by Cherise West
“Yeah, that’s the one!” I chime cheerily, grabbing the object and hurriedly pushing its button. The display flashes on… for about a half a second, before going dead. Of course it’s dead. Ugh. Looking back to the bartender, I put on the sweetest smile I can manage. “Do you think I could… maybe, use your phone? Mine’s dead,” I ask. He shrugs, pulling an old-fashioned touchtone from behind the bar and leaving it out in front of me. I’m surprised to find the ancient thing has a dial tone when I pull the hook up; I plink the number to Scott’s cell phone, and after two rings I hear him pick up.
“Hello? Who’s this?” his harried voice demands.
“Scott! Hey, it’s—”
“Jesus, Mara! Where the hell have you been?! We had the Abruzzi hearing at nine,” he shouts into the phone. “You just don’t show?! The man’s up for murder, and I had to bungle my way through a hearing! What’s wrong with you?!”
“Scott, hey— I had car trouble, and left my phone at a friend’s last night, after she gave me a ride, I’ve been trying to find a way in all morning—”
“What, you can’t call a cab? Find a phone SOMEWHERE to give me some kind of idea of whether you’re alive at all? What the hell?” Scott rages.
“Scott, I’m sorry, I had a hard day yesterday,” I say.
“You had a hard day? YOU did? You know what I had to do this morning, because of you, Mara? I had to go over a case I’ve barely even read any of the briefs on, and go in front of Yance, YANCE of all people, and try to demonstrate probable cause! Do you know what he said to me?!” Scott screams, his voice tinny.
“You know what, Scott,” I exhale sharply, “maybe Yance wouldn’t have given you as much trouble on the Abruzzi case if you read the briefs and did all the legwork that Shapiro and I have to do every day before we step in there, because both of us know you’re not going to do your damn JOB,” I scorn him. After this morning, I really don’t have it in me to deal with his crap. “Abruzzi case is murder, isn’t it? So, why weren’t you reading the briefs, too? Because you have me to do it for you? And because you know that Shapiro and I won’t speak up to up Daniels and the rest of the state office?” I threaten. I feel a little terrified, tearing into him like that, but at the same time, I feel alive. Is this what Tony St. James did to me?
“…Just get in here when you can,” Scott mutters, before the phone goes dead. I breathe out hard, getting a weird, twisted little thrill out of telling him off like that. I slam the receiver down, smirking.
“Y’know, smart idea fer you to do that. I don’t take no shit from no boss, neither,” a voice booms, with the musical gravity of an old southern preacher. My eyes widen and I turn around slowly, the excitement in my nerves immediately replaced with stone-cold terror. Sitting at the end of the bar, a mug of beer in front of him and his seedy, yellow-toothed grin gleaming at me, Billy Boy chuckles a wheezing chuckle at the phone exchange. “I don’t blame ya, girlie. Yer doing all the work and he’s taking all the credit, somethin’ like that? I know that feeling well,” he huffs. “Back in our day Quentin an’ I - Quentin Hill, you know him?” Billy Boy knows I know him. “Anyway, Quentin ‘n’ I, we did a lot of things. He always got the credit. I was always the brains, though,” he smiles the devil’s smile again. “Say, ain’t you that Jersey City prosecutor? Seen you on TV, and in the court, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” I answer. He knows very well who I am, but he plays stupid to scare me. It works, my hair standing on end.
“Right! Mara Lewis, huh,” Billy Boy says. The bartender, knowing my profession now, warily places the black box under the bar and glares at me. “Say, this is kind of a biker sorta place to be. Reckon with how much you aren’t a fan of the Roarin’ Wardogs, you wouldn’t exactly be a frequent flyer in a place like XKZ.” He taps his chin, keeping his voice jovial, even as an intimidating undercurrent flows beneath. “Buuut, you left your phone here, huh? Last night? Must’ve been a crazy night,” he bellows a wheezing laugh.
“I just had to meet a client, and this was— was the closest place, most convenient place,” I stammer nervously.
“You’re meetin’ clients at places like XKZ? I can’t imagine an evening where you’d be getting any kind of work done, given how loud and crazy it gets in here after hours,” Billy Boy chortles. “C’mon, girlie, you don’t wanna admit a prosecutor can come have fun with us scumbags once in a while? Yer boyfriend bring you down here?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I snap at him, struggling to keep my composure, “I told you. Just a meeting, and I wound up here. Okay?” I pretend to flick open my phone, playing distracted.
“Figured your phone was dead, wasn’t it?” he says. My heart skips a beat; has he been looking through it? Did he try to look through it?
“Yeah, it’s— it’s dead,” I murmur, slipping it into my jacket pocket, avoiding eye contact with him.
“I just don’t know any prosecutors that’d be caught dead in a place like this, tha’s all. Don’t you think so, Tucker?” Billy Boy glances to the bartender, who nods, his expression stony. “Who’s your client, huh? Maybe we know ‘im. Maybe we could help you out, maybe, huh?” Billy Boy says, taking a gulp of his beer.
“That’s attorney client privilege,” I mutter. “Now, I really should be going.”
“Oh, sure sure, but don’t make yerself a stranger here at XKZ, huh? We like it when you gals come down, show us a bit of style,” Billy Boy laughs. Grinning at me as I head towards the door in a hustle, his eyes never leave me; not from the moment I leave the bar, to the second the sunlight blinds me and I push out into the street, he watches me. Watches me with that grin.
Free of the stink of cigarettes and Billy Boy’s voice I exhale deeply, my nerves frayed. I rush to my car, one eye always over my shoulder. I drop into the driver’s seat, start it up, and exhale again.
How could I have been so stupid as to get myself into this mess?
Chapter 10
“C’mon, Lewis. We didn’t come to Muriel’s to sulk, did we? I know it’s not the hippest place, but the people you can see here,” he says. After a late day at the office working to cover cases Scott conveniently didn’t ‘have time’ to, Andrew Shapiro - my coworker, the other whipping-boy for all of Scott’s laziness and misplaced, disgruntled distaste - gave me a ride to Muriel’s, probably under the hope I’d drink myself stupid and make a hilarious commotion the way I did last time he and I got drunk. Turns out, though, all I care to do is sit in the corner booth, sipping my conspicuously powerful Muriel’s Tea, and click idly at my phone, pretending to be busy.
“I’m tired, is all,” I lie, sighing. I open my Facebook app. Tony’s page. I look at his photo feed. Nothing new. My messages. Nothing new. I anxiously squirm along the bench seat, frowning.
“You look like you’re not enjoying that tea at all,” he huffs.
“Did you tell the bartender to mix it heavy so I’d get drunk faster?” I ask, deadpan.
“Maybe, maybe not,” he answers, a devilish grin snaking along his features, “but probably maybe. Definitely maybe.”
“Why are you always trying to get me drunk?” I exhale, exasperated.
“You’re funny when you’re drunk,” Andrew adds, “and you loosen up a bit. We can joke about Scott’s awful fashion sense, and the way Prince squeaks like a chewtoy when she gets mad,” he adds, sipping his drink. Music pumps low and soft, though it’s not the usual bar atmosphere; Muriel’s keeps itself ‘classy’ for its high-money clientele day and night. No fun to be had here, outside of discussions about finance and business and trust funds and… whatever else rich men like to ramble about. Probably what I’d look like naked.
It’s the exact opposite of Tony’s bar, XKZ. Well, except maybe for that last part.
“So you only like me when I’m a clown?” I sass back weakly, looking at my phone again. Still on messages. No sign Tony even remembers me, or that he’s thought about me since the other night.
“C’mon,” he grumbles, “you know what
I meant. You’re not all serious when you drink. We can talk about something other than the Wardogs, or work, or… well, we can talk about something interesting when we drink.”
“Sounds like you’re making me out to be a buzzkill, Shapiro,” I twirl my fingertip around the rim of my glass; some portly lawyer bursts into the most irritating sort of laughter in a far corner, drawing eyes from across the bar his way. I react slowly, sighing in irritation when I see Dolph Jackson’s face, flush with jollity as his crew of sleazeball defense attorneys rumble with delight about… who knows, probably whatever murderer one of them got off the hook this week.
“I mean, no offense, Mara, but right now?” he shrugs. “You kinda are.”
“I guess you’re right,” I admit, tapping the tabletop. “Maybe I need more liquor.”
“There was a lot in that drink I got you,” Andy shrugs, “but, I guess so.” He slides out of the booth, squirming through throngs of drinking men in suits; I watch him go. Towering over me, and most of the bar patrons for that matter, lanky Shapiro pushes bangs from his messy, long blond hair out of his eyes, rapping his knuckles gently on the bar to try to get the tender’s attention. I swirl what’s left of my first Tea around in the bottom of the glass, frowning.
No matter how much I drink, or how much Shapiro jokes, I can’t get him off my mind, and I can’t stop opening my phone, reflexively, wanting to see his face again; his rippling abs, the intricate tattoos, his strong body a sexy piece of art. Art I got to breathe, and to feel, for one night; art I want to see again… even if he’s my worst rival right now, the leader of a gang I want in jail forever. Maybe the worst of them all. The fact that I know so little about a man I slept with, a man who could present maybe the greatest danger to my entire life… god, Mara, what were you thinking?
I lay my head into my arms on the table, trying to stop the growing urge to reach out to him. To see him type anything, even if it’s just… an admission that the night was a mistake, and that he doesn’t want to see me again. Even acknowledging it happened. Anything would be better than this piercing, painful silence.
I give in. I don’t even think much about it before lifting my head, clicking my phone to life again, and opening Facebook. I tap out a simple, single message.
Hey. It’s Mara. From the other night. I thought maybe we could talk on here.
Nothing provocative. Nothing confrontational. Just a single, simple sentence, inviting him to open up some sort of dialog. We did have sex together. To him, maybe, that’s meaningless, but it’s nothing something I do with just anybody. I feel he owes me some sort of message back. Anything. Even if it’s just a ‘don’t talk to me again’.
I lock my phone screen. Put it aside. Stare at the crowd. My eyes catch Dolph Jackson guffawing again, red-faced and liquored up. I eye warily for guys like Lukas, making their approach to annoy me. The one great thing about being out with Andrew; most guys assume he’s my boyfriend. Those who don’t know me, anyway.
I grab my phone again. Open it up. Waiting. Anticipating. Hoping just to see the flashing little dots, telling me he’s tapping out a reply. Nothing. I look back through his pictures. Waiting. My hand tight and clammy to the phone, my breath quivering. I remember flashes of our night together; his strength pressed to me, the moans and the bites. Come on. Please, Tony.
“Who’re you talking to on there?” Shapiro’s voice startles me nearly out of my seat; I click the phone locked at lightning speed and swallow hard, pushing it away.
“What? Talking to? Nobody,” I stammer.
“I saw Facebook,” he tapped his chin. “I figured you’d have deleted yours a long time ago, like most professionals I know.”
“I don’t spend my night shotgunning liquor or writing Facebook rants about how much I hate my boss,” I state flatly. “I don’t think I have all that much to worry about.”
“Never know. One day the urge might hit to throw Scott to the dogs in public,” Shapiro warns jokingly, passing my drink over to me. I immediately take a long and heavy swig, letting the liquor filter through me and hoping it washes away some of those memories of Tony. God, it’s bitter as hell, a mix of probably a dozen different alcohols thrown into one glass.
“I appreciate the extra booze, Shapiro, but it feels like you’ve gone beyond getting me drunk, and now you’re trying to kill me,” I cough a little at the taste.
“What? You asked for more, I brought you more!” Shapiro smirks. “Actually, I almost forgot—” he gets up again, nearly running in to the woman passing by us. “Oh, damn,” he says, “sorry I— oh, it’s you.” I look up and glimpse Lisa Marino, a sight that elicits from me an immediate and frustrated sigh.
“Oh, hello! Prosecutors having a little get together here?” she asks in her ostentatiously fake-sounding tone, a martini cupped in her fingers, wearing a skirt-suit so tight and short it’s practically scandalous.
“Yeah. Defense attorneys not invited,” I grimace.
“Marino, Shapiro, Lewis - it’s like a class reunion, isn’t it?!” she glurges. “It’s too bad neither of you brought trophy spouses or flashy cars to play up your success,” she sasses.
“I don’t remember you being this much of a witch in law school, Lisa,” Shapiro strokes his chin, pondering. “Is that something that happens naturally when you spend most of your career sucking up your boss?”
“My boss is one of the most successful attorneys in New Jersey, and yours is — what, too busy whimpering in front of the state’s attorney’s office or snapping creepy upskirt shots of me in court, to actually do any sort of work?” Lisa’s sarcastic grin and demoralizing sing-song persist in each word. “Tell me, who got the better end of that deal?” This happens at least once every few months. Lisa irritates us, Andrew and I rebuff her, until eventually somebody gets too tired or too drunk or too frustrated to continue and leaves Muriel’s. It’s an odd sort of ritual, played out for no real reason, and any other night I’d be utterly thrilled to take part. When the argument shifts from work to more banal insults, like fashion choices, I always take a jab at her hair Lisa’s face always gets red like a particularly hilarious maraschino cherry.
Not tonight, though.
“I don’t really have it in me to trade any barbs today, Lisa,” I sigh, taking another deep sip from my cup. The heat flushes into my cheeks and I start to feel the liquor grip my senses, buzzing at the ends of my limbs. “Maybe we can talk about your sleazeball boss some other time.”
“Ms. Lewis, not taking an opportunity to spit her trademark venom at me? Color me seven shades of surprised,” Lisa harps sarcastically. “I’m disappointed. I have so much fun picking the two of you apart when we do our little verbal dances.”
“I won’t pass up the opportunity to tell you you’re an intolerable shrew and a tactless suck-up, though,” Shapiro interjects.
“Classy as always. Did your mom pick that outfit for you, Andrew?” Lisa’s repartee comes stinging; so quick to resort to the basic bashes. Shapiro looks to me, anticipating my jump-in, but I just take another sip of my drink.
“At least I’m wearing something my mother wouldn’t feel embarrassed seeing me in,” Shapiro cuts back weakly.
“Without your partner you’re no fun for sparring, Shapiro,” Lisa murmurs in disappointment. “Work on it. I have to get back to the corner of the bar with the good-looking, successful lawyers, now.”
“Dolph Jackson? Good looking?” I almost spit up my drink.
“Oh, so she does still have a little bit of a fire inside of her, does she? Glad to see. Wouldn’t want her half-asleep the next time I have to skewer her in court,” Lisa laughs haughtily. “Have fun, prosecutor’s office,” she sings, strolling away. I roll my eyes, letting the alcohol burn the back of my throat again.
“You left me hanging there, Lewis,” Shapiro frowns, tumbling back into the booth. “You think she’s in to me?” he asks off—handedly.
“Wh-what? Marino? Is she in to you?” I raise a brow.
“Yeah
. Do you think she’s in to me? I get that vibe, sometimes, you know. Opposites attract, that sort of thing?” he shrugs.
“You really want Lisa Marino to be in to you?” I ask in disbelief.
“I never said that, I just asked if you thought she was!” Shapiro holds up his hands defensively. “Don’t throw me in with the enemy. Besides, it’s not like we can control who’s in to us. I doubt you really want Lukas Porter sniffing around you all the time.”
“God, Lukas,” I sigh. “He can be sweet sometimes, but he’s… well. The first thing he asked me about after breaking up with Josh, is how Josh and I were doing.”
“I mean, I made that mistake too, I think,” Shapiro takes a drink.
“You don’t work in the same building as Josh,” I deadpan; he laughs.
“That’s also true,” he says. “See! You’re more fun when we’re drinking.”
“I’m pretty much queen of sarcasm drunk or sober, I’m just meaner without liquor,” I mutter. I don’t have it in me to be mean tonight. Just sad. My phone screams at me, louder and louder, the more of this ‘tea’ I sip down. Just one simple message, and he won’t respond? Maybe I do have it in me to be mean.
