Phillip Margolin - Fugitive

Charlie knew he should say no, but the girl ducked beneath the sheets and the touch of her lips banished all knowledge of the English language from his brain.

Dunthorpe was an affluent community on the outskirts of Portland, and Charlie’s seminar had been hosted in a Tudor mansion surrounded by several acres of lawn and trees. The mansion was bigger than some he’d been in since he’d become a celebrity and smaller than others. When he was in these penthouses, mansions, and estates, he felt like Alice in Wonderland. He was rich beyond his wildest dreams, but since he’d started holding his seminars he’d met people compared to whom he was a pauper. Where did all this money come from?

There was something else that seemed surreal. Charlie had grown up poor. There were evictions, there were times when there wasn’t enough food, and there was violence in his neighborhood and his life. He’d always thought that his problems would be solved if he were rich, but these people were rich and they looked to him for help in finding happiness. He didn’t get it.

Charlie was rarely alone during his year and a half in prison or the whirlwind his life had become since regaining his freedom, and he’d come to treasure the rare moments of peace and quiet he was able to salvage from his hectic existence. As soon as he finished signing copies of his book, Charlie slipped through the French windows in the library to get a breath of fresh air. There was a flower garden on the far side of the spacious lawn. Charlie wandered across the manicured grass in its direction. Delmar Epps, a muscular ex-heavyweight boxer Mickey Keys had hired, followed far enough behind to give Charlie the illusion of privacy and close enough to fulfill his duties as a bodyguard.

Everything had gone as Mickey had predicted. The authorities had refused to let Charlie be involved in the negotiations with the prisoners, so he shared none of the blame when two guards and several inmates died in a bloody shoot-out. Charlie was able to go on television and pontificate about the way things might have ended if he had been allowed to bring inner peace to the rebellious souls of the prisoners. As a result of the publicity, Charlie had packed the convention center for a citywide seminar that had brought in a tidy sum. They had also done well in Dunthorpe at this second seminar aimed at a more select audience.

After initially bitching and moaning about having to fly to the boonies, Charlie had finally conceded that he was glad Mickey had dragged him to Portland. Oregon had been a revelation for a man who had been reared in bleak, urban poverty and had just emerged from the gray of prison to take up residence in the concrete caverns of Manhattan. There were clear blue skies here, emerald green grass, and a never-ending vista of trees and flowers. The summer air was warm and unpolluted, and Charlie breathed it in, savoring a gentle breeze as he crossed the lawn.

A high hedge of arborvitae divided the lawn from the garden and muffled a spirited conversation. Charlie wanted to be alone, so he started to change direction. He stopped when a woman’s voice rose in anger. Charlie took a step into the garden and peered around the hedge. A man in tan slacks and a forest green polo shirt was arguing with a woman in a light blue dress held up by spaghetti straps.

The man, who looked to be in his late twenties, was tan and fit, with the wide shoulders and slender waist of an athlete. Charlie didn’t recognize him. But the woman was definitely familiar. She’d stood behind most of the guests at the seminar, wearing a bemused smile that told him she wasn’t buying one word of his bullshit. Charlie also remembered the woman because she was stunningly beautiful, with caramel-colored, shoulder-length hair and blue eyes that reminded him of the clear Caribbean waters he’d seen in a television commercial.

“You’re not listening, Tony,” the woman snapped. “I don’t want you bothering me. Do I have to talk to someone at the club to get you to leave me alone?”

The woman started to leave, but Tony grabbed her wrist.

“Brushing me off isn’t going to be that easy, Sally.”

Sally stopped and turned slowly until her face was inches from his.

“Take your hands off of me,” she said, emphasizing each word in an icy tone that would have frozen fire.

Emboldened by Delmar’s presence and the possibility of getting in the blonde’s pants, Charlie decided to inject himself into this volatile situation.

“Yeah, motherfucker,” Charlie said in his best prison don’t fuck-with-me voice. “Unhand the lady.”

Tony took one look at Charlie’s unimposing appearance and laughed.

“‘Motherfucker’? My, my, and here I thought you were in favor of peace and love, Swami.”

Thanks to Freddy Clayton, Charlie hadn’t been in any fights in prison and very few on the outside, but he’d seen quite a few and had made a mental list of what worked and what didn’t. Charlie shot a fast right over Sally’s shoulder and connected with the tip of Tony’s nose, a very delicate part of the anatomy that hurts like hell when mashed. Tony’s hands flew up to his nose just as Delmar imposed his bulk between Charlie and the wounded man. The ex-boxer grabbed the fabric at Tony’s neck in one massive fist and twisted.

“This gentleman bothering you, boss?” he asked Charlie as he peeled back his jacket with his free hand so Tony could see the fancy, ivory-handled revolver wedged in his waistband.

“No, he isn’t bothering anyone anymore,” Charlie answered. “Send the gentleman on his way, Delmar, and see to his nose if it’s broken.”

Delmar dragged Tony out of the garden and Charlie turned toward the woman.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I’ve seen worse,” she answered coolly, “and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

Charlie was surprised. He’d assumed that a society woman would be terrified and sexually aroused by violence, but this one seemed more amused than horrified. She tilted her head and studied Charlie for a moment.

“I assume these heroics were a prelude to an attempt to fuck me,” she said.

“What?!”

“Didn’t any of the ninnies at the seminar want to jump in the sack with you after hearing your patter about inner lights and personal peace?”

“I don’t…”

The woman laughed. “Looks like I’ve got you rattled.”

“Hey, when you’ve done the things I’ve done and made it through prison in one piece, nothing rattles you,” Charlie said, trying to recapture some of the high ground.

“Do tell, tough guy. Well, we’ll see. Witnessing these manly fisticuffs has made me hot,” she said in a voice devoid of sexual desire. “Think you’re ready to prove how manly you really are or do I have to hunt up someone else?”

“Yeah, okay, I’m with you,” was the best he could come back with. Charlie was usually the animal prowling the jungle for pussy. But this woman made him feel like prey.

“Then let’s get out of here. Tony’s such a jackass that he might call the cops, so it’s better if you’re not around.” She tossed him her car keys. “These are for my Porsche. You drive.”

SALLY POPE’S HOME wasn’t as grand as the mansion they’d just left but it wasn’t a shack either.

“Nice digs,” Charlie said as soon as Sally turned on the lights so he could see the stone entryway and the curved staircase that led to the second floor.

Sally didn’t waste time replying. She dropped her purse on a small table near the door and moved in on Charlie. He could feel the firmness of her breasts against his chest. Her hand slid down to his crotch and he was starting to lose it when he noticed a catcher’s mitt and a plastic bat lying on the entryway floor.