet after every use. No problem for me. The few times I’ve had spontaneous sex on my desk, I’ve never thought to use the sheet anyway.
    Another moan seeped under the office door. It didn’t sound like Alex either. I palmed Mama and flung the door open.
    Jack Watson was asleep on my desk, his shorts and T-shirt dirty from soot and sweat. His blond hair stuck to his forehead like yellow seaweed. His socks and sneakers were black with grime. Blood was caked under his nose and on his forehead. Despite the sight and the smell (bad), my heart thumped with relief. He was safe. Stinky, but safe. Then I reminded myself of the late-night visit from the cops and the utter stupidity of his breaking out of the joint. I slammed the door shut.
    Jack started awake and fell off the desk. He looked up at me with sleepy, swollen eyes. He seemed totally dejected. I felt a wave of pity. I said, “You better have a lot more money hidden somewhere. My fee just doubled.”
    “The door was open,” he said. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
    I closed the door behind me. The room got a lot smaller. I strode across the cigarette burned carpet and flung open one of the windows. The smells of melting asphalt and boiled hot dogs from outside was a relief.
    “Aren’t you impressed? I got out, Wanda,” he crowed. He