William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

“We’ll have to leave by one-thirty to be there for the opening pitch.”

“All right. To save time, why don’t I pick you up on the corner of Peoria and Twenty-sixth, all right? At one-thirty.”

“You won’t forget?”

“Of course not.” He hesitated. “I promise.”

The man behind the hedge could see the change in Rutherford’s expression, could see his arms tentatively extended. He had undoubtedly hoped his son might give him a hug. The first step on the road to reconciliation. But it was not to be. Having extracted his promise, Abie turned away and ran inside the house.

It would take more than a stupid half-baked promise to fix problems that ran so deep.

Quietly, the man moved away from the hedge, back to the street. What a splendid idea this impromptu visit had been. What a gold mine of information. Now he knew everything he needed to make his dream a reality. To claim another conquest.

He took a ballpoint pen and wrote himself a note on his wrist. Peoria and Twenty-sixth. One-thirty.

He’d be there.

16

JUST ABOUT THE TIME Ben had finally managed to fall asleep, he was awakened by the bristly sensation of whiskers on stubbled cheek.

Giselle, natch.

“Giselle,” he mumbled, eyelids closed, “do me a favor and … go away. ” Nothing personal, Ben thought, but that kid of Julia’s kept me up almost all night. Whoever invented the phrase slept like a baby obviously never had one.

He rolled over and pulled the pillow on top of his head. It was no use. Giselle was insistent. It was breakfast time, and she would not take go away for an answer. She insinuated her wet nose between the pillow and Ben’s face.

She’s awfully scratchy this morning, Ben thought. And then it hit him.

He shot bolt upright, bug-eyed. “ Giselle! ”

Her mouth was empty. He ripped the covers off his bed and searched.

Thankfully, there did not appear to be any mangled remains of wildlife foolish enough to come near Giselle’s piece of the roof. Giselle wasn’t bringing him another victim. She was just hungry.

Relieved, Ben stumbled to his closet and threw on a robe. He opened his back window and inhaled the fresh morning air. Well, he inhaled the air, anyway. It was a pity they kept those trash bins just below his window.

Out the window, pressed up against the building, Ben saw Joni Singleton in a romantic clinch with a tall black teenager about her age. Joni and her twin sister, Jami, lived with their parents, and their two-year-old brothers, also twins, in one of the other apartments in the building. How they all managed to coexist in a space barely bigger than Ben’s he did not understand.

Overcoming a mild pang of guilt, he watched the two smooch for a while. They talked and kissed, talked and kissed. Mostly kissed. They appeared very comfortable with one another. Probably not a first date.

Ben closed the window and left them alone. He hadn’t heard anything about this new boyfriend; he suspected it was a closely guarded secret. An interracial romance—bet Joni’s parents will be thrilled about that.

He made a quick stop in the bathroom, humming his way down the hallway. “A country dance was being held in a garden. …” “Polka Dots and Moonbeams” was an old tune from the 1920s. Ben couldn’t remember where he had learned it, but somewhere along the line it had become his favorite song. “Suddenly I saw … polka dots and moonbeams … all around a pug-nosed dream. …”

He wandered into the kitchen and opened a can of Feline’s Fancy. He was just reaching for the Cap’n Crunch when he heard the door buzzer.

He checked the clock over the oven. It was barely seven. This could only be Mrs. Marmelstein.

Mrs. Marmelstein owned the boardinghouse. She and her husband had moved to Tulsa decades ago and made a fortune in the oil business. They traveled the world, bought and sold ritzy Utica Hills real estate, and generally lived high off the hog. A little too high, as it turned out. In the mid-Seventies, Mr. Marmelstein passed away, and in the early Eighties, the oil business imploded. When the dust had settled, Mrs. Marmelstein had almost no money left, and her only remaining property was this third-rate house in one of the least desirable neighborhoods in Tulsa.

Ben opened the front door. Mrs. Marmelstein was wearing a green print dress with a lace collar. Her silver-gray hair was tied back in a bun.

She looked at him sternly. “Benjamin Kincaid.”

“That’s me,” Ben said amiably.

She wagged her head back and forth. “Ben-ja-min Kin-caid.”

“Is there going to be more to this conversation? You know, it is rather early. …”

She made a tsking noise. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear?”

“Ah … hear what?”

“Benjamin, I’m sixty-nine years old. I know what a baby sounds like.”

“Oh, the baby!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “That reminds me, could you talk a little softer?”

“And what may I ask would you be doing with a baby?”

“Well, that’s kind of complicated. …”

“No doubt.” She folded her arms disapprovingly. “You know, Ben, I’ve been very liberal with you. I think we both know I’ve … shall we say … relaxed my standards where you’re concerned. I’ve allowed your police friends to tromp through my house on several occasions. And I’ve permitted unchaperoned visitation by that … redhead.”

Ben suppressed a smile. He wasn’t sure if Mrs. Marmelstein disapproved of Christina because she was a single working woman, because she dropped by Ben’s place at all hours of the day and night, or simply because she was a redhead. “You’ve been very generous to me, Mrs. Marmelstein. No two ways about it.”

“Well, of course, you’ve helped me here and there as well.” Here and there wasn’t the half of it. Since he had moved in, Ben had taken over the management of her beleaguered finances, which typically involved cooling off creditors (a task with which Ben was singularly familiar), juggling bills, and occasionally slipping a few bucks of his own money into her petty-cash envelope. Unfortunately, even though Ben knew Mrs. Marmelstein wasn’t rich anymore, Mrs. Marmelstein hadn’t quite figured it out yet. “And I have always been grateful for your assistance. But now I simply must draw the line.”

“At what?”

“At …” Her head trembled. “Babies.”

“You don’t allow babies? The Singletons have two!”

“Yes, but that’s different, isn’t it?” She leaned forward. “Benjamin Kincaid, we both know that you are not married!”

The corners of Ben’s mouth slowly turned up. “Mrs. Marmelstein, allow me to explain—”

She raised a hand. “That’s hardly necessary. I know how babies come into the world. And I know boys will be boys. But I expected a bit more discretion from you.”

“Really, Mrs. Marmelstein, it isn’t at all—”

“Even if such an … accident had to occur, you should have done the decent thing and married the poor girl. It was that redhead, wasn’t it?”

“Mrs. Marmelstein, Christina and I are just good friends and coworkers. The baby belongs to my sister, Julia. Joey’s my nephew.”

“He’s—” Her expression could not have been much different if she’d been hit by a truck. “Oh. Well, that changes things, doesn’t it?” She shuffled her hands awkwardly. “Why are you keeping the baby?”

“I’m not entirely clear on that myself. …”

“How long will he be staying?”

“I’m not sure. It may be a while.”

Mrs. Marmelstein frowned. “Well, if he’ll be here longer than a week, let me know. There’ll have to be a rent adjustment, you know.”

“Naturally.”