Bruce DeSilva - Cliff Walk

Yolanda was more alluring fully clothed than the babes at Shakehouse were naked. I stood there a little longer, trying to come up with a good opening line, but the sight of her had me flustered. She spotted me in the mirror over the bar, tucked the BlackBerry into her purse, and spun toward me, giving me a better look at those perfect legs entwined around the luckiest barstool in town.

I never understood how some women can dress so simply yet ooze elegance. Yolanda was encased in a black silk suit that must have been made for her. Beneath the jacket, buttoned just low enough to jump-start my imagination, no blouse was evident. Instead, a cascade of thin gold chains sparked against skin so black it was nearly blue, and fell there.

“Sit,” she said, patting the adjacent barstool. “Our table will be ready in a couple of minutes.”

I sat and discovered my blazer didn’t fit as well as I thought. The top button strained to hold the fabric across my belly.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

“A wildberry apple vodka Hawaiian sherbet.”

Good God, I thought, but what I said was, “Ready for another?”

“Not quite yet.” Her voice was so smoky I could smell it.

The bartender sidled over, and I asked for a Killian’s. They didn’t carry it, so I settled for a Samuel Adams.

“I hear they gave you Brady Coyle’s old corner office,” I said.

“Yes.”

“And made you a partner.”

“True.”

“Things are working out for you, then.”

“They are.”

“No blowback from that favor you did for me last year?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“No, of course not. It never happened. But if it had happened and you’d gotten caught, which you didn’t, you could have been fired. Even disbarred. I don’t think I ever properly thanked you. That was a noble thing you never did.”

She stared at me now as if she were being accosted by a lunatic. I was about to blabber something equally incoherent when the maître d’ came to the rescue. He seated us at a cozy table for two, and romance was in the air. Or maybe it was just the smell of something spicy she’d dabbed on her skin.

Yolanda studied the menu while an elderly waiter too short to ride the Cyclone at Six Flags fetched fresh drinks and filled our water glasses. I scanned the prices. The Dispatch ’s bean counters might have preferred paying for that blow job.

“Claus,” she said without looking up, “I’ll start with the pan-fried calamari and hot cherry peppers. And for my entrée, the sushi-grade sesame seared tuna with gingered rice.”

“An excellent choice! And for the gentleman?”

“Ah… I’m gonna skip the appetizer and have the signature cheeseburger with fries.”

Claus sniffed at me and went away.

“I’ve been reading about the layoffs at the Dispatch, ” Yolanda said. “I guess they must be clamping down on expense account lunches, too, huh?”

“That they are.”

“Oh, Claus?” She waved the little waiter back. “Scratch the gentleman’s order and bring him the smoked salmon appetizer and the sliced filet mignon with cipollini onions and wild mushrooms.”

“Certainly, madam,” he said. Then he smirked at me and turned away.

“Trying to get me fired?” I said.

“No worries. It’s on the firm.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s against Dispatch policy.”

“And why would that be?”

“Afraid it might make me beholden, I guess.” Her lips parted in a half smile, as if she knew what I wanted to be holdin’.

“So we won’t tell them,” she said.

“Ah,” I said. “You lawyers know all the tricks.”

“Besides,” she said, “this way I can snatch a few morsels from your plate.” And when Claus returned with the appetizers, she pinched a sliver of my salmon with her fingers and popped it into that mouth.

“So I understand you are representing Vanessa Maniella,” I said.

“I’m not at liberty to confirm that.”

“She gave your name to the state police, Yolanda.”

“I can’t confirm that, either.”

“Do you also represent her father?”

“Same answer.”

“He is dead, right?”

“I couldn’t say.” She lifted another chunk of my smoked salmon and added, “I warned you I wasn’t going to be much help.”

“So far, you haven’t been any.”

“Told ya.”

“Except, of course, for the inspiration I get from your presence.”

“There is always that,” she said. That half smile again.

“You know what puzzles me most?” I asked.

“Rap music? Black Republicans? How we lawyers can live with ourselves?”

“Well, yeah, but I was also wondering why Vanessa Maniella refuses to go to the morgue to ID the body.”

“Maybe you should ask her about that.”

“I would,” I said, “but some very large men in her employ have advised against it.”

“I see.”

“I was going to tell them where to go,” I said, “but I was afraid I might scare them to death.”

Claus was back now, refilling water glasses and whisking our empty plates away to the kitchen. Moments later he returned with the entrées, and we dug in.

“Mulligan?”

“Um?”

“Know what puzzles me most?”

“What would that be?”

“Why haven’t you unbuttoned that blazer? It’s obviously a bit tight on you, and I can tell you’re uncomfortable.”

“Not as uncomfortable as I’d be if I unbuttoned it.”

“And why is that?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, it’s like this. There was an old coffee cup on my desk. I thought it was empty, but…”

She was chuckling now, and I hadn’t even reached the good part.

“When I stood up to come here,” I said, “I knocked it over and, uh… I didn’t have time to go home to change.”

“So you have a coffee stain on your nice white shirt.”

“A little spot, yeah.”

“Open up,” she said, nodding toward the groaning button.

“What for?”

“Because it would amuse me.”

“If that’s what it takes,” I said, and unbuttoned the jacket.

“Oh, snap!”

“Yeah.”

“You sure it was just a cup? Looks like the whole damn pot.”

She was laughing harder now, her head thrown back. It made her look even more beautiful.

That’s when Claus reappeared and said, “Are we ready for dessert? Coffee, perhaps?” His timing was impeccable.

“No coffee for me,” I said. “I already have some.”

Yolanda put her elbows on the table, folded her hands, and rested her chin on them.

“You really are charming in a klutzy sort of way.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Claus spotted the stain and smirked at me again.

“Two Irish coffees,” Yolanda told him, “and we’ll share a slice of cheesecake with strawberries.”

“Right away.”

“And Claus?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Stop throwin’ shade at my friend if you expect the usual tip.”

Claus skittered away. I’d never seen anyone skitter before, but I’m pretty sure that’s what it was.

“You didn’t have to defend me,” I said after he’d gone. “I think I could have taken him.”

She rested her chin on her hands again and gave me an appraising look. I tried my best to appear irresistible, no easy thing with my torso drenched in Folgers.

“Hey,” I said, “do you like the blues?”

“I’m a Chicago girl, West Side. Damn right I like the blues. On the drive in from East Greenwich this morning, I jammed all the Littles on my iPod.”

“The Littles?”

“You know. Little Milton, Little Walter, Little Buddy Doyle…”