William Bernhardt - Perfect Justice

The teenage girl shot daggers at Belinda with her eyes. “I don’t understand why you’re sticking up for this stupid chink.”

Barbara, the older woman, pushed the girl aside. “The lady still owes us seven dollars and fifty-two cents. Do you have that much, ma’am?”

The Vietnamese woman stared back expressionlessly. It was obvious she wasn’t following any of this.

“Here’s ten more bucks,” Belinda said, tossing the bill across the counter. “Keep the change.”

The teenage girl stomped back into the kitchen.

After they were given a chilly seating by Barbara, Ben said, “Well, that was disturbing.”

“That,” Belinda said, “was the entire race-hatred problem in a nutshell. It starts as a stupid misunderstanding. The stranger makes a mistake, the local makes a mistake. It’s a minor incident. But tonight that teenage girl will tell her daddy about how that Vietnamese lady tried to rob the restaurant, and how she got in trouble with her boss as a result. Daddy will say, yeah, I’m not getting paid as much for my chickens as I used to, either. Pretty soon, every time something goes wrong in their lives, it’ll be the fault of the Vietnamese.”

“And then ASP gets invited to town.”

Belinda nodded. “That’s about the size of it.”

Ben and Belinda maintained an animated conversation all through dinner. He was amazed at how much he had to say to her—and how easily the words came. He was not normally a smoothie with the fair sex; on the contrary, he was prone to stutter, trip over the carpet, and inadvertently insult his date’s mother, all in the first minute. But tonight seemed to be going fine. He and Belinda liked all the same books (Bleak House, Wuthering Heights) and the same movies (Twelve Angry Men, To Kill a Mockingbird). They believed in the same things.

They liked each other.

Ben was halfway through dinner before he noticed Christina was sitting two tables away from them. She was with a large group of people—fellow boarders at Mary Sue’s, probably. Contrary to his own chilly reception from Silver Springs, Christina appeared to be getting along famously with the local populace. They were chatting amiably, laughing at her jokes.

The kid sitting next to Christina looked familiar. Ben stretched forward to get a clearer view. It was Garth Amick!—the kid who slid on the brass knuckles every time Ben came into view. It seemed Christina had no such problem.

After finishing cashew chicken that contained more celery than cashews or chicken, and moo goo gai pan that was mostly rice, Ben and Belinda called for coffee.

“Actually that wasn’t bad,” Ben said, “although it wasn’t Ri Le’s. When you come to Tulsa, I’ll take you there.”

“I’d like that.”

The waiter returned with coffee and fortune cookies. “Can I take your plate?” he asked Belinda.

“Oh, not yet. I want to save the leftovers.”

“I’ll bring you a doggie bag.”

“Never mind. I have my own.” She opened her purse, withdrew one of several small plastic bags, and scraped in the leftover moo goo gai pan.

“You carry your own doggie bags with you?” Ben asked.

“Waste not, want not. That’s what my aunt always said. I suppose I don’t really have to do this anymore, but old habits die hard.” She filled the bag, sealed it, and carefully put it back in her purse. “Deep down I guess I’m always afraid I’ll go bust, and I’ll be back to stealing candy bars from Mr. Carney’s drugstore just to get through the night.”

“You didn’t really do that, did you?”

“I’m pleading the fifth.” She stirred her slow-drip coffee and poured it over ice.

Ben followed suit. “How did you come to found Hatewatch?”

“After I managed to get through law school and survive my first marriage—which was a major-league disaster—I started looking for ways to use my degree to make a meaningful contribution. I’d seen how bad life was for some people, and I was determined to do what I could to make life better for them. I started at the Southern Poverty Law Center, then worked for some other organizations that are fighting hate groups and organized racism. I actually met Morris Dees—now there’s a modern-day hero if ever there was one. He does great work, but he can’t do it all alone. That’s why I started Hatewatch five years ago.”

“Only five years ago? For such a relatively new organization, it’s been amazingly successful.”

“Too successful, as far as some people are concerned. Such as Grand Dragon Dunagan. The Supreme Court said penalty enhancement for hate crimes was constitutional in Wisconsin versus Mitchell, and we’ve made the most of that in criminal and civil cases. This is the third time Hate watch has come up against one of Dunagan’s little hate camps. ASP has gone after Hispanics in Florida, blacks in Birmingham, and now the Vietnamese. Torture, rape, murder—they’ve done it all. Not exactly boy scouts. Hey, I haven’t opened my fortune cookie yet.”

She broke the shell and read the message. “ ‘Soon you will cross over the great waters.’ ” She frowned. “Well, I don’t care much for the sound of that.”

“Relax,” Ben assured her. “Probably means you’re going to Bermuda.” He cracked open his own cookie. “ ‘Birds are entangled by their feet, and men by their hearts.’ ” Ben grimaced. “I think these cookies came from the Transylvania factory. I’m surprised the management permits this. Restaurants usually screen out anything that might possibly upset the clientele.”

“Did you major in restaurateuring?”

“Music, actually. How about you?”

“Funny you should ask.” A delightful smile played upon her lips. “Why don’t you come up to my place, and I’ll give you a demonstration?”

Ben looked at her warily. “Is this dangerous?”

“No.” She took his hand in hers. “The dangerous part will be sneaking you into my room while Mary Sue isn’t watching.”

“Are you sure about this?” Ben said through the bathroom door.

“Positive,” Belinda replied. “Get out here.”

“Well … turn down the light.”

“They’re down. I can barely see the table.”

“And you’re looking the other way?”

“And my eyes are shut—cross my heart and hope to die. Would you get out here already?”

Ben opened the bathroom door slightly and confirmed that she was looking the other way. He tiptoed out of the bathroom. He had stripped down to his boxer shorts. Actually Belinda had instructed him to strip, period , but there was no way he was parting with his shorts. A boy had to have some modesty.

He lay flat on the table and pulled the towel over him. “Okay. I’m in position.”

“Good.” Belinda turned around and smiled. “Cute boxers.”

“How … ?” Ben yanked the corner of the towel over his rear. “I never met anyone who majored in massage therapy before.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat.” She placed her hands on his shoulders. “Didn’t I say I wanted to make a meaningful contribution to the world? Now, this is an example of a Swedish massage.”

“Perfect,” Ben murmured as she soothed his neck and shoulders. “I’m feeling very Swedish tonight.”

“The Swedish massage derives from Chinese techniques of physical manipulation. It’s composed of five basic strokes—the effleurage, the petrissage, friction, tapotement, and vibration.”

“A massage and a lecture,” Ben said. “Such a deal.”

She began the effleurage, which, she explained, involved long, gliding strokes in the direction of the heart. “Boy, are you tense!” She moved her hands systematically down his back. “Your muscles are really knotted up.”