Wifey by Judy Blume Page B

it was an emergency and that she would return tomorrow morning, as usual.
    She drove downtown, to police headquarters.
    Would she be able to identify the man on the motorcycle? Did she even want to?
    “Now, look, Mrs. Pressman,” Hubanski said, directing her to a small auditorium, “all you got to do is look them over. They can’t see you, so don’t worry.”
    “Are they all criminals?”
    “We can’t discuss that now. The important thing’s for you to identify the guy. You got that, Mrs. P?”
    “Yes.” So now she was Mrs. P. How cozy.
    “Here we go,” Hubanski called, “Okay, Jess, send them out.”
    Sandy slouched down in her seat in the darkened room.
    Number One wore a business suit. He had graying hair and was far too pudgy to be her man. Number Two wore jeans and a T-shirt. She mustn’t be fooled by dress, though. He had a lot of red hair. Attractive. Young. The right build. But red hair? No, then he’d have red pubic hair too, wouldn’t he? And freckles? Her man had dark pubic hair and no freckles, at least none as far as she knew.
    She leaned over to Hubanski and whispered, “You know, I didn’t see his face.”
    “Try to identify him by body.”
    “If I could just see them naked.”
    “Mrs. Pressman!”
    Number Three was young, pimply, and skinny. Too skinny. Number Four wore slacks and a sport shirt. Nice build. Could be . . . could be . . . clean-cut face . . . brown hair . . . she had no trouble imagining him naked . . . nice . . . very nice. Number Five was big, with a craggy face, about fifty, looked like a caddy at The Club. God, he
was
a caddy at The Club.
    “I know that man,” Sandy whispered to Hubanski. “Number Five. He caddies at The Club.”
    “Is he the one?”
    “No, he’s too old.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes, positive.”
    “Well, do you see anyone else?”
    “I can’t be sure, but Number Four might be the one.”
    “Number Four is my assistant, Mrs. Pressman. And I can assure you that on the day of the incident in question my assistant was right here, working with me.”
    “I’m sorry. How was I to know? The only other possibility is Number Two but his coloring is wrong. I don’t think the man we’re after has red hair.” She wanted to say,
if only I could see them in the act I’m sure I’d recognize him . . . my man has a certain style . . .
    But then Hubanski would say,
let’s not get carried away, Mrs. P. There’s no way I can give you a lineup of guys jacking off.
    I don’t see why,
she would argue.
    Hubanski stood up. “Well, this is very disappointing, Mrs. P. Very depressing, you know? I was hoping the guy with the sheet.”
    “Which one owned the sheet, anyway?”
    “I can’t go into that now. Let’s just say you didn’t mention him at all.”
    “Are they all left-handed?”
    “No . . . but I’m not convinced the man we’re looking for is either. He could have used his left hand to throw us off the track . . .”
    “Do they all ride motorcycles?”
    “I can’t divulge that information either.”
    “Well, I’m sorry, sergeant, but you certainly don’t want me to lie.”
    “Certainly not, except that now we’re back to nowhere.”
    W HEN SHE GOT HOME the phone was ringing. Florenzia never answered the telephone and made no calls herself. She’d made it clear from her first day on the job that she would have nothing to do with that machine.
    Sandy threw down her purse and car keys and ran to the kitchen wall phone. “Hello,” she answered, breathlessly.
    “Mrs. Pressman?”
    “Yes.”
    “May I fuck you today?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I said, may I fuck you today?”
    Sandy hung up.
Jesus!
    It rang again.
    She picked it up. “Yes?”
    “Or would you rather have me suck you?”
    She slammed down the receiver. If it rang again, she wouldn’t answer. Maybe Florenzia had the right idea after all.
    “You got mail,” Florenzia said. She was wiping out the cabinet under the kitchen sink. “I put on