Through The Grinder

With his free hand, Quinn reached for the wine glass again, but only to finger the stem. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine now. They focused on the fine Waterford crystal, its facets reflecting the flickering candlelight.

I waited for him to continue — because I thought we had all evening, and I had plenty of time to hear more about his marriage, about any attempts he might have made at marriage counseling, and generally to witness this rare occasion of his finally opening up. But then Quinn’s cell rang. The second he heard the voice on the other end, that glacier curtain came down. Work, of course. Something had come up and they needed to call him in.

“Are you going to a crime scene?” I asked after he flipped closed his cell and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“Yeah.”

“Tucker’s managing downstairs tonight,” I told him. “Stop in and ask for a tray of lattes to go. On the house.”

He thanked me, and I walked him to my duplex’s door. Then, on the landing above the service staircase, he stopped.

“Mike? Did you need something else?”

He just stood there, looking down, as if considering his answer. “Thanks,” he said, then without another word, he was gone.

Hiding in the crowd of tenants, the Genius watched the tall, broad-shouldered detective in the dark brown coat case the crime scene.

“Sorry, Mike. Sorry to pull you in.”

“It’s all right. What have you got?”

“Jumper.”

Uniformed police had already cordoned off the area around the body and were scanning it for evidence. But it was a waste of effort. They’d quickly come to the same conclusion as the other cops at the other crime scenes — suicide.

Ms. Inga Berg, they would assume, had said goodnight to her big date earlier than expected… because taking off one’s panties may get you sex, but it doesn’t guarantee a long night of lovemaking by any stretch. After retiring for the evening, Inga had decided to take the elevator to the rooftop parking area, walk to the edge, and somersault over the banister.

Inga Berg, they would conclude, had leaped to her death.

“Objective achieved,” whispered the Genius.

Slipping away was the last task left, before the police began to question the tenants. This being a new building, few of the tenants would know each other. These people would naturally assume the Genius to be just another tenant, or friend of a tenant. So departing would be easy.

But the Genius couldn’t leave just yet. It was too good a feeling, seeing the handiwork appreciated for the first time. The tape being put up, the police photographer snapping photos, the chalk being drawn, the detective staring up into the cold, black night, estimating the trajectory of the body’s fall, then snapping on latex gloves to gently examine the woman’s smashed body.

She looked a bit like she was sleeping actually, except for the splattering of blood and brain matter.

Inga Berg’s white shoes had been torn off in the fall, but she was still clothed in the white fur- trimmed parka, beneath it, the cream silk negligee with lace trim, her long, dyed hair a blonde mop across her face.

The Genius watched the detective crouch down, tenderly push the long blonde hair away, to reveal staring brown eyes, a mouth frozen open forever.

This was just too good. Seeing the accomplishment like this.

The Genius almost didn’t notice the detective rising, turning, scanning the crowd.

Time to slip away, the Genius decided. Slip away…slip away…And after slithering slowly backward through the heart of the crowd, that’s exactly what the Genius did.

Five

Not pretty.

Not a disaster by any means. But definitely not a thing of beauty.

My first official “date” of the last two years had started out badly and went downhill from there.

Frankly, the last thing I expected to be doing exactly one week after “My Dinner with Quinn” (as I now thought of it) was sitting across from a guy who looked like he’d stepped off the cover of the Metrosexual’s Handbook.

Yet here I was, sitting in the Union Square Coffee Shop, which, despite its name, was not, in fact, a coffee shop, but a trendy restaurant made to look like a 1960s-style coffee shop/diner, with the addition of mood lighting, loud music, a slick crowd, and a Brazilian-American menu.

Later, when I was happily back at the Blend, Tucker would inform me that the waitresses there were employed by a major modeling agency — which owned this restaurant, as well as another, called (appropriately enough) Live Bait. And I would consider myself a heel (in retrospect) for consenting to eat at a place where a twenty-two-year-old reed-thin underwear model with long blonde hair asked my date, “What would you like?”

This man had e-mailed me as a result of the profile Joy had helped me post on SinglesNYC.com — and the only reason I’d even posted in the first place was to check out the dating service my daughter intended to use.

“What would you like?” Paris Hilton asked again.

Ensconced in the vinyl booth, I’d already ordered the churrasquino carioca; however, my date, a forty- something with curly black hair, refined features, watery hazel eyes, and a profile that listed his occupation as “Director of Fundraising,” seemed to be having an issue with the menu.

“I thought you had vegetarian fare?” he asked unhappily.

“We have a veggie burger and a ton of fish dishes,” suggested the waitress.

“I’m a vegan. No animal products, which includes the swimming animals.”

A vegan? I thought. His profile hadn’t mentioned that. I could have sworn it said nonsmoking gourmet food lover. O-kay.

“Veggie burger?” asked the model-slash-waitress hopefully.

Brooks Newman sighed the sigh of a martyr. “I suppose.”

“Cheese?”

“Yes.”

“You know cheese is an animal product,” I pointed out. “I mean if you’re a vegan.”

“Oh, yes,” said Brooks. “Of course. It’s only been three days.”

“Three days vegan?” I asked. “Is that like three days sober?”

Brooks wasn’t amused. He gave me a little squint. “No cheese,” he told the waitress.

“Anything else, sir?”

“Yes,” said Brooks. He snapped the menu shut. “And another martini. Dry. Got that? D-R-Y.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Hilton look-alike spun on her go-go boot heel and left.

“I hate it when girls that age call me ‘sir,’” said Brooks, his eyes glued to the waitress’s retreating ass. “Makes me feel old.”

“Well…” I said. No reason for that. After all, you’re acting like a child.

“You, uh, don’t look forty.”

“Thanks. I know. It’s the botanicals.”

“Botanicals?”

“Yes, in the facial products. I find a weekly spa visit to be vital for people our age. You should try it.