decade. And—it was—”
“What had been simmering for a lot of years came to a boil.”
“Well, that. And by then we had the maturity to appreciate each other. We probably would have been married a month after she returned, if her family situation hadn’t been such a mess. Ida claimed she would poison herself if Lenie didn’t drop me. Asyou can probably figure, I was getting most of the fallout from my mom’s adventuring with Ray Scarlett.”
Beatrice nodded sympathetically. Our lunch came. Bea poked at a salad and I ate most of my corned beef on rye.
“Elena didn’t say a word this morning when she found me in your bedroom. Just backed away and disappeared.”
“You had every right to be in there. I don’t know if I can say the same for Lenie. But it’s not going to happen again.”
“My being in your bedroom?”
I shook my head. “No, that’s exactly where I want you. From now on.”
“We haven’t had a chance to simmer, much less—”
“Two things I never argue with. Natural selection and my
cojones
. When it’s right it’s right, Bea.”
She whistled low, adding a happy, third note this time.
“I did want to hear that, although I was kind of roundabout getting there.” She looked earnestly at me. “But if Elena comes again—”
“She’s a woman in trouble, Beatrice. And we’re old friends. Last time I saw Lenie she was half out of her mind from grief. Nothing left to offer me but the bad blood in her veins. She asked me to—finish the destruction. I think she must be well over that.”
“Or she would’ve been dead long ago?”
“Yes.”
We were having coffee when Joe Cronin stopped by our booth. Not just to say hello. When lawyers in Cronin’s league pull up a chair to chat with me it’s no coincidence that we happen to be in the same place at the same time.
“The last date I brought here,” Cronin said, looking around, “thought ‘cunnilingus’ was an Irish troubadour.”
He was a slight man with a type-A personality who spent most of his days in overdrive. He ran marathons on weekends tobleed off stress. His manner was usually chipper; but once he bore down on you his gaze could chip flint. He was tastefully dressed, as were all the fifty-odd male lawyers in his firm, like an Edwardian-era undertaker. Ah, fashion.
“Beatrice Harp, Joe Cronin,” I said.
Cronin flashed a smile of pleasure, then didn’t look at her again for five minutes. Because he was a notorious horndog, the fact that I was getting all of his attention meant that I’d probably rather be toasting my bare feet in hell.
“Understand you’re looking for one of our clients,” he said. His fists were knuckle to knuckle on the back of the chair he straddled.
“Prather Fitzhugh and Golightly has a hell of a client list,” I said.
“Bucky Spartacus.”
“Oh, Bucky. Yeah, I would like to talk to him. Know where I can find him?”
“Not offhand. He’s a busy boy these days. What’s it about?”
“I’m looking into a matter involving his girlfriend. Chickie Hickey.”
“Another of our clients.”
“Really?”
“So what is it all about, Rawson?”
“Ongoing investigation.”
He stared at me; I stared back. Since he knew me well enough to know he wasn’t going to get anything that way, he relaxed his fists and tempered his approach.
“Okay, so what has she done? Skipped her meds?”
“It may be a case of what’s been done to her,” I said.
“By Bucky?”
“I don’t know yet. Haven’t talked to him.”
Cronin tried not to look exasperated. “What has Chickie had to say?”
“Can’t find her either,” I said. “Just not my day, I guess.”
“So you have no evidence of a crime committed by either of our clients.”
I let that one go, and permitted a meaningful silence to build.
“Anyway, Bucky’s High Blood,” Cronin said. “He doesn’t come under your purview. He doesn’t have to say dick to you if he doesn’t want to.”
“It would be a
“What had been simmering for a lot of years came to a boil.”
“Well, that. And by then we had the maturity to appreciate each other. We probably would have been married a month after she returned, if her family situation hadn’t been such a mess. Ida claimed she would poison herself if Lenie didn’t drop me. Asyou can probably figure, I was getting most of the fallout from my mom’s adventuring with Ray Scarlett.”
Beatrice nodded sympathetically. Our lunch came. Bea poked at a salad and I ate most of my corned beef on rye.
“Elena didn’t say a word this morning when she found me in your bedroom. Just backed away and disappeared.”
“You had every right to be in there. I don’t know if I can say the same for Lenie. But it’s not going to happen again.”
“My being in your bedroom?”
I shook my head. “No, that’s exactly where I want you. From now on.”
“We haven’t had a chance to simmer, much less—”
“Two things I never argue with. Natural selection and my
cojones
. When it’s right it’s right, Bea.”
She whistled low, adding a happy, third note this time.
“I did want to hear that, although I was kind of roundabout getting there.” She looked earnestly at me. “But if Elena comes again—”
“She’s a woman in trouble, Beatrice. And we’re old friends. Last time I saw Lenie she was half out of her mind from grief. Nothing left to offer me but the bad blood in her veins. She asked me to—finish the destruction. I think she must be well over that.”
“Or she would’ve been dead long ago?”
“Yes.”
We were having coffee when Joe Cronin stopped by our booth. Not just to say hello. When lawyers in Cronin’s league pull up a chair to chat with me it’s no coincidence that we happen to be in the same place at the same time.
“The last date I brought here,” Cronin said, looking around, “thought ‘cunnilingus’ was an Irish troubadour.”
He was a slight man with a type-A personality who spent most of his days in overdrive. He ran marathons on weekends tobleed off stress. His manner was usually chipper; but once he bore down on you his gaze could chip flint. He was tastefully dressed, as were all the fifty-odd male lawyers in his firm, like an Edwardian-era undertaker. Ah, fashion.
“Beatrice Harp, Joe Cronin,” I said.
Cronin flashed a smile of pleasure, then didn’t look at her again for five minutes. Because he was a notorious horndog, the fact that I was getting all of his attention meant that I’d probably rather be toasting my bare feet in hell.
“Understand you’re looking for one of our clients,” he said. His fists were knuckle to knuckle on the back of the chair he straddled.
“Prather Fitzhugh and Golightly has a hell of a client list,” I said.
“Bucky Spartacus.”
“Oh, Bucky. Yeah, I would like to talk to him. Know where I can find him?”
“Not offhand. He’s a busy boy these days. What’s it about?”
“I’m looking into a matter involving his girlfriend. Chickie Hickey.”
“Another of our clients.”
“Really?”
“So what is it all about, Rawson?”
“Ongoing investigation.”
He stared at me; I stared back. Since he knew me well enough to know he wasn’t going to get anything that way, he relaxed his fists and tempered his approach.
“Okay, so what has she done? Skipped her meds?”
“It may be a case of what’s been done to her,” I said.
“By Bucky?”
“I don’t know yet. Haven’t talked to him.”
Cronin tried not to look exasperated. “What has Chickie had to say?”
“Can’t find her either,” I said. “Just not my day, I guess.”
“So you have no evidence of a crime committed by either of our clients.”
I let that one go, and permitted a meaningful silence to build.
“Anyway, Bucky’s High Blood,” Cronin said. “He doesn’t come under your purview. He doesn’t have to say dick to you if he doesn’t want to.”
“It would be a
Similar Books
