The Interrogator

Chapter One

Professionally attired. Hair short and well styled... and dark which I have always found attractive. Striking blue eyes. Firm demeanor.

Just watching her order coffee and listening to her very exacting instructions gives her away.

“Black... one packet of sugar... lid tight... extra napkin.”

It is indeed she, I quickly conclude. The firm, no nonsense voice. I cannot forget her.

The Hispanic clerk dutifully prepares the hot brew, presses the lid tightly and stuffs the small brown bag. She pays, accepts the change and turns.

Our eyes briefly meet. She smiles that smile... one of confidence to those who have never crossed her path... one tinged with evil to those who have.

She pauses, broadens her grin, seeming to laugh to herself, then strolls to the door of the bodega.

Does she recognize me?

Her manner gives little hint, yet now I know it is she. It’s that walk. How much time was consumed watching her so nonchalantly sashay about the confines of my prison cell.

I quickly toss a dollar bill onto the counter and follow. On to the sidewalks of New York, as the morning rush winds down. I first look left then right to catch a glimpse of her heavy winter coat, the tails flailing in the wind as she turns a corner. Even with the covering she looks good and passing heads turn to ogle her feminine but authoritative gait.

And I, of course, continue. I cannot stop now, though I find myself quavering.

Is it the cold of late autumn?... or the psychological duress of seeing a woman whose image so often visits on sleepless nights?

The woman walks with purpose and I must half jog to gain proximity. Why, I do not know. I do not even know what to say to her. I was not good at engaging girls in casual conversation when I was young and, at age 35, I am no better with grown women.

One block... two. She turns into a narrow street, some would deem an alleyway, the likes of which give the Greenwich Village area its charm. I run to the corner to ensure that I can spy whichever doorway she enters.

At the corner, I quickly turn. I almost knock her down. There she stands... radiant... poised... her upright, shoulders-back posture so commanding. She is awaiting me.

I lurch to a halt. An apology forms but does not pass my lips. The woman chuckles softly... knowingly.

“Most women would be calling 911 right now, Bobby. Something you wanted to say to me?”

The mocking intonation of my name... the sarcasm. My mind reels and I am not only flabbergasted but realize she is correct. One should not stalk women in New York City with any sense of impunity.

I catch my breath but before formulating a reply, she speaks. And I am trained to listen when she speaks.

“Oh, yes. I recognized you in the coffee shop. I remember you of course, but was polite enough to be respective of your anonymity. But when you so brazenly follow me, all respect for your little secret must be cast aside.”

I feel belittled by her stern lecture. She seems to enjoy my forlorn look and laughs abruptly after giving equally derisive intonation to the words ‘little secret’.

“Why?” I finally blurt, both disconcerted and surprised by the squeakiness of my voice.

She laughs more.

“You don’t need to know that. I am not sure I want you to know that. And the agreement you signed with the Bangkok police should have been very specific in addressing the issue.”

She turns. She is just going to leave me standing... to once again heartlessly walk out of my life. The way she so haughtily departs makes me shake more. And I find it difficult to speak. It is as if I am back in my cell.

“I can contact a lawyer,” I finally utter, again disappointed with the lack of masculine menace in my disguised threat.

She stops and turns.

“I have a complete copy of your file, Bobby.”

She speaks with the ominousness which I failed to marshal, still sneering my name.

“Oh, yes. The Bangkok letter of release did not cover my records, Bobby. It can all come out in court... if you push too hard. Yes, just think, your entire psychological profile available to all.

“Many court records can be accessed on the internet, you know...”

The threat is so calmly enunciated. So cool. So authoritative, so much in control.

“You should recall that there were photos taken...”

My apoplexy becomes more apparent. She steps back toward me and pauses, knowing that I will have difficulty mustering an appropriate reply. She enjoys my mental struggle.

I stammer. Words are not forthcoming. She continues.

“You decide what you want to do. But before taking any drastic action, give me a call. We’ll chat... just like old times.”

Again the sarcasm. ‘Old times’ were in a large Bangkok jail cell. Hot, musty, humid. But for me the size was superfluous. I was continually kept in what is referred to in the incarceration field as ‘four point restraint’. The spacious surroundings were for the comfort of my jailers.

A hand gloved in fine black doeskin produces a business card. I take it, looking straight into her beautiful blue eyes. With any other woman I would feel desire... perhaps a degree of lust. With her I feel trepidation.

“I broke no laws, Bobby. Think back. I did not even touch you... other than to perhaps help you wipe your nose. Though you certainly begged for more than that. Remember... you weren’t permitted to use your hands... for anything.”

She teasingly glances to my crotch with a ribald look. There are women who believe that left unsupervised the hand of every male has only one goal. She is one.

“But perhaps you’d like to hire lawyers to engage me civilly. Keep in mind I believe a competent attorney will advise you that the first step, after complete discovery and thorough disclosure of your little peccadilloes, will be to decide whether New York or Thailand is the proper venue to adjudicate your complaint. I’ll argue for Thailand... and win.

“You’d like to return to Thailand, wouldn’t you Bobby? There are some prison guards that I am sure would enjoy your visit.”

She now outright chortles and I am dumbfounded. I shake more and stare at the card, silently trying to disguise my cowering physical reaction. Then I look up to realize that she is gone and I failed to observe into which building she entered.

But alas, I have her card.

Chapter Two

“OK, Bob, may I call you Bob? So your rights were trampled upon and a bunch of women had some fun... in a foreign country... where the laws are not only sketchy but change with every election... and where you can’t quite remember all the names of the parties involved... if you were given their true names to remember.

“Think we have a bit of a problem?”

‘Shaun the Shark’s’ words echo. Having twice offered that I prefer to be called ‘Robert’, he pontificates as if speaking to a group of news reporters on the courthouse steps. A highly aggressive attorney, to the point of being borderline unethical, he listened to my Thailand escapade and expressed less than little interest in representing me.