Running From the Law

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Betty?” I said.

  “The tomato?” Cam said.

  “The little one?” Herman said.

  “With the red hair?” my father said.

  Sal nodded. “You said fun is good, Ree. So I’m having fun. Look out the window.”

  Cam and I got up and hustled to the window. Sucking on a cigarette in front of the hospital entrance was somebody’s grandmother, improbably red-headed, dressed like a nurse. Despite her age, she had a body to die for and eyeliner you could see from three floors up. “Betty?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Isn’t she somethin’?” Sal said, jumping up to see over my shoulder. “I’m takin’ her for a ride.”

  Cam laughed. “A ride? In what?”

  “What?” my father said. “What? You don’t have no car.”

  Sal pointed. “In that.”

  Parked in front of the hospital was a Harley-Davidson, brand-new, in midnight black. It had sleek onyx curves, gleaming chrome pipes, and a leather seat that reclined like a Castro convertible. It was parked illegally, but the red-jacketed valets gaping at it didn’t seem to mind. I blinked, and blinked again.

  “A motorcycle?” Cam said in disbelief. “Can you drive it?”

  Sal nodded proudly. “Herm taught me how.”

  Herman pushed aside the curtain. “I knew from the service.”

  “A motorcycle?!” my father said. “Did you say a motorcycle?”

  I just kept blinking. I had been through a lot. My boyfriend’s infidelity, sex with a ponytail I hardly knew, a man shot dead before my eyes, and now this. I was out of words. “Betty?” was all I could say.

  “A motorcycle?” my father said. “You bought a motorcycle? Are you fuckin’ nuts, Sal?”

  Sal turned on his stack heel. “I do what I want, Vito. You’re not my boss.”

  Cam and Herman exchanged looks.

  I blinked and blinked.

  “Sal?” my father croaked, thunderstruck. He clutched his incision, at least I thought it was his incision and not his heart.

  “And I didn’t buy it,” Sal added.

  “The motorcycle? Then how’d you get it?” Cam asked.

  I had a guess, but I didn’t want to say. I blinked at Sal, who smiled broadly.

  “They gave it to me for the whole afternoon, Ree. And they even went for the accent.”

  “Betty?” I blurted out.

  At the end of the day, I was left alone with my father. I didn’t have any reason to rush away, and didn’t want to. The floor grew quiet after visiting hours were over and people with more respect for rules had said their good-byes. My father’s eyes closed as I tucked his coverlet under the thick mattress.

  “You shouldn’ta done it, you know,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “I wouldn’ta let you do somethin’ that crazy.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “You coulda been killed, Rita.”

  “So could you, Dad.”

  “Is that why? You think my bein’ here is your fault?”

  Of course. “Nah. You needed the vacation. I’m glad you got shot.”

  He closed his eyes. “Miss Fresh.”

  Thank you, God. “Did you have fun with David and his boyfriend?”

  He smiled drowsily. “They were tellin’ me how to bake bread. They said put carrots in, but I’m gonna leave out the carrots. Carrots don’t belong in bread.”

  “No.”

  “They think I should sell the store. I think so too.”

  Hallelujah. “Good idea, Dad.”

  “I was gonna give it to LeVonne,” he said, but his sentence trailed off and his head dipped to the side. He was falling asleep. I pulled the coverlet down over his feet and he roused slightly. “So what are you gonna do, Rita?”

  “Go to sleep, Dad. You’re half-asleep.”

  “You got a choice to make.”

  He meant Paul or Tobin. I had told him the whole story when we were alone. He had insisted on it, and truth to tell, it felt good to tell somebody.

  “I bet you go back to that jerk.”

  I felt a twinge. “It would help if you kept an open mind about Paul, Dad.”

  “Either way, I love you. So bet me.”

  “On who I end up with?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled in a muzzy way, heavy. lidded as an aged cat. “I’m retiring, I need the cash. Fifty bucks says you marry Paul in a year.”

  “You can’t bet about stuff like that, Dad.”

  “Why not? I raised you better.”

  I laughed. “Fifty dollars?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I hate to take your money, old man.”

  “Hah. You’re just chicken.”

  “Say what? I went after an armed man with a fish knife!”

  “He was a lawyer.”

  “So what?”

  “Like I said,” he said, but dropped off to sleep before I could demand an explanation.

  30

  Sunlight struggled through the leaded-glass windows of Fiske’s library. Classical violins screeched away on the CD player. Central air-conditioning forced frigid gusts onto my sandaled feet. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, my client wanted to play chess. Who says lawyers have it easy?

  I made my first move, pushing a white wooden Pawn up two squares. “Ta-da.”

  “No,” Fiske said.

  “No?”

  “No.” He reached across the chessboard, picked up the little Pawn, and put it back down in front of my Horse.

  “Don’t I get to move my own pieces?”

  “That’s not the opening you want, dear. Remember what I said about dominating the center of the board?”

  No. “Yes.”

  “It’s like playing squash. One dominates the T.”

  “Italians don’t play squash, they eat it. With a little bit of oregano, in olive oil.”

  He smiled, relaxed today in a polo shirt and white cotton cardigan. “You play tennis, don’t you?”

  “No, I work. A lot.”

  He smiled. “But you’ve seen people play tennis. Paul, for example. Paul is a first-rate tennis player.”

  Hmmm. Suddenly I suspected where this was heading, why Fiske had asked me here. And it wasn’t to move Pawns around. Or maybe it was.

  “Unlike some players, Paul knows instinctively when to stay at the baseline and when to charge the net. He has a natural advantage in his height and he exploits it. When he does take the net, he becomes a real threat. Do you know why?”

  Because he’s God’s gift? “No, why?”

  “Because he understands the power of the position. He dominates the court. He’s quick and sure in his reactions and nothing gets past him, not even down the alley. In effect, he takes the center of the board, every time. Like this.” Fiske reached over the chessboard, picked up the Pawn in front of my King, and placed it two spaces in front of its former home. “Do you see what I’m doing?”

  Duh. “Yes.”

  “Now you’ve taken a power position vis-à-vis the rest of the board. You’re asserting dominion. You’ve taken your advantage, being white, and exploited it. In effect, you’ve charged the net.”

  “Ooh, I feel tingly all over.”

  Fiske eased back into his tall leather chair. “Do you know why I didn’t move the Queen’s Pawn?”

  “What if I told you I didn’t give a shit?”

  “I’d tell you anyway.”

  “I figured.” I laughed. Fiske wasn’t really a bad guy, it was just his upbringing. He’d had a stable family, a stone mansion, and a trust fund, when what he really needed was a butcher and a vinyl stool.

  “I didn’t move the Queen’s Pawn because that would have exposed your King and made him vulnerable to attack. Too much risk without good reason.”

  I booed.

  “Exactly.” He smiled, then it faded. “You know, Rita, you took a risk—too much risk—in that gambit of yours at City Hall. I should never have agreed to it.”

 
But you did. “You didn’t have a choice,” I said, and let it go at that.

  “I am grateful to you. Thank you, if I haven’t said so already.”

  “You have, and you’re welcome, but I didn’t do it for you. I did it for me. I had a good reason.”

  He paused. “That’s just what Paul said, you know, when I took him to task for going to City Hall after you. He said he couldn’t just sit back and see you harmed. That’s the kind of man my son is, Rita.”

  I felt a guilty twinge. “I do appreciate what he did.”

  “I know you do. But I also know he’s moved out. He told me you two were having problems. The stress of the trial, the demands of your two careers.”

  I guessed Paul hadn’t told him about Patricia. Wise move. “Is that what he said?”

  He nodded. “He wants to come home, Rita.”

  “I understand that.” Paul left messages on the machine every day, but I didn’t call back.

  “He loves you very much.”

  “I understand that, too.”

  “You have a lot invested in this relationship, a lot of time. You own a house together, you’ve made a life together.”

  Hadn’t I heard this somewhere before? “Like you and Kate.”

  “Yes. Like Kate and me. Although I feel terrible for what happened with Patricia, I’m lucky to have Kate. We’re happy together.”

  I thought of Kate’s French plates, the figures facing each other on the kitchen walls. “And you want me to take Paul back.”

  “I do. Whatever he has done, whatever is your point of disagreement, there is one fact that cannot be denied and certainly shouldn’t be overlooked. He risked his life for you, Rita. He put himself in jeopardy, for you.”

  Ouch. “So I should take him back, out of guilt?”

  “Of course not. But the point is, how many men would do something like that?”

  I thought of Tobin, wondering. “Did Paul put you up to this?”

  “No. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that I put him up to this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s your move, Rita,” Fiske said, and looked beyond me, over my shoulder. I twisted around.

  There, in the open doorway, with a look of surprise on his bruised face, stood Paul.

  31

  My secretary Janine shivered with excitement as she closed the door behind her. “Are you ready?” she asked, mascaraed eyes agleam.

  “Ready.” I nodded and sipped a steaming mug of coffee. It felt good to be in the office again. My gray couch was covered with case files, large trial exhibits were stuffed between the cabinet and chair, and correspondence wafted on my desk in white drifts, like new fallen snow. Everything in disorder. I wiggled my toes happily.

  “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  “Show me, child.”

  “Okay, here goes.” She strode to the front of my desk and yanked up her black blouse to the edge of an orange bra. Sure enough, pierced through the tender pink fold of her navel was a golden ring. It glinted cruelly in the morning sunshine. “Cool, huh?” she bubbled.

  Not what immediately came to mind. I leaned closer and caught a whiff of baby powder and the Body Shop’s vanilla oil. “You did this over the weekend?”

  “Yeah? It’s my sixth hole?”

  “You sound like a golf course.” I stared at her belly button. The new hole looked puffy and red.

  “I have three in one ear, two in the other, and this one makes six?”

  Not counting the one in your head. “Did you put anything on it to clean it, like a salve or antibiotic?”

  “The man put some stuff on it, like Goop?”

  Goop. I was guessing motor oil. “What about this morning, did you put anything on it?”

  “Just spit?”

  Jesus. I’d stop by Thrift Drug for her at lunch. “Did it hurt when he pierced it?”

  “Not hardly?”

  “You mean it hardly hurt?”

  “Right?”

  “You’re brave, child,” I said, meaning it, and Janine beamed down at me over her perforated midriff.

  “Not as brave as you? I mean, I used to think you were kind of, like, boring? Only into work?”

  Oh.

  “But now I think you’re kind of, like, cool. And brave. You totally inspired me.”

  I was more surprised by the form than the substance. “Janine, did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “The way you just said what you said.”

  She nodded. “A sentence goes down at the end. Like you told me.”

  I was about to congratulate her, but just then the door burst open and slammed back against the wall. Janine gasped and dropped her blouse. My managing partner, Mack, was standing in the doorway, puffing like an aging gunslinger in a tight double-breasted suit. I’d expected to hear from him, but not until my second cup of coffee.

  “Knocking is always appreciated,” I offered.

  “We have to talk, Rita,” Mack said sternly, then his gaze shifted to Janine. “Privately.”

  “Oh, let her stay. She’s tougher than the both of us, trust me on this.”

  “Privately,” he repeated, but a jittery Janine was already squeezing past him and out the door, closing it behind her.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” I said, when we were alone.

  “I’m not feeling very nice.”

  “You’re never feeling very nice, Mack.”

  “Wrong. I feel nice when I win.”

  “Me, too.”

  He folded his thick arms over his chest and stepped closer. Mack’s morning smells weren’t as pleasant as Janine’s; he reeked of high finance and double-dealing. “I understand you’re not giving interviews over the Hamilton matter. You canceled the Good Morning America appearance and the Court-TV. What’s the idea?”

  I set down my coffee. “I’m busy. I have my own cases to work and clients to call back, some of whom have been waiting two weeks. And I have to pick up Neosporin for Janine.”

  “None of that is as important as those interviews.”

  “To who? Whom?”

  “To me.”

  “I see. Well, my clients are more important to me. In fact, my secretary’s bellybutton is more important to me.”

  “This isn’t funny, Rita.”

  “I don’t think so either. By the way, did you know that there was no raise in my distribution this month? I opened the envelope this morning and it was exactly the same as before the midcourse correction. Wasn’t I corrected, Mack?”

  “No.”

  “We had a deal, as I remember.”

  “We did not.”

  Dick. “Say what?”

  “You didn’t accept my offer that morning. The Committee made the distributions as they saw fit.”

  “I had my secretary call and tell you the same day!”

  “I didn’t get a message from you or your secretary about that.”

  “But you reassigned my cases.”

  “She didn’t mention anything about the increase.”

  Terrific. Her navel she remembered, my raise she forgot. “So what? You saw I kept the representation, didn’t you? You had me in the papers every day, you got the mileage you wanted. Don’t play games with me, Mack. I deserve that raise.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I understand. No raise, no interviews?”

  “I’m flexing. You impressed?” Turnabout was fair play, wasn’t it? “The whole thing is in your control, Mack.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “It’s your choice, boss.”

  He leaned over the cloth chair in front of my desk. “Christ! What’s the point, Rita? You don’t care about the money. You don’t need the money.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing. General principles. They’re in the United States Code. You got the index?”

  “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  “You don’t understand general principles, Mack? The first one is ‘Keep your word�
�—you said you were going to give me a raise, do it. Another general principle is ‘Don’t quit.’ The third is ‘Don’t fink on your friends.’ And there’s always my personal favorite, ‘Get up and get it yourself.’ Shall I go on?”

  He rolled his eyes. “If I get you the raise, then will you do the interviews?”

  “In a word?”

  He laughed abruptly. “All right.”

  “Then we understand each other.”

  “Hold your horses. I have to clear it with the Committee. That’ll take time.”

  “My Court-TV interview was at three o’clock today. I can reschedule it if you get right back to me. Otherwise who knows when my schedule will allow—”

  “Enough already.” He scowled. “Then we have a deal?”

  “If the number’s right. Why don’t you call me back with an offer? I don’t want to put you on the spot now.”

  Mack turned toward the door, shaking his head. “I should’ve known you’d pull a stunt like this.”

  “Funny, I thought the same thing when I saw my paycheck.”

  “You’re learning, kid,” he said as he opened the door.

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “In a word?” He smirked, and I smirked back. The word I was thinking of was: Not on your life.

  “And Mack?” I called after him. “I want a laptop, too.”

  “Why?”

  “For show. I want to put it on my desk and not use it, like the big boys.”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  I took it as a maybe.

  32

  A lot happened in the next year. My father recovered from his injuries, although his eyesight worsened and he had to have an operation on his Cadillacs. His emotional state rebounded slowly, and he hated to see the shop finally sold. We spent Sunday mornings visiting LeVonne’s grave, but that wound would never heal. My father couldn’t bring himself to accept LeVonne’s death, and I didn’t fault him for this. The murder of a young man should never pass without notice, though it does, every day.

  Uncle Sal and Betty got married and bought his-and-her Harleys. Cam sold the equipment from Lawns ’R Us, took the proceeds to the track, and made a bundle on the Trifecta. Herman amassed a respectable chip collection, and his daughter Mindy became my best friend and maid of honor. By the morning of my wedding day so much had happened I had forgotten about any alleged bet.