The Vanished Man

replied pensively. “Our last contact was French toast and mimosas. My place. Brunch in bed. Way romantic. He said he’d call me the next day.”
    “And no call.”
    “No call. Oh, and maybe I should add that the aforementioned brunch was three weeks ago.”
    “Have you called him?”
    “I wouldn’t do that,” she said firmly. “It’s in his court.”
    “Good for you.” Pride and power were born joined at the hip, Sachs knew.
    Kara laughed. “There’s an old routine a magician named William Ellsworth Robinson did. It was way popular. It was called How to Get Rid of a Wife, or The Divorce Machine.” A laugh. “That’s my story. I can vanish boyfriends faster than anybody.”
    “Well, they’re also pretty good at vanishing themselves, you know,” Sachs offered.
    “Most of the guys I’d meet working at my old job, the magazine, or the store’re interested in two things. A one-night romp in the hay. Or else the opposite—wooing then settling down in the ’burbs. . . . You ever get wooed?”
    “Sure,” Sachs said. “It can be creepy. Depending on the wooer, of course.”
    “You got it, sister. So hay-romping or wooing and ’burb-settling . . . they’re both a problem for me. I don’t want either. Well, a romp now and then. Let’s be realistic.”
    “What about men in the business?”
    “Ah, so you noticed I excluded them from the romp/woo equation. Other performers . . . naw, I don’t go there. Too many conflicts of interest. They also claim they like strong women but the truth is most of them don’t want us in the business at all. The ratio of men to women is about a hundred to one. It’s better now. Oh, you see some famous women illusionists. Princess Tenko, an Asian illusionist—she’s brilliant. And there’re a few others. But that’s recent. Twenty, thirty years ago you never saw a woman as the star, only the assistant.” A glance at Sachs. “Kind of like the police, huh?”
    “It’s not as bad as it used to be. Not my generation. The sixties and seventies—that’s when women were breaking the ice. That was the hard time. But I’ve had my share. I was a portable before I moved to crime scene and—”
    “A what?”
    “A portable’s a beat cop. If we ever worked Hell’s Kitchen in Midtown they’d partner a woman with some experienced male cop. Sometimes I’d have a knuckle-dragger who hated being with a woman. Just hated it. He didn’t say a word to me for the entire watch. Eight hours, walking up and down the streets, this guy not saying a word. We’d go ten-sixty-three for lunch and I’d be sitting there trying to be pleasant and he’d be two feet away, reading the sports section and sighing ’cause he had to waste his time with a woman.” Memories came back to her. “I was working the Seven-five house—”
    “The what?”
    Sachs explained, “Precinct. We call them ‘houses.’And most cops don’t say Seventy-fifth. In numbers it’s always Seven-five or Seventy-five. Like Macy’s is on Three-four Street.”
    “Okay.”
    “Anyway, the usual supervisor was off and we had a temporary sergeant who was old school. So it’s one of my first days at the Seven-five and I’m the only woman on this particular watch. I go to roll call in the assembly room and there’re a dozen Kotex taped to the lectern.”
    “No!”
    “Kid you not. The regular supervisor never would’ve let anybody get away with that. But cops’re like kids in a lot of ways. They push until an adult stops ’em.”
    “Not what you see in the movies.”
    “Movies’re made in Hollywood. Not in the Seven-five.”
    “What’d you do? About the pads?”
    “I walked up to the front row and asked the cop sitting right in front of the lectern if I could have his seat—which is where I was going to sit anyway. They were all laughing so hard I’m surprised some of them didn’t pee their pants. Well, I sat down and just started to take notes about what the sergeant was telling us—you know, outstanding warrants and community relations things and street corners with known drug activity. And about two minutes later, no more laughter. The whole thing became embarrassing. Not for me. For them.”
    “You know who did it?”
    “Sure.”
    “Did you report him?”
    “No. See, that’s the hardest part of being a woman cop. You have to work with these people. You need them behind you, watching your back. You can fight every step of the way. But if you have to do that you’ve