A Canadian Werewolf in New York

Chapter Twelve

Without a single word Gail lunged at me and pounded her fists against my chest.  I stood there, dumbfounded, letting her hit me, unable to look her in the eye the entire time.  I didn’t need to be able to smell the intense anger, the hatred, the fear for her now abducted boyfriend to know how ultimately I had let her down.

     No heightened super scenes were required to be able to read those things in the tears of rage and in the sheer horror in her face.

     When she ran out of energy she crumpled against me, her head against my chest and between sobs the words finally came, surely but slowly between deep anguished breaths.  “How . . . could . . . you?”

     I opened my mouth, was about to tell her that I’d find him, about to promise her that no matter what it took, I’d find him, but nothing came out.  Perhaps a part of me knew that I’d done enough damage here -- that I’d already failed enough times today.

     After a moment, Gail lifted her head up and then turned and walked away.

     I stood looking at her, helpless.

     Sure, I could have followed her, could have tried to explain.

     But I knew Gail enough to know she wouldn’t want to hear any of it.  Not now anyway.  And besides, while I hadn’t promised her that I’d find Howard, I still planned on doing just that.

     Gail had just disappeared from my view when I caught a distinct statement that I knew was directed at me.

     The words “There he is, officer.  There’s the pervert who tried to steal the little boy,” were my invitation to get the hell out of there, and quickly.

                                                                           *      *      *

     As I sulkily walked up the street back towards the Algonquin Hotel, in a completely different mindset and mood than the one I’d been in coming down here, I thought about different courses of action in finding Howard.

     And I also wondered about what exactly he had gotten himself into.  I didn’t know much about this Howard guy, but based on his looks and the brief exposure I had to him, I think I’d pegged him correctly as a financial analyst type of guy.  Perhaps he worked for a bank or an investment firm.

     But that wouldn’t explain how he got mixed up with the guys in the suits.  And I wasn’t clear on what or who they were anyways.  Sure, they reminded me of characters from some gangster movie, but I couldn’t tell mafia guys from Italian business men.  I mean, for all I knew, these guys could be FBI or CIA or some other such organization.  And maybe Howard had gotten himself into hot water in some sort of illegal operation.  Maybe he’d been working at embezzling for a client and was being picked up to be questioned.

     The fact was I didn’t know anything for sure.  And Gail certainly wouldn’t be speaking with me for at least a few hours -- which was her typical cooling down time.  I knew that if I needed information or help from her that I was going to have to wait.

     So I did just exactly what I did when I was writing and I needed to be invigorated, when I needed a boost of energy, spark or inspiration.

     I took a walk.

     I think it was Brooklyn author Denis Hamill who taught me that.  I remember him giving me the advice one evening over drinks at a little bar in Soho called Blind Tiger.  This was back when I was just starting out, had my first novel on the way, and had bumped into him, offered to buy him a drink because I’d loved his novels and his newspaper column so much.