To print this page, select "Print" from the File menu of your browser salon.com > Health & Body Dec. 6, 1999 URL: http://www.salon.com/health/sex/urge/chan/1999/12/06/tracy41 I fought the law First Randy's tender touch, then the lawyer's lawyerly one: Things are getting complicated. - - - - - - - - - - - - By Tracy Quan Wednesday, October 13 His voice was hard to ignore -- the same voice I dealt with on the phone, this summer. As Winters -- or was it one of his underlings? -- walked away, Randy was all over me: "That creep was lurking in reception -- I tried to warn you!" He looked me up and down with insolent approval, adding softly, "Where've you been? Engaged yet?" "Please just tell me," I begged him. "Did he ask you any more questions?" "Not today." I lowered my voice. "He's a special agent with the Treasury Department. Be careful." Randy shrugged. "So? I've got nothing to hide -- and where does he get off bothering you?" "It's a long story," I said, "and I'm late for the hairdresser. But please be careful. I know he doesn't scare YOU but I don't want you to be -- to be hurt." My explanation ended on a lame note as I groped for the right words. Actually, I don't want Randy dragged in to Winters' investigation because, if he finds out ... well, I wouldn't want Randy telling his buddies that he got free sex from a call girl -- namely me! He's so young and unpredictable ... Despite my reservations, I lingered over a pseudo-chaste goodbye kiss, my lips pressed against Randy's cheek. "I'm not engaged," I whispered. "Can't you tell?" His hand closed tenderly around my upper arm. He breathed the words "I'll call you" into my ear and I sped off for my hair appointment at Renato's, my heart fluttering with a mixture of fear and excited desire. Randy's touch revived my body's short-term memory. As the taxi headed west, I couldn't ignore all those recalled sensations -- but the shock of confronting Winters hit me when we got delayed on East 77th Street. Wedged between an obstinate delivery van and a diagonal Mercedes, I thought: what a perfect metaphor for my love life. And what was that insidious remark about my boyfriend supposed to mean? Does Tom Winters really have any idea who my boyfriend is? Was he talking about Randy? Or Matt? Did Allison tell Winters all about Matt? Will I have to choose between answering questions about her or admitting my secret to Matt? And what do I owe her, at this point -- when someone rats on you, does that change the rules? I've been in such a panic over Allison's threats that I haven't allowed myself to face the obvious -- the terrible silence of losing a best friend. I was relieved when the cab started moving again. Thursday, October 14 At Jasmine's insistence, I've made an appointment with the notorious Barry Horowitz. "Remember that bad-ass nerd who tried to blow up the A Train? Barry was his attorney," she said with a definite air of self-importance. "When Tom Winters finds out you're represented by the lawyer for the A-Train Bomber, he'll think twice about bothering you in your own neighborhood." "How do you know Barry Horowitz?" I was impressed with her breezy familiarity. "Barry's known me since high school," she boasted. "He got me out of jail." A legal skeleton in Jasmine's closet! Jasmine maintains she's led a life not exactly free of crime but free of detection, even as a young drug dealer. "You got arrested?" I tried to hide my surprise. "Only once," she said darkly. "In front of Madison Square Garden for ticket scalping -- when I was 16. I lied to the cops about my age because I wanted to be tried as an adult -- but Barry talked me out of it. And helped me to finesse the whole thing with my dad. So I don't have a record. Of course, he's graduated to bigger and better criminals since then." As if I didn't know -- he's constantly in the news defending the rich and the dangerously alienated. "Great," I said. "What if I run into one of his sociopaths in the waiting room? And how much have you told him about me?" "Just go talk to him," Jasmine urged me. "I told him you were mixed up with April Ford and with Anabel Weston's Web site --" I was mortified. "I am NOT mixed up with the Web site madam. I don't even know that woman! Why did you tell him THAT?" "For someone who's such a snob," Jasmine opined, "you manage to get yourself into some rather tacky situations. It was you -- not me -- who got herself totally mixed up with April and she was working for Anabel. Stop looking at me like that. Barry doesn't think you were advertising on the Web. But why should you care what he thinks of you, anyway? You're paying him." Jasmine was shaking her head in disbelief. Friday, October 15 The receptionist at Horowitz, Kaplan -- a round-faced Asian guy with an impeccable goatee -- gave me a curious look when I showed up for my appointment wearing large black sunglasses and a pleated Hermes scarf looped around my head. Horowitz ushered me into his office and gently closed the door. Trim to the point of boyish, with salt-and-pepper eyebrows, he was smaller than I had expected, with a pointy, playful face. "The Park Avenue Babushka look is over!" he chided me. "You need to get out of your East Side girl ghetto and check out what people are wearing downtown. The purpose of camouflage is to make you blend in," he added, pulling out a chair for me. "The only place you blend in is at an Episcopalian funeral." I removed my sunglasses and peered at the period movie posters on the wall behind his desk. "I know what the purpose of camouflage is," I curtly replied. I shook my hair free from the scarf while he gazed back amiably, fingers steepled together and elbows planted on the desk. His green and red striped suspenders did not exactly blend in. "I thought I might be followed here and I didn't want to be recognized," I added. "Do you know what happened to me the other day?" I told him about the chilling encounter outside of the gym: "'It's not a crime to lie to your boyfriend but it's a crime to lie to us.' Why did he say that? How does he know I lie to my boyfriend? Could he be tapping my phone?" Barry scowled. "Unlikely. He probably doesn't even know if you have a boyfriend. Did you answer him?" "No! I was too stunned." "Good. Title 18 USC Section 1001," he recited: "'It's a crime to lie to a federal agent.' Relax, you haven't been interviewed by this guy yet. So, you haven't lied to him. And what does your boyfriend think you do for a living, if I might ask?" He leaned back in his chair. "Um -- well, at one point, I was supposed to be working for a caterer. Now I'm supposed to be a freelance copy editor. But I may have led him to believe ..." Barry was steepling his fingers again. I paused, feeling absurdly like an amateur criminal. "Well, he led himself to believe that I don't really have to work for a living. My cousin, who introduced us -- her dad's worth millions -- and my boyfriend doesn't seem to realize I'm the poor relation! Neither does my cousin, for that matter. She's very unmaterialistic." "Wouldn't it be funny," Barry mused, "if your boyfriend was really after you for your nonexistent money?" I was tempted to smack him. "Is that really relevant?" I said sharply. "Let's talk about something else, OK? My best friend is threatening to turn me in for trying to sell her client book. And she's being audited by -- did Jasmine tell you about Tom Winters? And I tried to sell her book to someone you've heard about. April Ford. And April's the common element --" in more ways than one -- "whenever Winters talks to anyone I know. It's really scaring me." "Winters is a notorious freak," he explained. "He's trying to turn all these civil audits into something sexy for the criminal division. But why were you trying to sell someone else's book? Whose idea was that?" I balked at first -- it seems weird to discuss an intimate piece of Girl Business with a guy. Then I remembered he was not just any guy. I am, as Jasmine points out, paying him to get me out of trouble. "Mine," I admitted. "She wanted me to throw it away, and I couldn't." "So you were trying to make money off your pal?" "No!" I protested. Then I told him the whole sorry tale ... how Allison decided to quit the business by joining Prostitutes Anonymous, how April met with us both to discuss buying Allison's book, how Allison obtained money from April and never delivered the book ... and now the latest: "I didn't even want a cut of the money -- but she thinks that just proves I was trying to set her up!" "And now you wish you'd thrown the fucking thing away," he said with a weary sigh. "Sounds like April was wired when you ladies were lunching. That question about the out-of-towners -- you really walked into that. Out-of-state johns -- that's the kind of thing Winters goes looking for. Federal charges! You know about April Ford's lawsuit?" "Against Anabel Weston? Sure," I said. "Right, well, who doesn't follow the National Enquirer when there's a good lesbian hooker scandal?" He smirked. I rolled my eyes. "Well, how did she get Anthea Walgreen to represent her, anyway? Walgreen's a big-name attorney." "Oh, that's Classic Anthea," Barry said dismissively. "The frivolous face of feminism. But Anthea's out of her depth because this time her client is a much bigger bimbo than she is. April's going to ruin Anthea's reputation. If I have anything to do with it," he added with an annoying smile. "You know what? I'd love to represent Anabel Weston." "Why? She told the press she was broke -- she probably can't afford you." "Because she's crazy. That Web site was incredible! Auctioning off sex acts to the highest bidder, " he chuckled. "I like representing crazy people. You, I'm not so sure about -- you might be too normal for me. And I probably can't represent Anabel if your case gets mixed up with hers." "I have nothing to do with Anabel," I insisted. "Yeah, but Winters is trying to connect the dots -- this is how he spends his days. Hmmm, maybe a joint defense agreement," he said. "If you put me in touch with Anabel, I might give you a discount. Well, if you're not too much of a pain in the neck, I might even represent you for free." "Are you serious? What's this really about?" "I want to be on Court TV! Anthea has all these great TV connections. If we go up against each other, it'll be the Walgreen-Horowitz Abuse Hour. The neo-pig vs. the bimbo feminist -- East Coast beats West Coast into a psychic pulp." He smiled happily. "I am not just in this for the money, after all." I was appalled. "Well, I don't know Anabel," I informed him crisply. "I had no idea who she was until I read about her in the Post. We run in very different circles." "That's what Jasmine told me, but a guy can always hope," he sighed. salon.com | Dec. 6, 1999