Lisa Scottoline - Running From The Law

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.

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.

“You’re out of your mind,” I told my father. “What bet?”

“We made a bet, Rita,” he said. “You and me.” He squinted at the mirror through his new glasses and straightened his rented bow tie. We were getting ready to go into the private anteroom at the Horticultural Center in Fairmount Park.

“I didn’t make any bet with you.” I stood next to him, appraising myself in the mirror. An ivory sheath that fit only when I inhaled, more crow’s-feet than last year, and a horrified expression. I was ready to be married. “I wouldn’t bet about a thing like that.”

“My daughter?”

“All right, maybe I would.” And even though I was getting married, I hadn’t quit poker. With a great deal of prodding, my future husband decided he would at least try the game and join us on Tuesday nights. “But I still don’t remember any bet.”