the man, for God’s sake, and what she did know was unsavory, to say the least. A nightclub owner, a ladies’ man, a “gangster wannabe.” Hadn’t she all but accused him of having mob connections? Still, her instincts told her he was a good man at heart, and it wasn’t as if he’d be alone with her son. His own son would be there, along with the boy’s mother and stepfather. And James loved Lion Country Safari. Still, what did it say about her—about any of them—that she trusted a relative stranger more than her own flesh and blood?
“Charley? You still there?”
“Listen, Glen,” she began. “Is that offer still open?”
CHAPTER 8
S ee that?” Alex Prescott asked.
Charley gazed out the front window of Alex’s decade-old, mustard-colored Malibu convertible toward the flat, dull white structures in the distance. The bleak, armylike barracks stood in stark contrast to the rows of beautiful old pine trees that lined the approaching road. “That’s Pembroke Correctional?”
“That’s it.”
“It looks awful.”
“It looks even worse close up.”
Charley tucked the hair that was blowing into her eyes and mouth behind her ears and adjusted her sunglasses, although there was no real need. The sun had stopped shining at just before noon, roughly the same time that Glen had pulled up in his silver Mercedes. Beside him sat his son. In the backseat sat his former wife and her current husband.
“You must be Eliot,” Charley said to the round-faced, dark-haired boy clinging to his father’s leg as the two of them walked into Charley’s living room. “Happy birthday.”
“What do you say?” Glen asked his son.
“Where’s James?” Eliot shouted in reply, burying his face in his father’s black pants.
“I’m on the toilet,” James shouted back.
Charley laughed. “That’s my boy.”
“Nice house,” Glen remarked.
“And you’re all very nice for doing this. I owe you big time.”
“Yes, you do.”
Which was when James had come racing into the living room, almost crashing into Glen as he struggled to zip up the fly of his khaki shorts.
“Whoa, tiger,” Glen had exclaimed.
“I’m not a tiger.” James threw his arms into the air in exasperation. “I’m a boy, silly.”
“Yes, you certainly are.”
“Glen…. Eliot…this is my son, James,” Charley said, trying to keep him still long enough to make the necessary introductions. “Where’s the present for Eliot?”
James smacked his forehead with his open palm. “I forgot it.” “Then go get it.”
“That really isn’t necessary,” Glen protested, as James ran from the room.
“Of course it is. Isn’t it, Eliot?” Charley asked.
Eliot smiled, nodding his head emphatically.
“It’s a book,” James announced upon his return, dropping the brightly wrapped gift into Eliot’s waiting hands. “Come on, Eliot. Let’s go!”
“As you can see, he’s very shy with strangers.”
“Anything else I should know?” Glen asked as the two boys ran for the front door.
“Just don’t let him out of your sight for a minute.”
“I’ll guard him with my life.”
“You have to watch him constantly.”
“I won’t take my eyes off him.”
“Make sure he doesn’t get out of the car when he sees the lions.”
“I’ll sit on him if I have to.”
“I should be home by six.”
“See you then.”
Seconds after the extended family took off in Glen’s Mercedes, Alex had rounded the corner in his old Malibu convertible.
“You ready?” he’d called out, not bothering to get out of his car.
That had pretty much been the extent of their conversation until now. For almost the entire hour-and-a-half drive from West Palm Beach to the Pembroke Correctional Institution in Pembroke Pines, which was located south of Fort Lauderdale and due east of Hollywood, Alex had been listening, via headphones, to a tape recording of legal precedents, in preparation for a case he was working on. “I hope you don’t mind.
“Charley? You still there?”
“Listen, Glen,” she began. “Is that offer still open?”
CHAPTER 8
S ee that?” Alex Prescott asked.
Charley gazed out the front window of Alex’s decade-old, mustard-colored Malibu convertible toward the flat, dull white structures in the distance. The bleak, armylike barracks stood in stark contrast to the rows of beautiful old pine trees that lined the approaching road. “That’s Pembroke Correctional?”
“That’s it.”
“It looks awful.”
“It looks even worse close up.”
Charley tucked the hair that was blowing into her eyes and mouth behind her ears and adjusted her sunglasses, although there was no real need. The sun had stopped shining at just before noon, roughly the same time that Glen had pulled up in his silver Mercedes. Beside him sat his son. In the backseat sat his former wife and her current husband.
“You must be Eliot,” Charley said to the round-faced, dark-haired boy clinging to his father’s leg as the two of them walked into Charley’s living room. “Happy birthday.”
“What do you say?” Glen asked his son.
“Where’s James?” Eliot shouted in reply, burying his face in his father’s black pants.
“I’m on the toilet,” James shouted back.
Charley laughed. “That’s my boy.”
“Nice house,” Glen remarked.
“And you’re all very nice for doing this. I owe you big time.”
“Yes, you do.”
Which was when James had come racing into the living room, almost crashing into Glen as he struggled to zip up the fly of his khaki shorts.
“Whoa, tiger,” Glen had exclaimed.
“I’m not a tiger.” James threw his arms into the air in exasperation. “I’m a boy, silly.”
“Yes, you certainly are.”
“Glen…. Eliot…this is my son, James,” Charley said, trying to keep him still long enough to make the necessary introductions. “Where’s the present for Eliot?”
James smacked his forehead with his open palm. “I forgot it.” “Then go get it.”
“That really isn’t necessary,” Glen protested, as James ran from the room.
“Of course it is. Isn’t it, Eliot?” Charley asked.
Eliot smiled, nodding his head emphatically.
“It’s a book,” James announced upon his return, dropping the brightly wrapped gift into Eliot’s waiting hands. “Come on, Eliot. Let’s go!”
“As you can see, he’s very shy with strangers.”
“Anything else I should know?” Glen asked as the two boys ran for the front door.
“Just don’t let him out of your sight for a minute.”
“I’ll guard him with my life.”
“You have to watch him constantly.”
“I won’t take my eyes off him.”
“Make sure he doesn’t get out of the car when he sees the lions.”
“I’ll sit on him if I have to.”
“I should be home by six.”
“See you then.”
Seconds after the extended family took off in Glen’s Mercedes, Alex had rounded the corner in his old Malibu convertible.
“You ready?” he’d called out, not bothering to get out of his car.
That had pretty much been the extent of their conversation until now. For almost the entire hour-and-a-half drive from West Palm Beach to the Pembroke Correctional Institution in Pembroke Pines, which was located south of Fort Lauderdale and due east of Hollywood, Alex had been listening, via headphones, to a tape recording of legal precedents, in preparation for a case he was working on. “I hope you don’t mind.
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