Cat & Mouse

As he passed chic, well-dressed New Yorkers, Soneji couldn’t help thinking how smart he was, how much brighter than any of these uptight assholes. If any of these snooty bastards could get inside his head, just for a minute, then they’d know.

No one could, though, no one had ever been able to. No one could guess.

Not the beginning, the middle, or the end.

He was getting very angry now, almost uncontrollably so. He could feel the rage surging as he walked the overcrowded streets. He almost couldn’t see straight. Bile rose in his throat.

He flung his coffee, almost a full cup of the steamy liquid, at a passing businessman. He laughed right in the shocked, outraged face. He howled at the sight of coffee dripping from the New Yorker’s aquiline nose, his squarish chin. Dark coffee stained the expensive shirt and tie.

Gary Soneji could do anything he wanted to, and most often, he did.

Just you watch.

Chapter 50

AT SEVEN that night, I was back in Penn Station. It wasn’t the usual commuter crowd, so it wasn’t too bad on Saturdays. The murders that had taken place at Union Station in Washington, and here, were spinning around in my mind. The dark train tunnels were the “cellar” to Soneji, symbols of his tortured boyhood. I had figured out that much of the delusionary puzzle. When Soneji came up out of the cellar, he exploded at the world in a murderous rage…

I saw Christine coming up the stairs from the train tunnels.

I began to smile in spite of the locale. I smiled, and shifted my weight from foot to foot, almost dancing. I felt light-headed and excited, filled with a hope and desire that I hadn’t felt in a long time. She had really come.

Christine was carrying a small black bag with “ Sojourner Truth School ” printed on it. She was traveling light. She looked beautiful, proud, more desirable than ever, if that was possible. She was wearing a white short-sleeved dress with a jewel neckline and her usual flats in black patent leather. I noticed people looking at her. They always did.

We kissed in a corner of the train station, keeping our privacy as best we could. Our bodies pressed together and I could feel her warmth, her bones, her flesh. I heard the bag she was carrying drop at her feet.

Her brown eyes looked into mine and they were wide and questioning at first, but then became very soft and light. “I was a little afraid you wouldn’t be here,” she said. “I had visions of you off on some police emergency, and me standing here alone in the middle of Penn Station.”

“There’s no way I would let that happen,” I said to her. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

We kissed again, pressing even harder together. I didn’t want to stop kissing Christine, holding her tightly. I wanted to take her where we could be alone. My body nearly convulsed. It was that bad, that good.

“I tried,” she said and grinned, “but I couldn’t stay away from you. New York scares me a little, but here I am.”

“We’re going to have a great time. You’ll see.”

“You promise? Will it be unforgettable?” she teased me.

“Unforgettable, I promise,” I said.

I held her tightly in my arms. I couldn’t let her go.

Chapter 51

THE BEGINNING of “unforgettable” felt like this, looked like this, sounded like this.

The Rainbow Room at eight-thirty on a Saturday night. Christine and I waltzed off the glitzy elevator, arm in arm. We were immediately swept into another era, another lifestyle, maybe another life. A fancy silver-on-black placard near the elevator door read: “The Rainbow Room, Step into an MGM Musical.” Hundreds of minispotlights kicked off from the dazzling chrome and crystal. It was over the top, and just about perfect.

“I’m not sure if I’m dressed right for an MGM musical, but I don’t particularly care. What a wonderful idea,” Christine said as we made our way past overdone, outrageous-looking ushers and usherettes. We were directed to a desk that looked down onto the deco ballroom but also had panoramic views of New York. The room was jam-packed on a Saturday night; every table and the dance floor was filled.

Christine was dressed in a simple black sheath. She wore the same necklace, made from an old-fashioned brooch, that she wore at Kinkead’s. It had belonged to her grandmother. Because I’m six three, she wasn’t afraid to wear dressier shoes with high heels, rather than her comfortable flats. I had never realized it before, but I liked being with a woman who was nearly as tall as I am.

I had dressed up, too. I’d chosen a charcoal gray, summerweight suit, crisp white shirt, blue silk tie. For tonight anyway, I was definitely not a police detective from D.C. I didn’t look like Dr. Alex Cross from Southeast. Maybe more like Denzel Washington playing the part of Jay Gatsby. I liked the feeling, for a night on the town anyway. Maybe even for a whole weekend.