Free Biceps Of Death by David Stukas Page B

crumpled corpse of the burglar, speared perhaps by Monette’s trophy in a twist of irony—but what we saw was even more amazing. The assailant rose from the sidewalk below and sprinted off, then hobbled, followed by more sprinting, then more hobbling in a painful dance of escape.
    We both sat looking down at Monette’s trophy, lying sadly—but intact—below on the street. During its trip down with our burglar, it must have bounced off the convertible roof of a car parked at the curb and landed somewhat safely in the street.
    “Thank Goddess that you and the trophy are safe,” Monette said with obvious relief.
    Just as Monette’s uttered those words, a taxi came barreling down the street and clobbered the trophy with a speed that left us with jaws agape. The moment of triumph of the Leaping Lesbians of Park Slope was no more.
    “Well, one out of two ain’t bad,” Monette commented.

6
    The Law of Falling Bodies
    W e spent the rest of the night talking to the police, including Detective McMillan, who was very understanding for two-thirty in the morning.
    We told the police and the forensic technicians everything—so much so, that by the time the majority of them had left, the sun was coming up. I decided that I might as well go back to my apartment, shower, shave, and go to the gym. I know, I know, you would think that the last place I would be seen was in the gym, but I had worked my tail off to get my body lean and mean for my boyfriend, and no ski-masked bandit was going to stand in my way of that.
    McMillan suggested that I be driven back to my apartment by one of the policemen standing in the hallway, where I would be escorted up to my place and seen in the door safely. I didn’t have much to say to the policeman who drove me home, but I couldn’t help think that if Michael had been in my place, he would’ve been raging with lust right now. Michael had a thing for men in uniforms—especially police, military, and firemen, in that order.
    I was seen up to my door by the policeman through a crowd of reporters that had, amazingly, started to dwindle somewhat. I turned the key in the lock and was about to dismiss my protector when I realized that my apartment had been broken into again. All my tidying up had been a waste of time.
    More cops again—and Detective McMillan. More of the same. More questions, more racking my brain trying to remember “anything that might help.” More shit.
    I showered and dressed for work. When I got to my office (a windowless telephone switching/computer server room), I launched into the first order of the day: begging Michael for a place to stay until this whole thing blew over.
    I dialed Michael’s private number. (He had one number for his intimate friends, one for tricks, and one for the rest of the world.)
    “Yes?” came the sleepy answer.
    “Michael?” I asked because I wasn’t sure.
    “Robert?”
    “Michael, it’s ten o’clock! What are you still doing in bed, you whore?”
    “I was up all night ... I was staying up with a sick friend.”
    I felt guilty right away.
    “Michael, I’m sorry about the joke. Is your friend all right?”
    “Oh, he’s fine. In fact, I just sent him home.”
    “Michael, do you think that’s wise? I mean, maybe he shouldn’t be outside.”
    “Robert, what the hell are you talking about?”
    “Your sick friend.”
    “Dearest Robert, I said he was sick.”
    “Yes, well ... ?”
    “I said he’s sick . He likes to make love through a piece of uncooked liver, then fry it and eat it.”
    “Michael, why do you do this with him?”
    “Because he’s hot. But I have to put a stop to it.”
    “Because it’s unsanitary?”
    “No, I hate liver, Robert. It’s a filter organ.”
    “Michael, I have something to ask you.”
    “You want to borrow my pair of Frank Addams leather shorts?”
    “No. I need a place to stay until this is all over.”
    There was a long, pregnant silence on the other end of the line.
    “Oh, Robert, you