A Canadian Werewolf in New York

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I sat in the back of the limo across from Gail and couldn’t help but offer her a quick smile. She smiled back. And though it was a small, almost forced grin, I could tell she was bemused with the situation of riding in the back of a limo heading through downtown Manhattan.

To be honest, I’d been on less than half a dozen limo rides in the past few years. Mack, who was normally tight when it came to extravagant expenditures, had insisted on booking one for me when appearing at the movie launch for PRINT OF THE PREDATOR, the big screen release based on my novel of the same name.

Mack had also booked a limo for me to arrive at the screening party for the two hour made for television movie pilot “The Paper Capers” which was a mashup of various plotlines in my novels “The Canary Cage Caper” and “Roost of the Ruthless Raven” complete with an underlying story that broke from my novel series in a significant way. Instead of the TV series following Maxwell Bronte, antiquarian book dealer, the network that had produced the pilot and the 6 episodes which never even aired, squashed that concept. They said a successful television series had to be about cops, lawyers or doctors. So, in the pilot and series, the writers had adapted Bronte into a semi-retired lawyer with a penchant for sleuthing who operated a private investigation firm.  Bronte’s main love interest, Gwendolyn, was no longer a high school teacher but instead the head of a cold case team of detectives.

The television movie had been a complete departure from the novels, except for the theme that most of the mysteries involved books. That was something they never even properly explained in the pilot nor the episodes that followed. Each mystery happened to be about some book or publishing related crime or cold case mystery, but the writers never explained the why behind this. They also had Bronte and Gwen’s back story that they were a divorced couple who had originally met while working a case together, but Bronte had been a defence attorney while Gwen worked for the D.A.’s office. There was also no reason given as to why they worked together, years later, on solving crimes, or how a private investigator was allowed to even be involved in the cases that Gwen’s team was working on.

It was bad television drama at its finest.

No wonder the pilot bombed and the few episodes that had been written and recorded were cancelled.

Still, the experience had been a good one for me. The initial check the network had written to me for the television rights was a six figure one, and on several occasions I had been invited to go down to the set, watch the filming and meet a few of the principle characters.

I was delightfully surprised and quite pleased to meet Vincent D’Onofrio, who played Bronte in the major motion picture and then did a special cameo in the pilot episode as the cold case squad captain (a quiet ode to the detective role D’Onofrio played for nearly a decade on Law & Order: Criminal Intent). He had always been one of the talented actors whose career I hadn’t really paid attention to until he was cast as Bronte – after that, I’d gone to check out his significant list of movie and television credits, amazed by the versatility of the roles he had played, and was quickly converted into a huge fan.

But other than the experience of meeting this great actor, while interesting to observe, and the sizeable pay check, the experience of the television production was mostly flat.

Strange to say that one of the few highlights from that time was the limo ride to and from the studio shooting.

So, no, I hadn’t been on too many limo rides. And for most of them, I had travelled in the back alone, with nobody to share it with.  So it certainly felt good to be sitting across from Gail in the back of a limousine.

It was, yet another tiny little fantasy moment for me.

After the chauffeur had arrived, it was apparent that I couldn’t simply leave Gail alone. I quickly told her about my Letterman appearance and asked if she would accompany me to the studio to offer me some moral support.

She knew I’d made the offer not for me, but for her, and accepted graciously. It didn’t hurt that I knew she was a huge fan of Letterman, and though she had lived in this city for most of her adult life, she’d not yet been to a taping of the show.

I proceeded to begin locking up the apartment to leave, at which point Gail made a note of my appearance.  “You’re not going on Letterman looking like that!” she said, fingering the wrinkles, tears and scuff marks on my formerly beige golf shirt.

Looking down at myself I realized I looked like quite the site. This shirt had certainly seen better days. Days it might soon be yearning for when relegated to a pile of rags. To my defence I had been through quite a bit in the past few hours.

“Your hair and face they’ll take care of in the makeup room, but they don’t provide costumes. You’ll need to change, my friend.”

She turned to the chauffeur. “Just give us two minutes.”

Brushing past me and into my apartment, Gail headed straight for the bedroom, made a few quick comments about the pigsty state of affairs in there, then came out with a burgundy button down t-shirt and pair of black dress pants.

“They’re not ironed and we don’t have time, but they’re in a lot better shape than what you have on now.”

I grabbed them from her and started walking to the bedroom to change

Gail grabbed my arm. “No time for modesty,” she said. “I’ve seen it already, remember? Take the clothes with you. You can change in the limo. C’mon, let’s go.”

And so we went, without many other words.

Leading to this incredible moment of smiling across at her in the limo. I wanted to reach over and take her hand, but didn’t. Not immediately. I waited a few seconds, double-guessing myself, before realizing that I was being foolish. Gail wouldn’t see it as an advance, or me wanting to rekindle our relationship. She needed a friend right now, and I was simply being stupid.

So I reached over, placed my hand on top of hers on the black leather seat.

Her smile warmed and her scent revealed she was in a calmer, more peaceful state. Sure, there was some underlying anxiety and tension, but she was mostly in a good place, particularly considering the bombshell I’d just dropped on her.

And she’d been surprised, but seemed to accept it relatively quickly. Almost as if she had suspected something was amiss. I’ve mentioned before how in tune with other people Gail was, how I might have extra heightened senses that helped me to easily read people, but that she was able to read others through some remarkable natural sense that eluded most people.

Including me.

She’d always been able to read me inside and out. Never once been wrong. Okay, sure, when I’d lied to her about the werewolf thing and she’d assumed my lies had something to do with infidelity, she’d been wrong. But she had known I’d been lying to her – she’d seen that quite easily.

So, while I’d been worried she might see me reaching for her hand as an advance, I knew there were a few things about me she must already be completely aware of.

One, I’d never stopped loving her and still yearned for her.

And two, that I was scared as hell of pushing her away again.

Because, ultimately, though she was the one who broke up with me, I had to admit it had been me pushing her away. In all those long nights after having acrobatically wild sex where we’d lay in each other’s arms and share personal intimate details about our lives, an intimacy even deeper than the physical one we’d just experienced, I held back. I kept from her one of the most important intimate details of my life – a part of who I was that had become an incredibly critical part of my life.

I mean, I owed much of my success as a writer and my ability to get along in this city despite my humble small town upbringing – never-mind the fact the heightened senses had dramatically helped me in building this phenomenal relationship with Gail in the first place – to the supernaturally heightened senses that came with being a werewolf.

And yet that most critical piece of me, that ultimate secret, was something I hadn’t been willing to share.

I had been lying to myself to think Gail wouldn’t believe me.

She, among anyone else, would have believed.

And I should have known.

But perhaps I had been afraid.

Afraid to let her in. Afraid to get even closer.

And I think now I know why.

It has to do with last night.

I woke up with a gunshot wound in my leg. I had obviously been involved in some sort of fight with another werewolf. I had obviously encountered Gail when in wolf form.

My fear of getting too close was that, ultimately, I had no control over my “other” self. I had no human conscious knowledge nor ability when I transformed into a wolf.

And, thus, I had no way of ensuring I wouldn’t harm Gail when I turned into a wolf.

Driving her away from me by lying to her had been the only way I knew I could protect her.

And the brief snippets of what happened last night that kept coming back to me in fleeting flashbacks seemed to only prove that.

As much as I loved this woman, as much as I wanted to protect her from the evils of this world, there was one thing I couldn’t ever properly protect her from.

Me.

The untamed and completely unpredictable wolf that flowed through my very blood.

“Thanks for letting me come along,” Gail said, breaking the silence and seeming to sense the dark places my mind had been going. “But time’s a wastin’ here, Andrews. You need to get changed toot suite.”

It was a small thing, but, knowing I was from Canada, she’d occasionally interject a purposely terrible combination of English and French terms into a single sentence, speaking in Fringlish, the interesting composite of both official languages of Canada that could regularly be heard in certain communities.

And hearing her say that lifted my spirits.

Funny. Here was Gail, having just learned her fiancé was not only cheating on her but was involved in some sort of white collar organized crime, cheating millions of dollars from investors, completely betraying her like so many of the men in her life who had let her down, making every effort to make me feel better, to make me feel good.

She was an incredible woman.

I was lucky to have her in my life at all.

Even as a friend.

I grinned a big goofy smile at her.

“I’m serious,” she said. “Get those damn ruined clothes off and change into these. We’ll be there in just a few blocks.”

At that point, she moved to sit on the seat across from and facing me, to give me more room to manoeuvre, holding the clothes she’d selected from my closet still on their hangers.

I pulled the golf shirt over my head and dropped it to the floor between us.

Then I lifted my buttocks off the sheet and shimmied out of my pants, leaving them on a pile on the floor.

“Messy as ever,” Gail chortled.

I checked out the bullet hole in my leg, saw how nicely it had been healing.

“What the hell is that?” Gail said. “It looks like a gunshot wound.”

I looked up at her, knitting my eyebrows together, then tilted my head towards the driver. Sure, the window between the cab (is that what you called the front part of a limo?) and the passenger area was closed. But who knew what he could hear.

“It is,” I whispered. “Don’t know how I got it. Woke up with it this morning. Long story. Will tell you later.”

I looked back down at my leg, then noticed some dark bluish black splotches on the left side of my chest. There were more on my arms.

Running a hand over the bruises on my left pectorals and chest, I shook my head. Wow, those were some pretty nasty abrasions that I hadn’t really been aware of.

I could smell Gail’s concern and worry about my injuries. But as my hand traced a path across my chest, I caught a distinct feeling of unadulterated lust coming from Gail. Bemused, I ran my fingers down my washboard abs, and looked across to her.

“Dammit, Andrews,” she said, smiling. “You can smell that off me, can’t you?”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

She shook her head. “Absolutely amazing. I have so much to learn about the extent of your abilities.
“And stop flattering yourself. I might still be in love with Howard, jerk that he is. But I’m not dead, you know. There might be a lot going on, but it’s only natural for a healthy woman to enjoy a spectacular site like that.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Even if it is you.”

We both laughed.

She was adept at defusing the underlying nature of a conversation, steering the uncomfortable nature of this intimate reveal so that she was back in control.

Even when she hadn’t realized the extent to which I could read her, back in the days before she knew about my wolf abilities, she’d been good at that.

I really missed so many things about her.

“Okay, enough already.” She tossed the clothes across the seat at me. “Get your damn clothes on before I leap across and jump your bones.”

By the time I had my clothes on, Bruce, our driver, used the intercom to let me know that Mack Halpin was on line one. When I first got into the limo I’d given him a quick call to ensure it was possible for me to bring a guest. If anyone could squeeze another person into an already booked theatre, it was Mack.

I lifted the receiver, pressing the button for line one. “Hi Mack.”

“She’s in,” Mack said. “When the limo drops you off, they’ll escort you both through the admin area. Then they’ll take you to the pre-studio area for makeup and whatnot and lead her to a special backstage area where she can watch the show from the side of the stage.”

“Thanks, Mack. I really appreciate this.”

“It’s the least I can do for my best client.” He said. “Now, why haven’t you told me that Gail is back in your life? She’s quite the hot little thing. I’m glad you finally came to your senses and figured out how to win her back.”

“Oh, I haven’t done that, Mack.”

“Well what the hell are you waiting for, bub? You’re not a spring chicken any more. And a man can’t live on bread alone if you know what I mean. Get your act together, Andrews. You need me to talk to her or something? Christ on a crutch, man. Do I have to negotiate everything for you?”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah. Right. Okay, break a leg tonight.”

He hung up.

“So?” Gail said. “What did he say? Do I get to meet Letterman?”

I smiled at her. “You just might.”

Bruce piped up over the intercom again. “Mr. Andrews.”

“Yes, Bruce. And please call me Michael.”

“Knell’s latest single is currently playing on the radio. As I understand it, he’ll also be a guest on tonight’s program. Would you like me to turn it on in the back?”

“Sure, Bruce. Thanks.”

“Oh my God,” Gail said, in a half-shriek, sounding like a teenage fan girl. It was a voice I’d never heard from her before. “I forgot that Knell was going to be on tonight’s show. Ohmygod, Michael. You get to meet Knell. He’s amazing.”

“I’ve never really paid much attention to him,” I said, and then settled back to listen to his latest hit. It was, as expected a raunchy sort of song, with heavy metal undertones and accompanying lightning-fast rap-style lyric delivery. I tried to like it as the song moved into what was obviously the chorus.

Motoring through this half-baked life
Got a slut by my side, ten times hotter than my wife
Got a Porsche in my drive, got some smack, got some blow
Got a date with destiny, so on with the show
On with the show
I’m solid don’t you know
On with the show
On with the show

Gail was bopping along to the tune across from me, reminding me that it was good to recognize that, despite how much I loved her, I didn’t always sync up with her taste in music.

The guy’s lyrics were meaningless and pejorative. The underlying music, though not exactly to my taste, was pretty solid and catchy. His band was obviously talented, the guitarist right up there with Eddie Van Halen, Angus Young and Eric Clapton when it came to unique and styling riffs. It didn’t really matter what lyrics accompanied the music, because that’s what carried the songs and made them popular.

I imagined you could rhyme off an alphabetical list of venereal diseases to this great background music and still make a hit. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, one of Knell’s first hits did have a song that seemed to be a tribute to sexually transmitted diseases. It wasn’t exactly called “To All the STD’s I’ve Had Before,” but certainly stuck in your head the way that old Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias song does.

When the song finished, Gail grinned a big goofy smile and cooed in that teen fan voice. “Ooooh, Michael. You get to meet him. I might even see him backstage, too.”

“Yeah,” was all I could say, because I was pulled out of the moment by the news brief that began after the song ended.

“. . . police are still not releasing further information about the homeless man who was slaughtered in the South Street Seaport area and the apparent pack of wolves assumed responsible. Despite an early morning comment from an officer claiming to have shot one of the wolves, no further statement has been made from the department. The coroner’s office is not releasing any information despite repeated requests.

“More witnesses are coming forward, confirming that there were at least two wolves. One witness, who refused to be named, stated an officer did indeed shoot one of the wolves, but that both animals still fled the scene.

“Other witnesses are claiming to have seen a wolf uptown in Central Park last night, not far from where the body of a strangled man was found, the apparent victim of a carjacking, whose vehicle was found near the East River Park, and there have been at least three more sightings of wolves racing through the streets in the Midtown and East Village areas of the city.

“Spokespersons from Central Park, Queens Zoo and Bronx Zoo have confirmed that all of their animals are accounted for, particularly the African Wild Dogs located in the Bronx location.

“Community activist groups are coming forth stating that if there are indeed wolves wandering the city, they need to be protected and not hunted.”

The news report then moved on to world news.

But all I could do was focus on the healing gunshot wound in my leg, which seemed to have started throbbing uncontrollably upon hearing the news report.