doin’ here so early, H?” It wasn’t until he was closer that he saw the jump rope wrapped around his friend’s neck, stretched taut over the top turnbuckle.
“No,”
he rasped, springing forward to grab H around the waist, vainly trying to hoist his dead weight.
“H? Talk to me, H! H?! No, man! No!”
But Clay Marvins’ efforts didn’t matter. A black tongue protruded from Big H’s foaming mouth, eyes rolled back, body cold. Harold Fields had been dead for hours. Clay lifted him off the ground with all his might, growling under the strain.
“Help!”
he screamed to no one. And no one came.
15
----
Scarla stood barefoot at the floor-to-ceiling windows of a posh office suite, looking out at downtown’s business district from the 23rd floor. Banking headquarters. Grocery headquarters. Auto headquarters. Federal buildings. All the power players were there, lined up in their respective reflective skyscrapers. Like ducks in a row. She flipped open her lighter and lit a cigarette without asking permission, imagining herself lighting a wick on vanloads of explosives and taking those buildings down.
Across the spacious, warmly-lit, beige-carpeted room, behind a wide mahogany desk, sat a silver-haired man, fit and tan, in a shirt and tie with his sleeves rolled up. He was renowned police psychologist, Marx Crane. He watched as she took a long drag and exhaled, then turned to him. “Mind if I smoke?”
He shook his head. “Go right ahead.”
She trailed smoke back to the leather sofa she’d been on, plopped down next to her shoes, held the cigarette in her teeth and reached under her shirt to remove her bra. “Sorry, I’m just trying to get comfortable. Where were we?” she asked, dropping the bra on her shoes and taking another drag.
Crane ignored the theatrics and spoke coolly, with patience. “We were discussing whether or not you wrestle with any feelings of objectification on the job.”
She winked. “I wrestle with scarier things than objectification, doctor.” Pause. “You’re really far away, it’s like—” She waved her hand, making an inadvertent smoke ring. “—I feel like I have to
project
here.”
He smiled, casually rounded his desk, sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “How’s this?”
“Better. Feels like we’re in the same room now.”
“Good.” He eyed her cigarette. “I’m afraid my resolve isn’t what it used to be. Mind if I steal one?”
She smirked, tossed him the pack. “Sounds like you’ve got self-control issues.”
He smiled, drew a Red and handed the pack back, leaning right into her waiting lighter. She lit him up, watched as he sat back and savored it.
“We’re here today to talk about
you
. You can cross examine me next time.”
Her eyes sparkled. “
Ooh,
I’ll remember that.”
He took a deep breath, looked at his cigarette. “I should’ve just asked for a hit. I really shouldn’t finish this.”
“Aw, c’mon. This room’s confidential. My lips are sealed.”
He eyed her. “Cross your heart?”
She eyed the bra on the floor. “Racerback.”
He laughed. They both took long drags. A cloud hung over their heads.
“
Objectification,
you say?” She studied the ceiling. “I don’t know that that’s the word.
Compromised,
maybe.”
“You feel compromised?”
She shrugged, looked for an ashtray. “It’s easy to do when you’ve got a strange dick in your mouth every night.”
Crane’s brow raised. She sauntered to the coffeemaker to grab a styrofoam cup, returned to perch on the sofa like a cat ready to pounce. She flicked ashes into the cup, held it out so he could do the same.
“I know why I’m out there. I know what I’m doing. Most of the time it feels like I’m looking down at someone else, y’know? But sometimes … especially lately … it’s been a weird kind of turn-on.”
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Have you actually
had
sex on the job?”
She eyed him, curious. “How much do you
know
about
“No,”
he rasped, springing forward to grab H around the waist, vainly trying to hoist his dead weight.
“H? Talk to me, H! H?! No, man! No!”
But Clay Marvins’ efforts didn’t matter. A black tongue protruded from Big H’s foaming mouth, eyes rolled back, body cold. Harold Fields had been dead for hours. Clay lifted him off the ground with all his might, growling under the strain.
“Help!”
he screamed to no one. And no one came.
15
----
Scarla stood barefoot at the floor-to-ceiling windows of a posh office suite, looking out at downtown’s business district from the 23rd floor. Banking headquarters. Grocery headquarters. Auto headquarters. Federal buildings. All the power players were there, lined up in their respective reflective skyscrapers. Like ducks in a row. She flipped open her lighter and lit a cigarette without asking permission, imagining herself lighting a wick on vanloads of explosives and taking those buildings down.
Across the spacious, warmly-lit, beige-carpeted room, behind a wide mahogany desk, sat a silver-haired man, fit and tan, in a shirt and tie with his sleeves rolled up. He was renowned police psychologist, Marx Crane. He watched as she took a long drag and exhaled, then turned to him. “Mind if I smoke?”
He shook his head. “Go right ahead.”
She trailed smoke back to the leather sofa she’d been on, plopped down next to her shoes, held the cigarette in her teeth and reached under her shirt to remove her bra. “Sorry, I’m just trying to get comfortable. Where were we?” she asked, dropping the bra on her shoes and taking another drag.
Crane ignored the theatrics and spoke coolly, with patience. “We were discussing whether or not you wrestle with any feelings of objectification on the job.”
She winked. “I wrestle with scarier things than objectification, doctor.” Pause. “You’re really far away, it’s like—” She waved her hand, making an inadvertent smoke ring. “—I feel like I have to
project
here.”
He smiled, casually rounded his desk, sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “How’s this?”
“Better. Feels like we’re in the same room now.”
“Good.” He eyed her cigarette. “I’m afraid my resolve isn’t what it used to be. Mind if I steal one?”
She smirked, tossed him the pack. “Sounds like you’ve got self-control issues.”
He smiled, drew a Red and handed the pack back, leaning right into her waiting lighter. She lit him up, watched as he sat back and savored it.
“We’re here today to talk about
you
. You can cross examine me next time.”
Her eyes sparkled. “
Ooh,
I’ll remember that.”
He took a deep breath, looked at his cigarette. “I should’ve just asked for a hit. I really shouldn’t finish this.”
“Aw, c’mon. This room’s confidential. My lips are sealed.”
He eyed her. “Cross your heart?”
She eyed the bra on the floor. “Racerback.”
He laughed. They both took long drags. A cloud hung over their heads.
“
Objectification,
you say?” She studied the ceiling. “I don’t know that that’s the word.
Compromised,
maybe.”
“You feel compromised?”
She shrugged, looked for an ashtray. “It’s easy to do when you’ve got a strange dick in your mouth every night.”
Crane’s brow raised. She sauntered to the coffeemaker to grab a styrofoam cup, returned to perch on the sofa like a cat ready to pounce. She flicked ashes into the cup, held it out so he could do the same.
“I know why I’m out there. I know what I’m doing. Most of the time it feels like I’m looking down at someone else, y’know? But sometimes … especially lately … it’s been a weird kind of turn-on.”
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Have you actually
had
sex on the job?”
She eyed him, curious. “How much do you
know
about
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