“Why is Paul blue, Joel?”
I wasn’t supposed to get the ball, but they crashed down on Joey Schramek, our center, so I kicked out and had the open look. Haden wasn’t planted, so he bought my fake, and, next thing I knew, the ball was sailing through the air and the buzzer was sounding.
“Paul is blue, Molly, because he had his heart broken.”
Swish. I prefer to remember it as a swish.
“Nothing but net,” I say.
“I know who Paul Riley is,” says this woman-Molly, I think it was. “I saw a special on television a couple of weeks ago about Terry Burgos.”
“You hear that, Paul? Molly saw you on TV.”
Okay, so she’s not a pro. Molly, from what I can see at this point, is in her mid to late thirties and wears a decent amount of makeup and her hair is tossed nicely. The outline of her face is oval, and I think the rest of the pieces would measure up pretty nicely if I could see straight. I think if I could see straight, I would also figure her for out of my league. But that’s the thing. Men are all about looks. They seek out the best-looking female in the room and lust after her. I leave open the possibility that women do the same, which is why I hang out with homely people. Still, most women look for more substantive things-
“He seemed very-self-assured,” she tells Lightner.
Exactly. Women go for things like brains and a sense of humor and success and confidence. Guys like me count on it. I’m not much to look at, but I’ve got some smarts and I can crack wise, and I’m a prince of a guy once you get to know me.
“Do you win all your cases?” she asks me.
Joel sits back. He likes that question.
“Yes,” I say.
“Oh, the modesty.” Molly smiles at me and holds her stare on me.
I hold up two fingers. “The second rule in litigation is, settle the ones you can’t win and try the ones you can.”
She opens her hands, still looking at me. When I don’t elaborate, she says, “If everyone followed that rule, you’d never have a trial.”
“First rule is, know the difference.” I wave to the waitress. “Buy you a drink, Molly?”
“I was going to buy you one.”
“Even better.”
Joel Lightner seems happy enough with the developments. It annoys me a little that he looks out for me. “I got that thing I gotta do,” he says. “Molly. My apologies. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
Molly doesn’t resist, gets right out of the seat to allow Joel out. I’m waking up a bit now.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asks when she sits back down.
I don’t. I consider lying, but lying always digs a hole. And I’m too drunk to be creative.
“That’s okay. I was here last week, when you were-not with your friend here but a client, it looked like. You ordered a drink at the bar and made a joke. You made me laugh. You were very nice.”
“And sober,” I add.
“You were sober, I’ll give you that. Maybe you could use some coffee.”
“That’s a better idea.” I push myself out of my seat. “I normally make an excellent first impression. Believe me.”
“You made a good first impression with me.”
Oh, that’s right. I’m actually feeling better than expected, which is probably due to the adrenaline kicking in, fighting through the intoxication. But this really isn’t my thing. I was as celibate as a priest for a good eight, ten years before I met Shelly. Never did the pickup scene. Not ready to start now.
“I think the best course of action here, Molly, is that I put you in a cab.”
She smiles at me like she’s suspicious. “You’re either a gentleman or you’re not interested.”
“I’m neither. But I’m much closer to a gentleman when I’m sober.”
But the truth is, she’s half right. I’m not interested. I’m carrying a torch for someone who has moved onward and upward.
She motions down the way. “I live about three blocks down. Walk me home?”
Three blocks down puts her near Lilly. Sax’s is on the west side, so she must live in one of the lofts that have cropped up out here. She’s probably an artist. Dancer or musician. Dancer would be good.
I like this side of town, in part because it has largely avoided gentrification so far. The near west side is still industrial, with only a handful of excellent bars and restaurants standing out among the construction companies and factories. Even the little modernization that has taken place has been met with resistance from community groups. They put a Starbucks down the road a few months ago and half the neighborhood protested. The other half ordered mocha lattes. The area is getting whiter and trendier. The stampede of progress is running roughshod over the cluster of protesters who wring their hands.
It rained earlier, leaving the damp smell that I love. Small pockets of rainwater fill the potholes that cover the roads out here, where there’s no money, and the aldermen don’t have the mayor’s ear.
“Do you still do criminal cases?” she asks me.
“When I can.” The heater criminal cases are few and far between for a guy like me, because my billable rate is ridiculous, and the only criminal defendants who can afford me are of the white-collar variety, where the injuries are calculated by accountants, not coroners.
“Let’s talk about you,” I suggest.
We turn a corner, down a street of tall buildings that make it feel more like an alley. We walk over long-abandoned railroad tracks embedded in the asphalt, and I’m wondering where she lives. Some of these old warehouses have been converted, but they don’t display any signage. The deal is, these lofts are gorgeous and cheap, but you can’t walk to much, and you’re lucky if you have a view of anything other than the side of a building.
“So?” I ask.
Molly stops, looks up at me, and blushes. At least, I think she blushes. Her face seems to change in the shadows. The street is relatively dark, some illumination from a streetlight to our south, casting a light on her face that highlights the smooth skin, those wonderful eyes looking up at me.
“Let me give you my card,” she says.
“Oh. Great,” I manage, but as she’s reaching into her purse, the shoulder strap on her bag slides off, landing hard on her elbow, and the momentum topples the purse from her hand onto the sidewalk. The purse’s contents spill onto the pavement.
I bend down to help, so we are both in a crouch. This is the part where we look into each other’s eyes and submit to the sexual tension. But I have neither the physical nor mental capacity for that right now, and my heart, alas, belongs to another. So I concentrate on the credit cards and lipstick and money clip and compact on the sidewalk when I probably should be concentrating on the sound of footsteps behind me.
Then it hits me, a tickle in the back of my brain, as I watch her eyes move over my shoulder, her lips part in expectation. I guess she’s a pro after all. Just not the kind I expected.
A split second later, it hits me for real, something hard and metal, on the back of my skull.
15
YOUR BODY IS WARM, Paul. Your body is moving, rising and falling. You’re still alive, unconscious but alive.
She’s running away, trying to escape, but she’s in heels, she can’t move like Leo, he darts down the alley, faster than her, she’s running but he’s catching her, closing ground quickly, here I come, she’s trying to scream but the fear stops her, stops her cries, closes her throat, the only sounds her tortured breathing and her heels going clack-clack-clack on the pavement, clack-clack-clack, but not for long.