Jazzed

Chapter Five-1

Chapter Five

Spencer landed at LaGuardia shortly after one o’clock in the afternoon. He looked out the window of the aircraft as it taxied toward the gate and saw the droplets of rain starting to form on the glass, running in rivulets and distorting his view of the wet pavement below. A long bank of dark clouds was moving in from the ocean, sullen and low, and holding the promise of more rain. Spencer sighed. Traffic would be snarled and he had a lot to do:

First was a stop at the regional field office. He would bring the supervisor up to speed on his movements, sign out a Sig from the weapon’s locker and pick up his government issue, plain-jane, sedan.

The lady from the NYPD personnel department had been less than thrilled at the prospect of a visit from the CIA and Spencer didn’t look forward to meeting her, either. The NYPD, like police departments everywhere, guarded its turf tenaciously against government intervention into their local affairs. The woman he had spoken with had been terse; informing Spenser in a brittle, uncompromising tone, that quitting time was four o’clock and he had better have his business wrapped up by then or he would be talking to an empty chair.

And finally, he had to locate Tzivia Azaria, Taz. He had to convince the woman to put her life on hold for the foreseeable future; to make concessions to her adopted country, a country for which she held no commitment nor feelings of warmth, and persuade her to board a plane for the flight back to Washington; that very evening, no less, so she could attend a meeting with the Director first thing in the morning.

Spencer thought about his afternoon with little enthusiasm. The rain started coming down in earnest.

True to form, the GPS navigation device in his government car didn’t work. He glumly thought they should put the IRS in charge of the country; nothing got past those bloodsuckers, not even his nickel and dime tax return. He stopped opposite a bookstore, got out from behind the wheel and dodged the puddles. Inside, he bought a street map from the lady at the cash.

He unfolded the map on the passenger seat. The address on Tzivia Azaria’s personnel file had been nondescript: She had provided a number and a street name. Spencer checked the map index. Apparently she lived on the Lower East Side. It was an ethnic area, which made sense and Spencer was of the mind she may have bought herself a tidy bungalow in a family neighborhood, but as he followed along on his map, he began to have doubts as to whether or not Taz had provided a valid home address. As the bustling ethnic neighborhoods lost their color and degenerated into slum housing and tenement apartment buildings, his misgivings grew.

He forged on thinking things may improve. That maybe there was an alcove of grass and flowers; a pleasant avenue with picket fences.

Spence finally found her street and turned the corner. He came to an abrupt halt and reached inside his jacket for his nine millimeter Sig Sauer. He was entering a war zone and his government car stood out like a wart on Miss America’s nose. His forward progress was blocked by a gang of eight punks and a basketball.

They had painted lines on the pavement and hoops on stands were positioned at opposite sides of the roadway, blocking the sidewalks. When they saw his car roll to a stop, they paused mid-game to shoot belligerent looks and made no move to let him pass. He checked the lock on his door and the safety on his gun. After a few moments of grandstanding to prove they couldn’t be intimidated, the boy with the ball let it bounce a couple of times. Ka-thunk... Ka-thunk! The attention of the players shifted back to the flow of the game.

It was still raining and the sun had slipped behind the buildings. Streetlights shone dimly. But no one called the game: no dinner, no homework, no future. Keep the ball in motion.

Spence let out a breath and waited for the play to move to the far end of the make-shift court. When he saw an opportunity, he took his foot off the brake and the car rolled forward. He drove slowly masking his fear and the players thankfully ignored the intrusion.

The street would have rivaled the City’s dump for its ability to attract vermin. Curbside, the abandoned, rusted-out automobiles resembled slain dinosaurs. And wet garbage moved restlessly with the wind. He strained to see street numbers but in a neighborhood where people avoided personal intrusion, house numbers were not such a big priority. He drove right by the tenement apartment building and had continued on for another block before he realized his mistake. He got the car turned around and headed back.

It was a turn of the century, brick four-story walk-up. Spencer studied it from the safety of his car. In any other city the blight would have been condemned and bulldozed years ago. The top floor had suffered fire damage. The stains from greasy smoke marred the brickwork and several of the windows stared down on him, black and empty. Others had been boarded over.

There was no grass, just a strip of tarmac between the sidewalk and the basement blocks. Someone, in an attempt at neighborhood beautification, had painted the asphalt green but years of dirt and weather had turned the pigment to a muddy gray. And the ground was littered with newspapers, plastic coffee cups, and bottles that had once held two-dollar muscatel.

Spence took a breath, slipped out, and mounted the cracked concrete step. The front door hung ajar. The upper hinge had slowly given way to age and overuse and a semi-circular scar was etched deeply into the linoleum flooring where the bottom corner of the door had dragged for many years before finally giving in. Binding up, it was neither closed nor open. Spence slipped through the gap and was almost brought to his knees by the smell of rotting garbage.

Shit! Who could live in this rat hole? And why? Especially a woman?

Spencer once again thought he had probably been snowed. But he was wrong. The building manager, a rake of a man who hadn’t shaved and studied Spencer’s ID through coke bottle lenses, confirmed it: “The lady cop? Yeah. She lives downstairs, in the basement.” The guy pointed to the stairwell at the end of the hall.

The light wasn’t so good and Spencer carefully made his way down. He avoided touching the railing. What could be more depressing, he thought, carefully feeling each step with his toe, than living in a dingy basement apartment in this pig sty.

But he was wrong, once again. There was no basement apartment.

He stepped off the last tread and looked around. He stood in a large gloomy room with moldering cardboard boxes stacked against the walls. The ceiling was low and he had to stoop, avoiding beams and cobwebs. He could make out the shape of a workbench further along that had been cobbled together from wooden packing crates. There was a heap of rusty plumbing fittings, old paint cans, coils of electrical wire, a partial case of light bulbs and a discarded baby’s highchair; one leg missing.

Spencer must have gotten it wrong. He was about to turn back and inquire once again when he saw a dim glimmer coming from a far corner. He ventured forward, wishing for a flashlight. He dodged around a monstrous old furnace, an octopus with pipes running in all directions. He took a step closer to the light and saw it. He had to clutch himself to stop from pissing his pants. There was a body hanging from a beam in the ceiling. And he could hear the blood, steadily dripping; saw it pooling on the concrete floor.

But Spencer didn’t have time to consider his gruesome discovery. He heard the soft movement from behind and felt the iron grip on his left elbow and before he could whirl about, another arm wrapped about his shoulder from the opposite side and he felt the sharp bite of the blade next to his windpipe.

“Who are you?”

It was a woman’s voice, right by his left ear. A tall women, then. There was no panic in her voice; she almost sounded sultry. He struggled and her thumb pressed a nerve above his elbow and he seethed as a sheath of pain rose up his arm, all the way into his neck and paralyzing his left side.

“Who are you?” She repeated the question, softly, as if coaxing the answer. She was in control. And she wiggled the tip of the knife blade in the flesh of his neck to prove the point. The blood trickled and ruined his shirt collar. She had him gaffed like a fish and if he pulled away, he realized he would slit his own throat. He eased back against her.

“Taz,” he croaked. “I know you, from before.”

“From before... ”

The pressure eased on his arm. “Yes. You wouldn’t remember me, but I was your handler. I brought you out. Delivered you here, four years ago. My ID is in my inside jacket pocket.”

“Next to your gun, I should think.”

“Yes, but... ”

“Get it,” she said without concern. With the blade already firmly in his neck, she had him. To struggle would be an act of suicide. Spence slowly lifted his right hand and fished the leather ID case from inside his jacket. He fingered it open and held it out toward the light.

Taz studied his photograph and carefully read the card. “Spencer,” she confirmed the name and eased her grip on him. “Your name came up, more than once. That much I remember. But we never met. I was told though; told you were pulling my strings.”

“Yes. I was assigned to your case. I know you’re not pleased but I was responsible for bringing you here.”

There was a sharp burn as she lifted the blade from his throat and he scrambled for his hankie to stem the flow of blood.

“What brings you here to New York; now, after all this time? Surly not a progress report.” He heard a light switch and she stepped around to face him. His eyes widened and the breath caught in his throat. Taz stood close to his chest, pale and naked in the weak illumination cast from the overhead bulb.

He didn’t know where to look and suddenly remembered the body he had seen, swaying from the rafters. He looked past her bare shoulder. His eyes steadied and became accustom to the light. He felt like an i***t. He was looking at some sort of full-body leotard, a gym-suit; made from stretchy spandex; and it was soaking wet. It hung from a hanger next to the furnace, steadily dripping water onto the concrete floor. A pair of high-heeled boots lay to one side. They would have been fashionable thirty years ago, but now looked like sodden relics from a thrift shop.

Spencer took a breath. “You get caught in the rain?” He tried to make light of his less than auspicious entrance into her life. He dabbed at the blood and watched her turn; watched the muscles working in her tight behind as she moved toward a kitchen sideboard. She made no effort to cover her nudity.

“Jesus,” he breathed when he saw her drop the hooked knife. His blood was on the blade. The sight distracted him from her easy sidestep into a kitchen chair. She sat and folded her arms below her breasts.

He made an attempt at casual conversation: “In this country we call it a billhook knife.” He took a step closer to study the weapon; professional curiosity, and someplace safe to direct his eyes.

Spence had seen a blade like it once before but wasn’t familiar with its use, ‘till now. He picked it up and studied the curve against the light. It reminded him of a carpet knife, but the blade was longer and horned razor sharp on both the inside as well as the outside edge. He could see it would be an effective weapon, both for ripping and for slashing.

“It’s based on a Kukri knife, developed by the Gurka soldiers of Nepal. The Israelis adapted it for their own use.”

Spencer bobbled it in his hand. It was a well balanced tool.

Taz studied his eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He looked for another chair. There wasn’t one. “You live here?” he asked.

He wasn’t avoiding her question, he was just totally amazed by the woman and her living conditions. There was a mattress on the floor along the side wall and her holstered Jericho 941 hung from a nail within easy reach. A broom handle, supported on wires, swung from the ceiling and held NYPD uniform shirts and trousers draped across wire coat-hangers. Two pairs of police issue leather boots, highly polished, were propped side by side on the floor beneath.

The kitchen sideboard held a camp stove, some utensils and a cast iron fry pan. There was an old bar fridge stacked high with canned goods. There wasn’t a TV, no stereo, not even a radio. Her only concession to electronics was an old travel alarm clock by her mattress and Spencer could see that the hands had stopped.

There didn’t seem to be a bathroom. There were only double laundry tubs alongside the furnace and Spenser wondered glumly, which one she used for washing up the dishes.

Taz sat on the only chair, a kitchen chair, relaxed, arms still folded. Her knees were parted slightly and he could see the pout of lips, like two dark prunes, laying side by side. They protruded from a mass of thick curls. He stared a long moment but she didn’t seem to notice. Or to care.

“So... ?”

His mind snapped back. “I need your help.”

Her eyebrows came up and she pondered his face for a moment; perhaps looking for subversion. “My help.”

Spence had rehearsed this part, over and over, but now faced with this freaky naked woman, his fancy lines and comebacks failed him. “Look, I’m not going to try and sweet talk you; or waste time on mindless games. I need you to come along with me; fly back to Washington and attend a meeting. Everything’s been set up. Just say yes and throw on some clothes.”

If she was startled, she didn’t show any sign of it. “Now... ” she said smoothly and uncrossed her arms.

“Yes. Right now,” Spencer said, trying his best to keep his eyes focused on her face. To glance down at her breasts would surely undermine the stalwart impression he was desperately trying to project.

“You’re very presumptuous, Mr. Spencer,” she said, lifting herself from the chair. He watched as she moved past and opened the door of the stubby fridge. It was a play for time maybe, allowing herself a few moments to think. She dropped down and reached in to search along the bottom rack. With her eyes focused on the shelf, Spencer felt safe; was free to boldly stare.

The light from inside the fridge illuminated her body. When she squatted, her knees bent and splayed, Spencer watched her buttocks separate. There was the hint of the dark anus, and below, the halves of her s*x opened and hung like a ripe seedpod. She took her time, rummaging through her meager stock of food items before coming up with bottled water. She unscrewed the cap and tilting her head, drank lustily.

The whole time, Spenser’s eyes never left the hollow between her thighs. His p***s abruptly squirmed and his ass clenched. The shudder clawed all the way up to his neck. The mattress was right there; and she wasn’t one of his wife’s damned dance students. What were his chances?

She put the bottle back, closed the door and stood to face him. She was long and smooth and supple. He made no concessions now. He stared shamelessly at the pert mounds, the unruly rug between her legs.

“I have a job, you realize. The afternoon shift, tomorrow.”

Spence took a gulp of air, girded himself. “You’ve been suspended, Taz. Without pay. Indefinitely.”

The air between them seemed to stagnate; hang empty. He could hear her breathing. Steady. In and out.

“I see,” she finally said. “And your CIA? How much do they pay?”

“More than the NYPD. But it’s a temporary assignment.”

She didn’t think it over. There was no point. Taz moved toward a chest of drawers. “I had better get dressed, then.” And he watched as she pulled a scrape of white lace about her small hard breasts.