A Body to die for

someone in need could not live without for one minute. “Walk to the store with me,” I said.
    Recognition clicked behind his pretty green eyes. “Sure,” he said, a little too loudly. “Let’s go to the store.”
    “Leave Syd in the hall,” I said, and pointed for Max to walk down the stairs. I followed him. We made a loud show by thumping our feet on the steps. We opened the front door and slammed it shut.
    Once outside, I whispered to Max to walk to the corner deli and wait for me there.
    Max whispered back, “The hell I will. I’m going right back up there and taking care of this. You, honey, are walking to the pay phone on the corner and calling the cops.”
    A voice out the stoop level window called, “I’m calling the cops if you don’t shut up!” It was the croak of Mrs. Burpe. I flipped her the bird.
    I whispered back, “I’m the one with the gun here, buddy. I’m the trained professional. My cat might be decapitated in there, for all we know. You will walk to the corner and let me handle this.” I started toward the door, gun in hand.
    A voice from the second floor window (ours) said, “I’ve heard softer whispers at the Grand Canyon.”
    We looked up. Leaning out our bedroom window was the man I knew as Freddie Smith. He’d seen me naked. “I’m sorry if I scared you,” he called down. “You told me to call you. The old lady who lives above you let me in.” To Max, Freddie said, “I’m not a crazed rapist or anything. I just need to talk to Wanda.”
    “Then talk inside!” croaked the stoop window.
    We went inside. Max grumbled all the way. He reminded me that he needed some sleep to succeed in the rough and tumble world of big banking. He said it with enough irony to be charming, but his annoyance was clear. If he didn’t like the consequences of my work, he could just go to the next corporate Christmas party alone. I made a mental note to tell him this come December.
    We found Syd hiding behind a radiator in the hallway. We left her there. Freddie greeted us as we entered our apartment. After making introductions and shaking hands, I said to Freddie, “Thanks for calling first.” He shrugged. How rude.
    “Maybe if I got a tip for the massage, I’d extend courtesies to you.”
    “How’d you get the address?”
    “Brooklyn information.”
    I scowled menacingly. “Look, pal, I can melt steel just by thinking hard.”
    “No need to,” Freddie said. “Everything in this apartment—including steel—has already melted. Haven’t you people heard of air-conditioning?”
    “Haven’t you heard of chlorofluorocarbons?” I asked.
    “Not really.”
    “I feel personally violated when anyone breaks into my place,” I said testily. “If you don’t have the juiciest hunk of dish this side of McDonald’s, I’m going to have to hurt you.”
    “Can I have some water, please?” he asked. A bead of sweat rolled under his goatee. “You wanted to talk about Barney Cutler’s death,” he said. “And, after I get something to drink, that’s what I’ll do.”
    I looked at Max. He shrugged. I fetched Freddie a glass of water. Neither the glass nor the water sparkled. He took a drink. Then the three of us sat down in a row on my couch. It was a tight squeeze, and there was nowhere else to sit. Freddie looked around for a place to put his glass. Failing to find a coffee table, he settled on the floor. I checked the time: half past a cow’s ass. I had to be up before nine to go see Jack in the slammer.
    I said to Freddie, “How long do you think you’re going to need?” He seemed puzzled. “I mean, are we going to be talking all night about this, or will it only be an hour or so?”
    Freddie turned up his round nose. “I’m not saying anything at all with him in the room.” He meant Max.
    “I’m not leaving you in here alone with my girlfriend.” I still love to hear Max call me his girlfriend. Other boyfriends, in my past, have introduced me by saying, “This is my... this is Wanda,” which wasn’t exactly reassuring.
    “Max, boyfriend, darling. Go stand in the hall.”
    “I will not,” he responded.
    I leaned over to him and whispered my usual bribe: a blow-job for the entire episode of next week’s “Seinfeld.” Max muttered under his breath. He stood and fanned out his chest by drawing his arms back. He bore into Freddie’s eyes with his own. “I’ll be right outside,” he said. “And if I hear so much as a hair grow, I’m going to kick your fat