Twice divorced at twenty-five, she could
chew up husbands faster than any other Bronx-Manhattan girl who had bombed out
of Sarah Lawrence. Isaac had always been there to find husbands for her,
genteel men with forty-thousand dollar jobs and a flush of college degrees. Her
father sat at Headquarters behind the paneled walls of the First Deputy Police
Commissioner. He’s been invited to Paris,
she heard, as the World’s Greatest Cop (of 1970-71), or something close to
that. And Coen was Isaac’s fool, a spy
attached to the First Dep.
Coen spied an alcove about twenty feet
behind Marilyn. It was the entrance to an abandoned toilet. He picked up skirt,
blouse and suitcase. Marilyn carried her shoes. The alcove was narrow, and they
had nowhere to lie down. Marilyn leaned into a dirty wall. Coen’s pants dropped
to his knees. Their bellies met under the coats. “Blue Eyes,” she said. Soon
her mumbling was indistinct.
Marilyn the Wild, Jerome Charyn 1993