Sara Paretsky - Indemnity Only

“Suppose you do scare me off? What about the police?” I objected. “Bobby Mallory’s hot on the trail, and whatever his faults, you can’t buy Bobby.”

“I’m not worried about Mallory,” Earl’s voice was back in its normal register, so I concluded the brainstorm was passing. “And I’m not buying you-I’m telling you.”

“Who got you involved, Earl? College kids aren’t part of your turf-unless young Thayer was cutting into your dope territory?”

“I thought I’d just told you not to pry into my affairs,” he said, getting up again. Earl was determined to pound me. Maybe it would be better to get it over with quickly and get out, rather than let him go on for hours. As he came at me, I pulled my foot back and kicked him squarely in the crotch. He howled in anguish and collapsed in a heap on the couch. “Get her, Tony, get her,” he squealed.

I didn’t have a chance against Tony, the doorman. He was trained in the art of working over loan defaulters without showing a mark. When he finished. Earl came hobbling over from the couch. “This is just a taste, Warchoski,” he hissed. “You lay off the Thayer case. Agreed?”

I looked at him without speaking. He really could kill me and get away with it-he’d done it to others. He had good connections with City Hall and probably in the police department, too. I shrugged and winced. He seemed to accept that as agreement. “Get her out, Tony.”

Tony dumped me unceremoniously outside the front door. I sat for a few minutes on the stairs, shivering in the heat and trying to pull myself together. I was violently ill over the railing, which cleared my headache a bit. A woman walking by with a man said, “Disgusting so early in the evening. The police should keep people like that out of this neighborhood.” I agreed. I got to my feet, rather wobbly, but I could walk. I felt my arms. They were sore, but nothing was broken. I staggered over to the inner drive, parallel to Lake Shore Drive and only a block away, and hailed a taxi home. The first one pulled off after a look at me, but the second one took me. The driver clucked and fussed like a Jewish mother, wanting to know what I’d done to myself and offering to take me to a hospital or the police or both. I thanked him for his concern but assured him I was all right.

In the Cool of the Night

I’d dropped my purse by my door when Freddie and I were scuffling, and asked the cabdriver to come upstairs with me to get paid off. Living at the top of the building, I was pretty confident that my bag would still be there. It was, and my keys were still in the door.

The driver tried one last protest. “Thanks,” I said, “but I just need a hot bath and a drink and I’ll be all right.”

“Okay, lady.” He shrugged. “It’s your funeral.” He took his money, looked at me one last time, and went downstairs.

My apartment lacked the splendor of Earl’s. My little hallway had a small rug, not wall-to-wall carpeting, and an umbrella stand rather than a Louis Quinze table. But it also wasn’t filled with thugs.

I was surprised to find it was only seven. It had been only an hour and a half since I had come up the stairs the first time that evening. I felt as though I’d moved into a different time zone. I ran a bath for the second time that day and poured myself an inch of Scotch. I soaked in water as hot as I could bear it, lying in the dark with a wet towel wrapped around my head. Gradually my headache dissipated. I was very, very tired.

After thirty minutes of soaking and reheating the tub, I felt able to cope with some motion. Wrapping a large towel around me, I walked through the apartment, trying to keep my muscles from freezing on me. All I really wanted to do was sleep, but I knew if I did that now I wouldn’t be able to walk for a week. I did some exercises, gingerly, fortifying myself with Black Label. Suddenly I caught sight of a clock and remembered my date with Devereux. I was already late and wondered if he was still there.

With an effort I found the restaurant’s name in the phone book and dialed their number. The maître d’hotel was very cooperative and offered to look for Mr. Devereux in the bar. A few minutes passed, and I began to think he must have gone home when he came onto the line.

“Hello, Ralph.”

“This had better be good.”

“If I tried explaining it, it would take hours and you still wouldn’t believe me,” I answered. “Will you give me another half hour?”

He hesitated; I guessed he was looking for the pride to say no-good-looking guys aren’t used to being stood up. “Sure,” he said finally. “But if you’re not here by eight thirty, you can find your own way home.”

“Ralph,” I said, controlling my voice carefully, “this has been one absolute zero of a day. I’d like to have a pleasant evening, learn a little bit about insurance, and try to forget what’s gone before. Can we do that?”

He was embarrassed. “Sure, Vicki-I mean Vic. See you in the bar.”

We hung up and I looked through my wardrobe for something elegant enough for the Cartwheel, but loose and flowing, and found a string-colored Mexican dress that I’d forgotten about. It was two-piece, with a long full skirt and a woven, square-necked top that tied at the waist and bloused out below. The long sleeves covered my puffy arms and I didn’t have to wear pantyhose or a slip. Cork sandals completed the costume.

Surveying my face under the bathroom light made me want to reconsider going out in public, My lower lip was swollen where Earl’s pinky ring had sliced it, and a purple smudge was showing on my left jaw, extending veinous red lines like a cracked egg along my cheek to the eye.

I tried some makeup; my base wasn’t very heavy and didn’t conceal the worst of the purple but did cover the spidery red marks. Heavy shadow took the focus from an incipient black eye, and dark lipstick, applied more strongly than my usual style, made the swollen lip look pouty and sexy-or might if the lights were dim enough.

My legs were stiffening up, but my daily runs seemed to be paying off-I negotiated the stairs without more than minor tremors. A taxi was going by on Halsted; it dropped me in front of the Hanover House Hotel on Oak Street at 8:25.

This was my first visit to the Cartwheel. To me it typified the sterile place where bright, empty North Siders with more money than sense liked to eat. The bar, to the left of the entrance, was dark, with a piano amplified too loudly, playing songs that bring tears to the eyes of Yale graduates. The place was crowded, Friday night in Chicago. Ralph sat at the end of the bar with a drink. He looked up as I came in, smiled, sketched a wave, but didn’t get up. I concentrated on walking smoothly, and made it to where he sat. He looked at his watch. “You just made it.”

In more ways than one, I thought. “Oh, you’d never have left without finishing your drink.” There weren’t any empty stools. “How about proving you’re a more generous soul than I and letting me have that seat and a Scotch?”

He grinned and grabbed me, intending to pull me onto his lap. A spasm of pain shot through my ribs. “Oh, Jesus, Ralph! don’t!”

He let go of me at once, got up stiffly and quietly, and offered me the barstool. I stood, feeling awkward. I don’t like scenes, and I didn’t feel like using the energy to calm Ralph down. He’d seemed like a guy made for sunshine; maybe his divorce had made him insecure with women. I saw I’d have to tell him the truth and put up with his sympathy. And I didn’t want to reveal how badly Smeissen had shown me up that afternoon. It was no comfort that he would limp in pain for a day or two.