Black Leather

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  But his obsession with the feel of that perfectly smooth pubic area had never left him. He could still feel it, sometimes, when he was home alone and lonely, and that sensation sickened him. Anna had been his sister. His mentally ill sister, and though it hadn’t been his fault, he had felt her up, and the sin or whatever it was, still lived on his fingertips.

  It was an incident that lived in his conscience.

  If he hadn’t had those magazines... If he hadn’t yelled for his mother... If he hadn’t been obsessed with white girls...

  Then maybe Anna would be alive today. Maybe his parents would, too. And maybe he wouldn’t be drawn to this short-haired blonde woman...

  Irene came running in to the bar, breathless, wearing a t-shirt over a leotard. Her face was flushed and her hair was combed back, still wet. She threw her gym bag onto the seat next to her and sat down. She ordered a tall beer and then put a cool hand over Joseph’s. For a second it felt like Anna’s cool hand, and he had a momentary mental lapse as he tried to adjust. Anna and that horrible, horrible Christmas event to this, the reality of sweet smelling, sweetly sweating Irene. She took a deep breath and smiled. “Hi,” she said, her eyes bright, her cheeks pink. Joseph thought he’d never seen anything so delicious in his life. He found it hard to speak.

  “Hi,” he finally said.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Irene said, chatting uncharacteristically. “The aerobics class started late, and chain reaction—you know.”

  Joseph nodded.

  Irene downed half the beer and wiped foam from her upper lip, then gave a little laugh. “If I didn’t work out, Joseph, I’d die of stress.”

  Joseph had no response for that.

  “You work out, don’t you? You look like you do,” and she put that cool hand on his bicep again.

  To Joseph’s credit, he didn’t flex or flinch. “Some,” he said.

  She nodded at him with a twinkle, and went back to her beer. When she had settled down and caught her breath, she turned serious. All business. She picked up her glass and they moved to a booth for privacy.

  “I’m going to need your help with Cynthia,” Irene said. “She’s not acting in her best interests.”

  “How so?” Joseph was glad to have something else to focus on. He was beginning to lose himself in Irene’s freshly-showered scent.

  “First, she’s focused on this idea that I was in Los Angeles, that she followed me there, which she did not, because I wasn’t there. And secondly, this idea that she wants another attorney. I’m the one to defend her on this case, Joseph.”

  “She has a mind of her own, Irene.”

  “I know, but she respects you. She wants you back. She’ll listen to what you have to say.”

  “You want me to manipulate her? You want me to hold out some false hope to her that if she does what I say—which is what you say I should say that I say—that she and I can get back together again?” Irene was losing her attractiveness by the moment.

  “Manipulation is what this business is all about,” Irene said squarely. “We manipulate evidence, we manipulate juries, we manipulate the law. I know how to do this, Joseph. We’re talking about my sister here, and we’re talking about her spending a lifetime in jail. Hell yes, I want you to manipulate her. Goddamn right.” Those blue eyes snapped at him, and she shoved her beer to the side. “Marriages come and go. She won’t die if the two of you break up. But she will die if she goes to prison.” She slowed down and spoke deliberately. Now she was manipulating him—he could all but see the strings clipped to his emotions. “She will most assuredly die if they convict her.”

  Another side of Irene that Joseph had never seen. This one made his testicles shrivel. “Okay,” he said. “Whatever you want me to do, you just tell me.”

  ~~~

  Back in the exact same room in the Midnite Motel, Cynthia resumed her pacing. This was not necessarily the smartest move she had ever made, but she couldn’t count on Joseph, and she didn’t trust Irene to always do the right thing. Irene had her own agenda, and it was to that set of priorities that Irene was true. She didn’t care about Cynthia’s priorities.

  Cynthia wanted to be able to count on her big sister, but there wasn’t anything she could do to predict Irene’s behavior, no matter how hard she tried.

  Funny how all her second thoughts burst into life in this tacky motel.

  The phone book was open on the bed; she’d already looked up Sam Begay’s number. It was listed—Begay, Samuel—right there above Begay, Warren. She wondered who would answer if she dialed Warren’s number. Wouldn’t it be something if he picked up the phone, it was all a gag, it was all a big mistake, and she went over there and fucked his brains out for old times’ sake?

  It wasn’t a joke and it wasn’t a mistake and she didn’t want to talk to whoever would answer Warren’s phone. She only wanted to talk to Sam. She needed to talk to Sam. All she had to do was dial his number.

  Instead, she paced. Chewed her nails and paced. She worried about what everybody would say, she worried about the money she was spending that she didn’t have, she worried about everything. Nervously, she twirled her hair between her fingers and tried to figure out what to say to Sam when he answered. It had to be something good enough to make him meet her.

  She couldn’t think of anything.

  “Just do it,” she said to herself, so she sat on the edge of the bed, bit her lip, looked up the number and dialed.

  It rang twice.

  This was a bad idea. A real bad idea. She was ready to hang up when she heard the phone on the other end pick up and a man’s voice said, “Hello?”

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sam, it’s Cynthia Schneider.”

  There was a long pause. “You’ve got some nerve.”

  “Sam, I didn’t do it. I swear to God, I didn’t.”

  “Somebody sure the fuck did.”

  Cynthia stood up, trying to focus her attention. She had only one shot at this phone call; it had to be right. “I think I know who, but I need your help.”

  “Why aren’t you in jail?”

  Cynthia ignored the question. “Will you meet me? Please? You’re my only hope.”

  The silence on the other end of the phone went on so long she was afraid they’d been cut off. She couldn’t hear him breathing or anything. Finally, he said, “Where?”

  Cynthia’s relief almost made her laugh.

  ~~~

  She waited in an IHOP across the street from the motel. He was supposed to meet her at nine, but by ten-thirty, he still hadn’t showed.

  Every time the door opened, every time that bell tinkled, she jumped and whipped her head around to see who it was. If she was smart, she’d change seats, so she wouldn’t have to look around behind her. But she didn’t. She just kept drinking coffee and more coffee until she was jittery and wired. She had shredded a half dozen napkins, and had passed a dozen self-imposed deadlines.

  At ten thirty-five, she finally picked up her jacket and the tab, and just as she was sliding out of the booth, the bell jangled. She wanted it to be him so bad she didn’t even want to turn around to see.

  She turned around.

  It was Sam, scanning the place. She put her hand up in a tentative gesture, almost like she was telling the teacher she had to go to the bathroom. He walked over and slid into the booth seat across from her.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Cynthia tried to focus despite the overdose of caffeine, and clicked into what she thought would be Irene’s professional way of handling this. She pulled out an airline cocktail napkin, on which she had drawn a rough layout of the bar. “Remember when I left the bar that night? We were sitting here. Remember that Warren was standing here?” She pointed with the handle of her spoon. “At the bar?”

  “No. You left by yourself. I didn’t see you go.”

  “Did you see Warren standing here, at the bar? He was talk
ing to a woman with short straight-cut black hair. She was wearing black leather.”

  Sam smiled, showing his bad teeth. “Oh, her. Yeah, tits showing, right?”

  “Yes! Yes! Short skirt. Leather.”

  “Yeah, she’s been in before. She knew Warren.”

  “Does she live around here?”

  Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Are you saying she’s the one who killed him?”

  “When was the last time you saw her? When was the last time Warren saw her?”

  “I don’t know. Listen, I don’t think we’re supposed to be talking to each other.”

  Cynthia put a hand on Sam’s wrist. She was surprised to feel how cool and smooth his skin was, compared to her hot, moist hand. “All I want to know, Sam, is if you saw Warren leave with that woman with the black hair.”

  “I don’t know anything. Warren’s dead, the police come, I tell them about you dancing with him, they think you killed him, and here I am talking to you.” He shook his head. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Sam, please, wait. Please believe me. I didn’t do it.”

  “There must be some reason they think you did. They don’t just arrest people for no reason.”

  “She’s framing me.”

  Sam smiled at her, a smile without humor. “The one with the tits? Yeah, right. Sure.” He slipped out of the booth.

  “Sam, wait. Please.”

  Too late. The bell dinged when the door slammed behind him.

  ~~~

  “I talked with him, Joseph. Yesterday I flew to Los Angeles and met with him for coffee. He said that Warren knew her. It was Irene, Joseph, it was Irene. She’d been there before. She had a relationship with Warren. She killed him, don’t you see that? She’s the one. I know she’s the one.” Cynthia was back to pacing again, back and forth in her tiny, empty living room.

  “Listen, Cynthia, Irene has your best interests at heart. She’s your sister. You’ve got to let her do her job. It doesn’t make sense that Irene would kill somebody.”

  “You think it makes sense that I would kill somebody?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Cynthia.”

  Cynthia tried to ignore the same sound of disbelief in Joseph’s voice that she had heard in Sam’s. “Listen to me. Just give me a chance. She has this thing about blades. She likes—”

  She was interrupted by a loud, authoritative knock on the door.

  “Hold on a minute.” The phone cord wouldn’t reach, so she set the receiver on the floor, took the three steps required to traverse the ugly little apartment kitchen, and opened the door.

  Two uniformed policemen stood there. “Cynthia Schneider?”

  Cynthia sighed. “Yes.”

  “Please come with us.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re wanted at the station for questioning in the murder of Samuel Begay in Los Angeles.”

  “You mean Warren Begay.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Cynthia looked at him in astonishment. Her mind went completely blank. She couldn’t focus on anything, not the policemen, not what they were saying to her, not what this meant to her, not anything.

  All she knew was that she needed someone to hold her, someone to understand her. Joseph.

  She twirled around and saw the phone lying in the middle of the floor.

  One of them grabbed an arm and pulled out the handcuffs.

  She just looked at the phone, three steps away. Joseph waiting, three lifetimes away. She closed her eyes and let them lead her out into the blinding sunlight.

  Chapter 9

  Irene was in no mood to be toyed with, and nobody at the jail even tried to joke with her. Everybody knew she was defending her sister, and she had a lot riding on the guilt or innocence of her client. After winning a series of high-profile cases, Irene’s star had begun to glow brightly in the judicial skies. This case had the potential of shooting that star down like a Patriot missile nailing an Iraqi scud.

  Everybody at the jail liked Irene; they all wanted her to succeed; nobody wanted to break her concentration.

  Irene endured the familiar rituals of gaining entrance to the jail, and was finally ushered into the interrogation room. When she saw Cynthia sitting at the wooden table waiting for her, her fury burst forth in a gush. She wanted to slap her little sister until her brain rattled around and finally began to fire a few synapses.

  Cynthia was so much like their mother, it made Irene want to shriek. Their mother used to blame the train. They’d stand in the kitchen and that lonely sound of a train whistle would fly through the dry Nevada air, and Ellie would say, “Damned train. I hate trains. Trains stole your daddy, Irene. Never ride a train. Never trust a train.” And then a moment later, she’d say, “I wonder if it stopped here. I wonder if he’ll come walking in that door.”

  And even when she was five, Irene wanted to smack her mother on the side of the head and say, “It wasn’t the train’s fault!”

  Every muscle taut with hard-fought self control, so as to not smack Cynthia on the side of the head, Irene put her briefcase on the table, opened it and pulled out a thick stack of 8x10 color glossies of Sam Begay’s corpse. One at a time, she slid them across the table in front of Cynthia, who glanced down at one or two, cringed, and turned away, her feet tucked up underneath her on the hard wooden chair.

  Irene took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. She kept the table between her and her sister so she wouldn’t reach out and slap her before she could stop herself.

  “How could you be so stupid?”

  Cynthia began chewing on a fingernail.

  “He was the prosecution’s star witness. You fly to Los Angeles and this is what a coffee shop manager finds in his parking lot the next morning.”

  “I want another attorney,” Cynthia said.

  “Another attorney isn’t going to help you, kiddo. When you got on that plane, you reserved your suite on death row.”

  “He knew you,” Cynthia said. She looked up. “Sam said that Warren knew you.”

  Irene took one long look at the mess that desperation had made of her sister. It turned her stomach. She had nothing to say. She closed her briefcase and signaled the matron.

  “You don’t have to help me with this case, Cynthia,” Irene said, “but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stand in my way of getting you out of here.”

  “He knew you,” Cynthia said.

  Irene heard that train whistle howl low across a quiet desert. She walked out, leaving Cynthia alone in the cold room.

  Chapter 10

  The sign said The Serpent’s Tooth. It was a run-down Oakland warehouse, parked under a freeway overpass, with a lighted beer sign in the only visible window. It was surrounded by parking lot, which Joseph imagined was filled with chrome Harleys every night. Joseph knew about this place. He’d been curious about it from the very beginning, but had never set foot inside. He didn’t dare. This was the roughest of the rough-trade bars. This was a leather bar, some said an S&M bar, a bad one, and Joseph never wanted to go near it at night. He was afraid of it. He was afraid he’d like it.

  But on this Thursday morning at noon, it just looked seedy. He could handle that for about ten minutes.

  “Sharp as the tooth of a serpent,” wasn’t that a Bible quote? Sharp. If Irene had a thing about blades, it wasn’t much of a stretch to expect that people at this bar would know her.

  Or was it? Was that a long shot to end all long shots, and was he really there to satisfy his disturbed curiosity about this place?

  Joseph parked his car near the door, next to a bombed out sixties-something Chevrolet, and walked up to the door.

  He wasn’t likely to find any blondes in g-strings at noon on Thursday, so curiosity couldn’t possibly be it.

  Unless he was mustering up a little courage. Unless he was becoming familiar with the territory so when he came back some night, he’d know the lay of the land.

  He patted his pocket and felt the photograph. He was doing all r
ight on the courage front, he thought.

  He swung the door open and the stale beer and cigarette breath of the old warehouse smacked him in the nose.

  A couple of guys were standing in the corner, talking, idly rolling cue balls around a pool table. One woman with what looked like a martini on the table in front of her, sat in the corner reading a paperback book by the light of a Heineken sign.

  Joseph wished he’d left his suit coat in the car. He looked out of place and he’d smell like a bar when he got back to the office.

  The bartender, his shaved head black and shiny under the spotlights behind the bar, looked up as Joseph came in. He scowled and stuck the chawed stump of an unlighted cigar between his teeth.

  Joseph didn’t want to talk to him. Joseph didn’t know how to talk to him.

  He slid onto a barstool.

  The bartender picked up a bar towel and wiped his hands. He was probably the bouncer, too, Joseph thought, as he watched the man’s muscles bunch up under his threadbare shirt.

  Joseph pulled the digitally-altered photograph of Irene from his jacket pocket and set it on the bar, then looked around furtively. He felt like a rookie police detective in some cheap B movie.

  “What’s this?” the bar man said.

  “You know her?”

  Without looking at the photograph, the man pulled the plug of a cigar from his mouth and said, “I don’t answer questions. You gonna drink?”

  “No, listen—”

  He stuck the cigar back in, twirled it a little as his teeth got a good grip, then he turned his back on Joseph, walked to the end of the bar and began stacking glasses next to the mirror.

  Joseph followed him on down. “Listen,” he said, but the bartender ignored him. “Somebody killed two black guys in Los Angeles and they’ve arrested my wife. My wife said that this woman is the one who did it. I’m no cop. I’m just trying to get my wife out of jail, because I don’t know who did it, I just know she didn’t.”

  The bartender finished stacking glasses and started mixing up bottles of juice. He never gave any indication that he heard a word Joseph was saying, but Joseph knew he was listening.