Black Leather

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  “Political reasons, right?” Joseph pulled at the shoulder of his shirt as if his shoulder were sore.

  Owen was glad he’d had most of his scone, because he just lost his appetite for the rest of it. He dropped it onto the plate and wiped his fingers. “Professional integrity, Joseph. She’s a colleague. She’s an opponent. She’s connected. She’s connected big time. I’ve heard rumors that she has shared the governor’s bed more than once. Now that’s connected in a way that I can’t compete with.” He leaned closer to Joseph, warming to his subject. “Politics? Hell, yes. She’s being seriously considered for a judgeship, and guess who makes the appointment to the vacancy? The governor. If she makes it—and she will—she’ll be deciding my cases. If she doesn’t, I don’t want to be the reason she doesn’t, because my turn will come...” He sipped his tea, but it had lost its flavor as well. “Hell,” he said, standing up. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  He fished in his pocket, threw a few bills on the table. He felt shaky, as if he had just realized for the first time that he could blow his career right here, right now. “I’ve given the coincidental data we discussed to the judicial investigator. That’s as far as I can go.” He leaned over the table, spoke quietly to Joseph. “I’ve got a good case against Cynthia. You want me to go after Irene, you make a case against her. An air-tight case. A beyond-the-shadow-of-a-doubt case.” He pulled Bobby Milner’s business card from his shirt pocket and dropped it on the table. “Get the tip, okay?”

  He peered both ways up and down the street before striding out the door. Out of the way coffee shop or not, this case was making him paranoid. He hated that. This was the end of these ridiculous clandestine meetings, that was for certain.

  He had Cynthia Schneider in jail, and he had a good case against her. Let somebody else worry about ancillary details which may or may not be important.

  He’d gone to law school because he was convinced that law was cut and dried, black and white. Boundaries were clear. It was like science: things were or they weren’t.

  But law didn’t turn out to be that way at all.

  Instead, it was gray. It was all gray area. Malleable. It moved. It shifted with the times. And because real life dictated the laws, the laws were just as messy as real life tended to be.

  Owen wished he’d known that before signing on to the law as his lifetime profession. But now that he was in the game, there was only one thing to do, and that was to get at the top of the game.

  And he wasn’t going to do that by unnecessarily embarrassing the future Judge Irene Nottingham.

  Chapter 23

  Joseph wondered if showing Owen Crowell what Irene had done to his shoulder would be the type of air-tight case against Irene that Owen was looking for.

  He sat in the coffee shop for a long time after Owen left, letting his tea get cold as he stared into space wondering what the hell was happening to him.

  Irene killed that guy, she as much as confessed it by doodling on his back with the tip of her scalpel. And he was exactly like those other guys who never pressed charges against her.

  He was ashamed.

  Irene no more wanted Cynthia out of jail than Joseph did; she as much confessed that in the kitchen.

  So what the hell was Joseph doing with her? If he had an ounce of sense, he’d leave her alone. Just leave her alone. He was playing with fire. Perhaps even his life was on the line, and he couldn’t keep his mind off her, he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

  That little event that left his shoulder a hunk of sore meat should have been the kiss of death for his attraction, but it wasn’t.

  What was it, the forbidden fruit? The dangerous woman, the flirt with death?

  Joseph was sickened by himself and his behavior. He tried to tell himself that he was drugged when he let her cut him, but the truth was, every time he thought of it, he wanted more of her. He didn’t want her to cut him again, but he was getting caught up in her sick web, and it was not good. He was smart enough to see that whatever side trips this ride would take, the final destination was dark as hell. It was a nightmare roller coaster. He was scared, and he had to wake himself up.

  No more Irene Nottingham.

  He needed to narrow his focus. He needed to exclude the sick goddamned Irene Nottingham from his life, get Cynthia out of jail and off the hook. Then he would file for divorce and be finished with the Nottingham women.

  He sighed and reached into his pocket for a tip, and as he did, he saw the business card that Owen had left on the table for him. Leatherworks Tannery. Bobby Milner, owner.

  Leave it alone, Joseph, he warned himself. Just leave the card right there on the table.

  Fat chance. Irene was a fucking drug.

  ~~~

  Joseph pulled up outside a nondescript, white storefront attached to what appeared to be a sizeable warehouse in the back. A sign over the door read Leatherworks Tannery. He had no business being here, but the idea of meeting Irene’s first husband was intriguing as hell.

  It was irresistible.

  A bell dinged as he went into the showroom. The place smelled like high grade leather. To his left were racks of clothing; long and short skirts, bustiers, jackets, pants, in all colors of shiny leather and suede. To his right were backpacks, boots, hats, purses, belts, briefcases, luggage, and a corner of tack: chaps, reins, quirts and one elegantly tooled saddle. In front of the cash register were bins of leather scraps sold by the pound.

  Joseph walked over to the clothing rack and fingered the baby-soft black leather of one tiny dress. It had an intricately beaded, scalloped neckline. Irene would look fabulous in it.

  A door opened in the back and a nice looking blonde man in rubber boots and a long rubber apron came out drying his hands on a stained towel. “Hi,” he said.

  Joseph held out his hand to shake, but the man held up the towel. “Chemicals,” he said. “Your hand would stink for a week.”

  The sharp odor burned Joseph’s nose. He had smelled that before, but he couldn’t quite place it. “You do the tanning right here on the premises?” Joseph took a step back from the man.

  “Yep. Everything but pigskin. We don’t do pigskin.”

  “You sew it all and everything?”

  “Some. Clothes, mostly. I don’t make the briefcases, obviously.” He kept up the smile, a nice, genuine smile full of milk-white teeth.

  Joseph liked him. It put his mind at ease, in a bizarre way, knowing that Irene hadn’t married one of those low-class guys whose scars he’d photographed.

  “Is this your shop?”

  The man nodded. “I’m Bobby Milner. I own the joint. How can I help you?”

  “Joseph Schneider,” Joseph said in introduction, feeling awkward not to be shaking hands. He pulled the photograph of Irene with the black wig out of his pocket and showed it to Bobby, who smiled rather shyly in what looked to Joseph like fond recognition.

  “Miss Lillian,” he said. “Boy, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her. Is she still doing that, that thing with the wig and the leather? Boy, she loved the leather. She loved the leather.” He chuckled at a personal, private memory. “I think she married me for my leather.” He looked up at Joseph, still smiling. “This used to be my dad’s place. I worked here for a long time, since I was a kid, actually, then took it over when he retired. Miss Lillian and I, we met right here in this showroom.” He looked over at the rack of dresses. “Fell in love over a pair of wrist restraints. Ha! Imagine that.” He turned his attention back to Joseph. “So, how can I help you?”

  “I was surprised to find out she’d been married.”

  Bobby pulled a short leather riding crop from its display perch on the wall and slapped it lightly against his hand a couple of times. “An impulse purchase,” he said. “Lasted about a week.” He smiled. “Boy oh boy, what a week. I taught her a few things, mostly, about, you know, leather, and then she taught me a few things.” He clearly enjoyed his reminiscing. “She taught me quite a few thin
gs, actually.”

  “What happened between you?”

  Bobby shook his head. “I don’t know why it went wrong. That’s sometimes the way with things that are a little bit too hot. We just burned out.” Then, as if he suddenly realized who he might be talking to, he looked up at Joseph and asked, “Are you... Are you her...”

  “No, just a friend. I’m married to her sister.”

  “Irene? God, I never thought Irene’d get married.” He smiled, then frowned as if he just realized what he’d said. “I’m sorry, I meant no offense. You do sort of look like Irene’s type.” He handed Joseph the riding crop. “Here. Give this to Cynthia for me, will you? Tell her I still think about some of those wild rides.” He smiled shyly. “Tell her I hope she still has that little piece of me she took. Tell her I haven’t been whole since.”

  He pulled up the sleeve on his t-shirt and revealed a small, heart-shaped scar on his bicep.

  Joseph thought about the cascading waterfall that had been carved into his shoulder and back. He thought of the half dozen shirts that had gone into the garbage from the oozing, he thought of the tightening scabs, thought of the tenderness, the love, with which Irene had cut him. And what a creepy-wonderful work of art it was turning out to be.

  Joseph was stunned to silence. He took the miniature whip from the man, but he still wasn’t sure he heard him correctly. “To Cynthia? Give this to Cynthia? But you were married to Irene, right?”

  “No,” Bobby said. “I was married to Cynthia.” He tapped the picture still in Joseph’s hand. “That’s her in her getup. That’s her when she’s Miss Lillian.”

  Chapter 24

  The goddamned Nottingham sisters.

  Joseph didn’t call Irene; he didn’t visit Cynthia. At first it was hard, it was cold turkey. He wanted to find out just exactly what Bobby Milner was talking about; he wanted to see those little dimples on Irene’s back again; he wanted to help Cynthia get her self-esteem back.

  But he did none of those things. He stayed away.

  The first day, he did nothing productive at work. He played solitaire on his computer while his mind ran in circles. The second day was better, he had a little of his concentration back, and by the end of the week, he felt he had everything pretty much under control. He had perspective, and that perspective horrified him.

  What could he have been thinking? How could he have let himself get caught up in Irene’s sick web? He had a feeling he had barely escaped with his life. He had a feeling that if he were a cartoon mouse, he’d be plastered against the wall, panting for breath, having eluded the evil, carnivorous cat by barely a whisker.

  At home, during those long solitary nights, it was more difficult to hold his resolve. His appetite was poor. He felt cold all the time. He dove back into his dissertation research, but it could not possibly be more boring.

  He couldn’t figure out why Irene hadn’t called him.

  He wanted her to call him just so he could say no to her.

  But she didn’t.

  He assumed she was doing the legal footwork on Cynthia’s case, and he’d hear from her sooner or later.

  Unless she had used him for her purposes and then discarded him. She’d cut him and left him to deal with it.

  Well, he was dealing with it, all right. He dealt with it just fine, thankyouverymuch.

  There was nothing she could say now, there was nothing she could say that could lure him back into that sickness, where the only thing that scared him more than Irene Nottingham was Joseph Schneider, himself. He scared the shit out of himself with his potential for falling for a woman like that. Good lord.

  He was a little old for the rebellion-against-the-parents thing. He was a little too mature to let his anguish over Anna, her banishment from the family and ultimately her death, to continue to motivate him. Was that what it was? Cold guilt leftovers? Or was blaming his past just a convenience? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. All that mattered was that it was over.

  A little sadder, a little wiser, Joseph went back to his Ph.D. work. That was a positive goal he could sink his teeth into.

  And then one night the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Joseph?”

  Irene. Joseph’s blood pounded behind his eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “Joseph, did you know that my bathtub has a view of the city?”

  No, he didn’t know that. He didn’t want to know that. “Oh?” he said.

  “And I have a favor to ask.”

  “I’m kind of busy, Irene.” Favor? What favor?

  She paused. “Oh, of course. Okay, I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  “What favor?” he asked in spite of himself, then gritted his teeth against her answer. He didn’t want to know what favor.

  “I wanted to know if... Listen, never mind, another time, maybe. I know you’re busy, you’re too busy.”

  “No, maybe not, what’s the favor?”

  She paused again, and he heard the breath catch in the back of her throat. He knew what she looked like when that happened. “Would you come over and shave my legs?”

  ~~~

  If Joseph could have teleported himself through the telephone lines, he would have. A half hour later, they were in her huge tub full of warm bubbles, drinking another delicious white wine, a dozen strategically placed flickering candles reflecting in the big window that showed the San Francisco city night.

  Joseph was afraid she’d have one of those big awful straight razors, but she had a ladies’ safety razor, a little pink thing that was too dainty for his hands, but he managed to get the job done without nicking her.

  And then she let him shave everything else he wanted to shave.

  She must be evil, he thought, she must be a damned demon to know his adolescent fantasy, but it was too late. He was caught up in the reality of his fantasy and it was better than anything he could ever have dreamed up or imagined at home alone.

  He was a goner. And worse, an apparently willing goner.

  Anything was better than that searing loneliness.

  And this was better than anything.

  Chapter 25

  Irene stood in the dark, gripping the ferry railing, letting the fingers of the sea breeze ruffle her hair. She breathed deeply the fresh scent and tasted the salty air. This was exactly what she needed.

  She needed a break, but it took Joseph to make her take one. She had to periodically get out of the office, get out of the apartment, get away from the investigation, get away from Cynthia’s case.

  She felt as though she was beginning to lose herself. It had happened before, when she got so involved in a case, particularly when she had been new to the game, and panicked about doing a good job. She felt as though the lives of her clients were her responsibility. She had since learned that that wasn’t so, and so practicing law was no longer an ulcer-inducing profession.

  Until now.

  Now she felt as though not only Cynthia’s life, but hers and maybe even Joseph’s as well, hung in the balance. And perhaps they did.

  It gave her that nauseated feeling of entanglement beyond her comfort zone. Beyond her endurance point.

  When Myron had been transferred from Reno to San Francisco’s Department of Public Health just before Irene’s senior year in high school, Irene thought she’d never get over losing Bonnie as a best friend, confidante, and all-inclusive most important person. They phoned, they wrote, they cried, but try as they might, life continued to happen to them separately. Their friendship dwindled as Bonnie sought other friends, and Irene became more and more important to her mother.

  Always a fragile flower, Ellie didn’t adapt well to a new area, and she was afraid to lean too heavily on Myron, so Irene picked up the slack.

  They became best friends that senior year in high school, closer than Bonnie and Irene had ever been. Irene only kept the things from her mother that she felt would harm her. Everything else she spoke about openly and candidly, and she felt her mother do t
he same. Cynthia was busy trying to incorporate herself into a new social circle, but there was no social circle for a new senior girl, even one who looked like Irene. She didn’t even bother with it. She hung out with her mom instead. Their bond grew so tight that it became difficult for Irene to go to school. It became doubly difficult for Irene to go away to college. She had begun to depend upon her friendship with her mother as much as her mother depended upon it.

  Bobby was one little two-week interlude during Irene’s college years that she never had the nerve to tell Ellie about. It would have hurt her. It would have hurt her to know about Irene’s motivation, it would hurt her to know that her eldest daughter had married without inviting her to be a witness, it would have hurt Cynthia, it would have hurt Myron, it was an exercise in poor judgment; it would be bad all around.

  It bothered Irene so much she began to throw up, and didn’t stop until she was shed of Bobby and her deceit.

  And when that plane went down, when the pilot friend of Myron’s made that stupid mistake with the fuel on/off switch, Irene’s world exploded just like that little Cessna.

  Her mother was gone.

  Irene thought she would never survive the grief. It weighed her down until she was certain she left footprints even in concrete.

  She did survive, though, and graduated from law school as well. And passed the California State Bar. And the only way she did it was by vowing with clenched jaw and white knuckles, never to become enmeshed again. Never. Never, ever.

  One night stands worked. They fed the flesh without sucking out the soul.

  And now it was happening again. Joseph. Cynthia. Joseph. Cynthia.

  Joseph.

  Joseph’s strong fingers opened the collar of her coat. The foggy night air seeped in with a refreshing chill. He began to massage her aching neck muscles. She closed her eyes and relaxed. If she wasn’t careful, she could just fall into his arms, into his life and let this strong, capable, wonderful man take care of her. “Mmmm,” she purred. “That feels great.”