He took a seat at Jeremy’s table, unbuttoned his white coat, stuffed the paper in his pocket. His shirt was snowy-white piqué, heavily starched, with a high, stiff collar. The bow tie of the day was mint green, a luxuriant silk specked with tiny gold fleur-de-lis.
“I wondered,” he said, “and please don’t think me forward- I wondered if you’d care to join me for supper this Friday evening. There are some people, interesting people, whom I’d like you to meet. Who, I’m allowing myself to presume, you might enjoy meeting.”
“Friends of yours?”
“A group… so to speak.” The old man’s speech, usually fluid, had grown choppy. Arthur Chess, embarrassed?
Perhaps to cover, he smiled. “We meet from time to time to discuss matters of mutual interest.”
“Medical matters?” said Jeremy. Then he remembered Arthur’s persistent curiosity about “very bad behavior.” Had all that been a prelude to this?
“A wide range of issues,” said Arthur. “We aim for erudition, but nothing ponderous, Jeremy. The company’s amiable, the food is well prepared- quite tasty, really- and we pour some fine spirits. We sup late. Though I don’t imagine that will be a problem for you.”
How could Arthur know of his insomnia? “Why’s that?”
“You’re an energetic young man.” One of the pathologist’s big hands slapped the table. “So. Are we set?”
Jeremy said, “Sorry, Friday’s tough.” He didn’t have to lie. Angela’s on-call ended Thursday night. No date had been set for Friday, but there was no reason for her to turn him down.
“I see. Well, another time, then.” Arthur got to his feet. “No harm trying. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. If you change your mind, feel free to let me know.” He placed a palm on Jeremy’s shoulder. Weighty; Jeremy became aware of the pathologist’s bulk and strength.
“Will do. Thanks for thinking of me, Arthur.”
“I thought precisely of you.” Arthur’s hand remained on Jeremy’s shoulder. Jeremy whiffed bay rum and strong tea and something acrid, possibly formaldehyde.
“I’m flattered,” said Jeremy.
Arthur said, “Do consider this: During times of abject disorder, a good, late-night supper can be most fortifying.”
“Disorder?” said Jeremy.
But the old man had already turned and left.
Back in his office, he failed to conjure anything to do with Angela, past or future.
The word caromed around his head: Disorder.
Not mine; the city’s. The world’s.
Mine.
The old bastard was right. What better description of a time when women were stalked and hunted and brought down like prey simply because they were women. Where men with low resting heart rates chose their victims with all the gravitas of grocery shoppers squeezing melons.
Men who craved blood gas and terror-struck eyes, the confiscation of body juice, the ultimate power.
Monster-men who needed all that to get their own blood rushing.
Disorder was the perfect description of a world where Jocelyn’s death enlisted her in the same sorority as Tyrene Mazursky.
He hadn’t been able to conjure Angela, but now Jocelyn’s face flew into his head. Her laughter, even at his lamest jokes, the way she cared for her hopeless patients. Her pixie face when it flushed and compressed in the throes of pleasure.
When it had been really good for her, the flush that rose from her pelvis to her chin.
Then, another kind of face. Also compressed. No pleasure.
Nausea coiled around Jeremy’s gut. He felt the urge to vomit, grabbed his wastebasket, and plunged his face into it. All that came were dry heaves. He sat low, dangling the basket, his head between his hands, sweating, panting.
Monster-men, creating human dross. Then other men- coarse civil servants like Hoker and Doresh- fashioned careers from the waste.
He managed to expunge a plug of mucus from his throat and throp it into the trash. Removing the plastic bag from the basket, he took it to the men’s room, tossed it, returned to his office, locked the door, and thumbed through his address book.
He found the number and punched it.
Detective Doresh answered, “Homicide,” and Jeremy said, “I was wondering why a black woman would have a name like Mazursky.”
“Who’s- Dr. Carrier? What’s going on?”
“It just struck me as odd,” said Jeremy. It struck me as profoundly disordered. “Then I thought: Maybe she used an alias. Because prostitutes do that. I’ve seen it- we treat them here at the hospital, they come in for their STDs- sexually transmitted diseases- and their nonspecific urinary tract infections, malnutrition, dental problems, hepatitis C. One woman will have five different charts. We don’t expect much in the way of reimbursement, but we do try to bill the state because the administrators order us to. But with prostitutes it’s mostly futile, because of how rapidly they switch names. They do it to fool the courts- to conceal evidence of prior arrests. So maybe that’s what she did. Tyrene Mazursky. Maybe there’s more to her than one identity.”
“An alias,” said Doresh, enunciating slowly. “You don’t think we thought of that.”
“I- I’m sure you did. It just occurred to me.”
“Anything else occur to you, Doc?”
“Just that.”
Silence. “Anything else you want to tell me, Doc?”
“No, that’s it.”
“Because I’m listening,” said the detective.
“Sorry if I bothered you,” said Jeremy.
“Tyrene Mazursky,” said Doresh. “It’s funny you should mention her because I just got back her final autopsy report and have it here in front of me. Not pretty, Doc. Another extremely not-pretty. Kind of a Humpty-Dumpty situation.”
The detective let the message sink in. No way to put her back together again… another… the same had happened to Jocelyn.
It was the closest, since the murder, that he’d come to being informed.
He nearly screamed out loud. Took a breath, said, “That’s horrible.”
“Tyrene Mazursky,” said Doresh. “Turns out, she was married to a Polish guy, years ago. Commercial fisherman, one of those guys who goes out on the lakes and seines and hauls in whatever comes up. Also, he was part of those crews that go looking for submerged logs- hundred-year-old logs that fell off the barges. Fancy maple wood, they use ’em for violins. Anyway, this guy was a big drunk. He died in a capsize a few winters ago, left her with nothing. Even before that, she was whoring a little, what with him being gone all the time, drinking away his wages. After he died, she got serious. About her profession, that is.”
Hearing Tyrene Mazursky’s life reduced like that froze Jeremy’s heart and his mouth. His hands began to tremble.
He said, “Poor woman.”
“Sad story,” Doresh agreed. “Guess we both know about that, huh? Have a nice day, Doc.”
Jeremy placed the phone in its cradle. Imagined Tyrene Mazursky working the docks. Waiting for her ship to come in.
Jocelyn. Working the wards, waiting to see Jeremy that night.
Men do it to women. That’s what it is.
He sat there bathed in sweat, sour-mouthed, watching as evening darkened the air shaft outside his window.
Finally, he picked up the phone again and punched an extension.
“Chess,” boomed a familiar voice.
“It’s me, Arthur. Turns out Friday’s fine.”