'So you were upstairs . . .'
'Uh-huh, and Woody came in the bedroom. I asked him to please leave, in a nice way, but he wouldn't.'
'You have your clothes on?'
'I didn't have anything on. He comes right in, goes 'Ooops,' but he knew I was there. He had two glasses of champagne with him.'
'He make the moves on you earlier?'
'Uh-unh, not till then. He offered me a glass of champagne, I said no thanks, so he drank them both like in two gulps, dropped the glasses and came at me. That's when he said, 'Yes, you're Gittel.' See what I mean? It was fairly obvious what the deal was. I told him no thank you, I didn't need the part that bad. But I could've been talking to the wall.'
'What did Woody have on?'
'These tiny trunks you could barely see under his big stomach.'
'Did he hit you?'
'Worse, he started kissing me, his mouth all wet and he had this awful breath from drinking so much.'
'You scream?'
'For what? Who's gonna do anything? They're all downstairs getting stoned. Woody just threw me down on the bed and got on top of me. You know what he kept saying? 'Boy-oh-boy.' '
'You tried to resist?'
'He turned me over so I couldn't, got my heinie up in the air and my face pressed down in the bedspread. I never felt so humiliated in my life.'
Chris didn't want to ask her the next question, but had to. 'He sodomized you?'
'No, he turned me over so I couldn't hit him. It wasn't long after that he got off me, rolled over on the bed and went to sleep.'
Chris said, 'Did he, you know, perform the act?'
'I guess as far as he was concerned. He's laying there, this big tub, he starts snoring with his mouth open. That's a sight's gonna stay with me, if you can picture it.'
'What'd you do then?'
'I got up and looked for something to hit him with.'
'You didn't, did you?'
'I left.'
Chris wasn't sure if that was an answer to his question.
'You didn't tell anybody what happened?'
'I came downstairs, Mark and his friend Robin were gone.'
'You know Robin's last name?'
'I wasn't introduced to any of them. The other girls had cute names like Suzie and Duzie. The chauffeur opened the front door for me, gives me a little smile and goes, 'You come back and see us, you hear?' If I had thought of it at the time I would've said, 'Yeah, with cops.' I walked all the way over to Seven Mile and Woodward, went in a place to call a taxi and you know what it was? A motorcycle gay bar. I'll tell you something--what's your name again?'
'Chris.'
'Chris, you live half your life in a house the refrigerator's on the front porch and come up here a teenager, I'll tell you, it's a shock to your system.'
Chris said, 'You're really from a place called Lake Dick?'
'Don't ask me who Dick was,' Greta said. 'I left there innocent and grew up as fast as I could. I got into acting and have worked for scale or below all my life, waiting for the big break. I was in that movie they were shooting here. I read for a part, it was a scene in a bar where I've just met this cop and I try to guess what he does for a living. The director said, 'Do it again, just like that.' I took the part not knowing anything about the movie or how much I'd get paid. But I had a choice. They tell me I have to go to bed with a fat drunk if I want a part, that's a choice too. I'll do it or I won't, it's up to me. But when I get raped against my will, then I'm gonna make some noise and tell in a court of law what the son of a bitch did to me. I don't care who he is.'
Chris said, 'Well'--taking his time--'what's gonna make it difficult, you report a one-on-one type of situation two days later, there's no evidence, nothing to use against him outside of your testimony.'
Greta was frowning. 'What do you mean, evidence?'
'See, ordinarily, if the complainant calls us right away a radio car goes to the scene, the woman is brought to Detroit General for a physical exam and usually her panties are taken as evidence.'
'Her panties?'
'They might be torn, they might have traces of semen. Or they find semen, you know, inside the complainant. It's checked for blood type to match against the suspect's. But we don't have any evidence like that, nothing.'
'So you aren't gonna do anything.'
'I'll call him, have him come in . . .'
'When, next week sometime? I just saw his limousine over at the theater, but you're gonna call him when you feel like it.'
'I'll call him as soon as we finish,' Chris said, willing to be patient with Greta Wyatt, have a reason to look at her, listen to her talk. 'I'll have him come in, ask him if he wants to bring a lawyer. . . . You understand, we can know beyond a reasonable doubt the man's guilty, but if we violate his rights in any way he's gonna walk.'
Greta said, 'Well, thank you very much,' getting up, pulling at her short skirt. 'I already tried to see his brother, Mark. 'Greta who?' the girl in the office wants to know. 'What is this about?' I work up my nerve to come here, you're worried about Woody's rights being violated. Hell with mine. I wish you'd taped this so you could play it back and hear what a pathetic little weenie you sound like.'
Chris said, 'Wait, okay? If I type up your statement, will you sign it?'
It didn't seem likely. She was walking out.
'Greta, if you'll cooperate we can at least bring him in. See if we can get him to admit it.'
That turned her around at the door.
'Woody put it a little different. He said if I'd cooperate we could fall in love.'
Chapter 9
Chris left his dad's Cadillac in the lot on Macomb, across from 1300, and walked down to Galligan's, thinking:
What kind of an impression was he making lately? There was the St. Antoine Clinic doctor accusing him of being a macho fraud if not bisexual. There was Phyllis practically calling him a pervert for going to Sex Crimes. His own dad looking at him funny, wondering why he was having so much trouble with women. Now a rape victim, a really good-looking one, had accused him of being a weenie. Walking along Beaubien in this old downtown section, past Greektown now, cars jammed into the narrow street, he couldn't get it out of his mind. Back when he was driving a radio car, a drunk, some guy being restrained from knocking the shit out of his wife, might look at Chris's nameplate on his uniform and call him a dumb fucking Polack. But no one had ever insinuated he was a pervert or called him a weenie. Jesus. He had never met a girl named Greta before, either.
He walked with his head down, serious, looking at the sidewalk, telling himself, Well, you go through shitty periods, things happen, you get your car stolen. . . . Things build up and you see everything at once instead of taking them one at a time. You start looking into the future and then you have doubts. The fuck are you doing? You should've gone into something else, computers, robotics. Right, get into something guaranteed to bore the shit out of you. Deal with things. Get a boat. He thought of times when he was a uniform, and kids, every once in a while, would do that number, 'Your old man work? No, he's a cop.' His dad had his own version of it. 'You could've taken over the business, lease a new Cadillac every year.' Estimating how many yards of 'ashphalt' to do a shopping center parking lot. He'd say to his dad, 'What I always wanted, a new car every year,' and his dad wouldn't get it. Except he had to admit his dad's Cadillac Seville wasn't bad, sitting in there in all that quiet, effortless luxury. It beat the shit out of his Mustang that was now down south somewhere, repainted. Chris looked up and it was
