She imagined the police as a single malevolent intelligence with a single implacable resolve: to bring her down. To accomplish that, they would lie and deceive, work in underhanded and probably illegal ways, use all the powers at their command, including physical force and violence.
It seemed to her the police were fit representatives of a world that had cheated her, debased her, demolished her dreams and refused to concede her worth as a woman or her value as a human being.
The police and the world wanted nothing but her total extinction so that things might go along as if she had never been.
The evening of June 4th…
Zoe Kohler, alert, erect, strides into the crowded lobby of the Hotel Adler on Seventh Avenue and 50th Street. She pauses to scan the display board near the entrance. Under Current Events, it lists a convention of orthopedic surgeons, a banquet for a labor leader, and a three-day gathering of ballroom dancing teachers.
The hotel directory she had consulted listed the Adler's two restaurants, a "pub-type tavern," and a cocktail lounge. But Zoe is accosted before she can decide on her next move.
"See anything you like?" someone asks. A male voice, assured, amused.
She turns to look at him coolly. A tall man. Slender. A saturnine smile. Heavy, drooping eyelids. Olive skin. Black, gleaming hair slicked back from a widow's peak. The long fingers holding his cigarette look as if they have been squeezed from tubes.
"I don't believe we've met," she says frostily.
"We have now," he says. "You could save my life if you wanted to."
She cannot resist…
"How could I do that?"
"Have a drink with me. Keep me from going back into that meeting."
"What are you?" she challenges. "An orthopedic surgeon, a labor leader, or a ballroom dancing teacher?"
"A little of all three," he says, the smile never flickering. "But mostly I'm a magician."
He takes a silver dollar from his pocket, makes it flip-flop across his knuckles. It disappears into his palm. It reappears, begins the knuckle dance again. Zoe Kohler watches, fascinated.
"Now you see it," he says, "now you don't. The hand is quicker than the eye."
"Is that the only trick you know?" she asks archly.
"I know tricks you wouldn't believe. How about that drink?"
She doesn't think he is a police decoy. Too elegantly dressed. And a cop would not make the first approach-or would he?
"Where are you from?" she asks.
"Here, there, and everywhere," he says. "I've got a name you could never pronounce, but you can call me Nick. What's yours?"
"Irene," she says. "I'll have one drink with you. Only one."
"Of course," he says, plucking the silver dollar from her left ear. "Let's go, Irene."
But the cocktail lounge and the tavern are jammed. People wait on line. Nick takes her elbow in a tight grip.
"We'll go upstairs," he says, "to my room."
"One drink," she repeats.
He doesn't answer. His confidence daunts her. He pulls her along. But she cannot stop, cause a scene. No identity in her purse. But a knife with a sharpened blade.
His room looks as if he had moved in five minutes ago.
Nothing to mark his presence but an unopened suitcase on a luggage rack.
He locks and chains the door behind them. He takes her coat and bag, throws them onto a chair.
"You want to see more tricks?" he says. "How about this?"
He unzips his fly, digs, pulls out his penis. It is long, dark, slender. Uncircumcised. He strokes it.
"Nice?" he says, his sardonic smile unwavering. "You like this trick?"
"I'm going," she says, reaching for her coat and bag.
He moves quickly between her and the door.
"What are you going to do?" he says. "Scream? Go ahead- scream."
She fumbles in her bag. He is there, and plucks it from her hands. She cannot believe anyone can move that swiftly. He is a blur.
He takes out her wallet, flips through it.
"No ID," he says. "That's smart."
He picks out the closed knife, dangles it by the steel loop.
"What's this for?" he asks. "Cleaning your toenails?"
He laughs, drops the knife back into the bag. He tosses it aside.
"You know the old saying," he says roguishly. "When rape is inevitable, relax and enjoy it."
"Why me?" she cries desperately.
He shrugs. "Just to pass the time. Something to do. You want to get undressed like a lady or do you want your pretty dress ripped?"
"Please," she says, "what about a drink? You promised me a drink."
"I lied," he says, grinning. "I'm always doing that."
He begins undressing. He stays between her and the door. He takes off his jacket, unknots his tie, unbuttons his shirt. He drops all his clothes onto the floor.
"Come on," he says. "Come on."
She takes off her clothes slowly, fingers trembling. She looks about for a weapon. A heavy ashtray. A table lamp. Anything.
"No way," he says softly, watching her. "No way."
She takes off shoes, dress, pantyhose. She drapes them over the back of a chair. When she looks up, he is naked. His penis is beginning to stiffen. He touches it delicately.
"Try it," he says. "You'll like it."
He takes one quick stride to her. He clamps his hands on her shoulders. His strength frightens her. She cannot fight that power.
He pulls the strapless bra to her waist. He pinches her nipples. He strips her panties down, lifts her away from them.
"Bony," he says, "but okay. The nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat."
He presses her down. His hands on her shoulders are a weight she cannot resist. Her knees buckle. She flops onto the rug.
"I don't want to mess the bed," he says. "The floor is best. Harder. More resistance. Know what I mean?"
It is a whirl, beyond her control. Things flicker. She is swept away, protests stifled. Her puny blows on his head, arms, chest, mean nothing. He laughs throatily.
She squirms, moving by inches toward her discarded shoulder bag. But he pins her with his weight, a hard knee prying between her clamped thighs. He makes thick, huffing sounds.
She continues to writhe, and he strikes her. The open-palmed slap stings, flings her head aside. Her eyes water, ears roar. His teeth are on her throat. His body twists, pressing, pressing…
"What the hell is this?" he says, finding her tampon. He makes a noise of disgust. He yanks it out roughly, tosses it aside.
Then she does what she has to do, telling herself it is the only way she might survive.
Her body stills. Her punches stop. Untaloned, she begins to stroke his shoulders, his back. She moans.
"Yeah," he breathes. "Oh yeah…"
Her thighs ache. She thinks he will split her apart, rip her, leave steaming guts on the carpet. She feels hot tears, tastes bile.
He ramps and plunges, crying out in a language she does not recognize. His hands beneath her, gripping cruelly, pull her body up in a strained arch.
Eyes shut tightly, she sees pinwheels, whirling discs, melting blood. She wraps herself about him, feeling cold, cold. She endures the pain; within she is untouched and plotting.
His final thrusts pound her, bruise. Her moans rise in volume to match his cries. When he collapses, shuddering, sobbing, she shakes her body in a paroxysm. She flings her arms wide-and her fingertips just touch the leather of her discarded shoulder bag.
She opens her eyes to slits. He props himself up, stares down at her, panting.
"More!" she pleads. "More!"
"Wait'll I turn you over," he says, glee in his voice. "It's even better.
He pulls away from her savagely; she feels she is being torn inside out. He rolls onto his back, lies supine, chest heaving.