of course, and Jeannie would contact her old PR man to stir up the other media. A week from now, her name would once again be all over the newspapers and the TV news.
A few minutes later, she was striding out the door again, a little silk plaid scarf tied over her hair, dark glasses in place. Her heels clicked more purposefully than ever on the marble floor, and her car keys jingled in her hand.
It was a beautiful God-given day, and her children had better be angels, up there in the country.
Bill Laird was telephoning, too. He was behind the massive captain's desk in his office on Canal Street. His face was set as he dialed the familiar numbers. As he waited for the call to click through, he was so tense that he didn't even doodle on his memo pad.
"Rolls-Royce, good morning," said a female switchboard operator voice.
"Marion Rhodes, please," he said.
Another click, then the so-familiar English voice.
"Rhodes here," said Marion.
"Hi, it's me," said Bill. "Are you free for lunch today?"
"Afraid not." A slight pause. "Is it important?"
Yes."
"I can cancel then." Another slight pause. "You sound rather upset."
"I am. It's Jean."
"Oh dear. Not drinking again, I hope?"
"No, nothing like that. I'll tell you at lunch."
"AH right. The usual?"
"Twelve-thirty, at the Sumptuary," said Bill.
Mary Ellen and Liv were walking along Christopher
Street, arm linked warmly through arm. Since they were in the West Side gay ghetto, no one even so much as glanced at them—people just brushed by.
Walking arm in arm was a reckless thing to do.
The two women had just browsed through the streetside vegetable market, Gable's, and had lingered lovingly over the display of melons, artichokes, even sun-ripened tomatoes. Liv was wearing faded jeans, huaraches and a plaid Indian cotton shirt, and carrying a brown paper bag with two pints of strawberries in it. Mary Ellen was wearing brown slacks. Inside the pant leg, strapped to her ankle in its small neat holster, was the short-barreled .32 automatic that she was required to carry off duty, in case some emergency might require her to act as a police officer. But, devoted as Mary Ellen was to her job, she liked to draw a fine clean line between her on-duty self and her off-duty self. Here in the West Village, far from the boundaries of her East Side precinct, she could be herself.
Mary Ellen had always worried a lot about running into police officers from her precinct while she had her arm around Liv. Only three of her colleagues knew she was a lesbian. One of them was her partner, PO Danny Blackburn, who was gay himself. She knew about PO Blackburn because she had run into him at a Metropolitan Community Church coffee hour. Their first reaction to each other was deep suspicion—each thought the other could be a "shoofly," or police internal-security agent. Then after a little spirited kidding around during which they threatened to bust each other on moral charges, there was a tacit agreement to keep each other's secret. Danny became her partner on patrol. With time, Mary Ellen grew to feel a deep bond with Danny. He was like a kid brother and she had never had a brother. He was among the very few men that she and Liv knew well and trusted, and invited to their home for socializing.
Now Mary Ellen and Liv strolled west on Christopher Street, looking into the windows of shops, admiring a book cover here, a leather vest there.
Then, in front of a small antique shop, Liv stopped and gave a little cry of delight. Sitting amid dusty Wedgwood plates and small junky andirons was a small primitive oil painting of a cat, unframed. The cat was a dignified solemn tabby, with round yellow eyes like an owl's, sitting up very straight. Liv liked to collect antique cat things, though her $183 a week made it hard to afford anything made before 1930.
"You like that, huh?" said Mary Ellen.
"I loooove it," said Liv. She had a way of saying loooove that always tore at Mary Ellen's heart. "It is Kikan,
A few minutes later, she was striding out the door again, a little silk plaid scarf tied over her hair, dark glasses in place. Her heels clicked more purposefully than ever on the marble floor, and her car keys jingled in her hand.
It was a beautiful God-given day, and her children had better be angels, up there in the country.
Bill Laird was telephoning, too. He was behind the massive captain's desk in his office on Canal Street. His face was set as he dialed the familiar numbers. As he waited for the call to click through, he was so tense that he didn't even doodle on his memo pad.
"Rolls-Royce, good morning," said a female switchboard operator voice.
"Marion Rhodes, please," he said.
Another click, then the so-familiar English voice.
"Rhodes here," said Marion.
"Hi, it's me," said Bill. "Are you free for lunch today?"
"Afraid not." A slight pause. "Is it important?"
Yes."
"I can cancel then." Another slight pause. "You sound rather upset."
"I am. It's Jean."
"Oh dear. Not drinking again, I hope?"
"No, nothing like that. I'll tell you at lunch."
"AH right. The usual?"
"Twelve-thirty, at the Sumptuary," said Bill.
Mary Ellen and Liv were walking along Christopher
Street, arm linked warmly through arm. Since they were in the West Side gay ghetto, no one even so much as glanced at them—people just brushed by.
Walking arm in arm was a reckless thing to do.
The two women had just browsed through the streetside vegetable market, Gable's, and had lingered lovingly over the display of melons, artichokes, even sun-ripened tomatoes. Liv was wearing faded jeans, huaraches and a plaid Indian cotton shirt, and carrying a brown paper bag with two pints of strawberries in it. Mary Ellen was wearing brown slacks. Inside the pant leg, strapped to her ankle in its small neat holster, was the short-barreled .32 automatic that she was required to carry off duty, in case some emergency might require her to act as a police officer. But, devoted as Mary Ellen was to her job, she liked to draw a fine clean line between her on-duty self and her off-duty self. Here in the West Village, far from the boundaries of her East Side precinct, she could be herself.
Mary Ellen had always worried a lot about running into police officers from her precinct while she had her arm around Liv. Only three of her colleagues knew she was a lesbian. One of them was her partner, PO Danny Blackburn, who was gay himself. She knew about PO Blackburn because she had run into him at a Metropolitan Community Church coffee hour. Their first reaction to each other was deep suspicion—each thought the other could be a "shoofly," or police internal-security agent. Then after a little spirited kidding around during which they threatened to bust each other on moral charges, there was a tacit agreement to keep each other's secret. Danny became her partner on patrol. With time, Mary Ellen grew to feel a deep bond with Danny. He was like a kid brother and she had never had a brother. He was among the very few men that she and Liv knew well and trusted, and invited to their home for socializing.
Now Mary Ellen and Liv strolled west on Christopher Street, looking into the windows of shops, admiring a book cover here, a leather vest there.
Then, in front of a small antique shop, Liv stopped and gave a little cry of delight. Sitting amid dusty Wedgwood plates and small junky andirons was a small primitive oil painting of a cat, unframed. The cat was a dignified solemn tabby, with round yellow eyes like an owl's, sitting up very straight. Liv liked to collect antique cat things, though her $183 a week made it hard to afford anything made before 1930.
"You like that, huh?" said Mary Ellen.
"I loooove it," said Liv. She had a way of saying loooove that always tore at Mary Ellen's heart. "It is Kikan,
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