William Kienzle - Requiem for Moses

“You would?”

“I never even thought of killing anything but maybe an animal. Not a human being. But if I could get close to Green, I’d think of what he did to you, and then I could kill him. I know I could.”

She looked at him unblinkingly. She was utterly serious. “I was ashamed to tell you … but … after I called him and he just laughed and hung up on me … well, I actually started to plan on how to get to him. I mean, I know I can get through to him on the phone. I think I could arrange to meet him someplace. Then, with nobody else around, I’d kill him.”

Stan was shocked. “You could do that? You would do that?”

“As long as I didn’t get caught. I’d have to plan it very carefully, but …” She shrugged. “Then I think maybe I’m daydreaming. But if it’s a daydream, at least it seems to help. I think of killing him. I think of him dead. And I feel better.”

“Maybe …” Stan said, “maybe we could do it together.”

“What?”

“Together. Maybe we could do it together. If you can arrange to be alone with him, maybe you could arrange for me to be there too. Maybe together we could do it.”

“You’re … you’re serious!”

“I think I am. I’d just have to keep thinking of what he did to you.”

“This is dangerous.”

“I know. We’d have to plan it carefully … very carefully. So we wouldn’t get caught. We don’t want to spend the rest of our lives in jail-separated.”

“That too. But … actually killing somebody? We’d have to search deep inside to see if we could really do it. Once we get him alone, that’s no time to wonder whether we could do it.” Her chin was firmly set. “I could do it as easy as stepping on a bug.”

They both laughed.

She started to stroke him. He smiled as he slid down into the bed alongside her.

Foreplay seemed unnecessary. They discovered that murder could be an aphrodisiac. “One for the road,” he whispered.

“I really think,” Betsy Dorsey said, “that the problem of Detroit is in the neighborhoods. The city administration should work from one neighborhood to the next-one area at a time. Paint and repair each house- or if the house is beyond rehab, tear it down. Fix the sidewalks, repave the streets, plant some trees. It’s the only logical way of doing it as far as I can see.”

Jake Cameron wiggled, trying to get comfortable. He was bored.

Betsy read … a lot. That had been established during the hot and cold hors d’oeuvre course. Through the piece de resistance the fact that she could hold-nay, preferred-an intelligent conversation on just about any topic was evident.

This disturbed Jake. It wasn’t that Jake wasn’t up on current affairs. Actually, he had an opinion on the rehabilitation of Detroit that was antithetical to Betsy’s. It was Jake’s conviction that clearing the city neighborhood by neighborhood was like squeezing a tube of toothpaste. Push them out of one ‘hood and the bums would land in the next. Much earlier, the city had tried something like that in cleaning up Michigan Avenue downtown. That created the slums in Second and Third Streets and Cass Corridor.

Jake was perturbed. Betsy was a woman; it was unseemly that she be intelligent and well read. In his life, he’d had only one intelligent mistress-Margie. And that hadn’t worked out well at all. He was going to do his very best to bed Betsy ere this night was finished. He thought it rather incongruous to expect a couple to move directly from capital gains taxes to pillow talk. And what sort of foreplay is Tudor architecture and interior design, anyway?

“Is this a great restaurant or what?” he nonsequitured.

Betsy looked about, seemingly for the first time. Actually, she had done a quick study of the place the moment they’d entered. “It is, indeed, Mr.- uh, Jake. I had no idea this was here. I mean in the city of Pontiac!”

“Yeah, this Pike Street Restaurant is one of the best in this whole area. Sometimes people don’t even consider it ‘cause it’s in Pontiac. But, just you wait, Betsy: Pontiac is on the way back. This place is gonna be jumpin’ one of these days.”

“I couldn’t argue with you, Jake.”

Somehow her agreeing with him made Jake a bit more sure of himself. He’d have to watch that; after all, she was only a broad.

“In fact,” he said, “I just nailed down some property here. Someday it’s gonna be Virago III.”

“No! What a marvelous idea!”

Her enthusiasm was invigorating. No doubt about it; he almost felt like going out and laying the cornerstone right now. He’d have to get a rein on this stuff.

He had finished his Delmonico steak. She toyed with the remains of her baked salmon.

“You don’t like the fish?”

“It’s fine … great. I just had too many hors d’oeuvres.” She smiled. “You don’t want me getting fat.”

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. But now that she mentioned it, the image of an obese Betsy was enough to take away his appetite. He wondered if fat was in her genetic design. Her mother had been a dancer. Was Mama fat? Was fat inherited? “To be honest, Betsy, I figure fat on a woman is gross. God made women to be beautiful. And fat ain’t beautiful. Just the thought of a fat broad on one of my stages is disgusting.”

She made no response.

“Your mother,” he said finally, “you said she was a dancer.”

“Yes, she was.”

“What was her name? Her stage name?”

“Ginger … Ginger Dorsey. That was her stage name. Also her married name. Her maiden name was LaFleur.”

French. He liked French. There seemed to be something inherently sexy about the French-men and women. “Your dad?”

“They’re divorced. I was about ten when he left. Mother raised me alone. Taught me everything I know … certainly everything I know about dancing.”

“Your mother keep her figure?”

She almost blushed. “Why all this interest in my mother? Were you thinking of offering her a job?”

“Not till this minute. But now that you mention it, it might be worth considering. Mother and daughter, dancing on the same stage! There’s Naomi and Wynonna Judd-but they’re singers. I can’t think of any mother-daughter dancers … certainly not big-time. Do you two live together?”

“No, I live in Troy; she’s in St. Clair Shores.”

“Clear across town.” So much for getting a look at Mama, let alone a chance at her, tonight.

Oh, well, the daughter should be enough for now.

“Is Ginger working?”

“She’s a free-lance model. She gets lots of work. I think you’ll recognize her when you see her.”

“I can hardly wait.”

Their waitress appeared, suggesting dessert, but neither wanted anything else. Jake took care of the check.

It went without saying that Jake would drive Betsy home.

She invited him in. He accepted.

She seemed in no hurry to abandon the vertical position. Why was this beginning to remind Jake of his memorable evening with the underaged Judith? It couldn’t be happening to him again, could it? What were the odds?

She brought coffee. She knew where all this was going to end, but, what was the hurry? Then she noticed that Jake was getting antsy. Best not to drag things out.

By no means was it Betsy’s first time. But it was her first time with a man as experienced as Jake. That made her a little nervous. The moment was awkward.

Jake broke the ice: “Did you want to slip into something more comfortable?”

“Sure. The next time you see me, I’ll have nothing to wear.” As she stepped into the bedroom, she looked back at Jake with an elaborate wink.

While she was gone, he walked around the room as though looking at it for the first time. Nice furnishings, nothing fancy.