“Well, Mr. Brody, I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Deborah Lincoln said. “I’ll ask your secretary to call me a taxi.”
T. Jefferson stood. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Mrs. Lincoln.”
“Please call me Deborah.”
“Deborah. It’s such a shame that the tragedy to your husband … I hope the police weren’t too rough.”
“Oh,” she said with a slight grimace, “they certainly weren’t pleasant. Almost suggested I’d hired it done. They said it was a professional killing.” She tried to grin. “It certainly didn’t help that Judson was killed on the stoop of his bimbo’s house, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand,” Brody said gravely and reached for her hand. She let him take it.
“You know, I’m not sure how to say this, but I have the feeling that things will go well for you from now on.”
“Well, I hope so. With the business sold and all. That certainly is a load off my mind. I know nothing at all of Judson’s business, Mr.—”
“Jefferson, please.”
“Jefferson, and your people paid what the business was worth, I believe.” She took her hand back and looked again at the paintings and the sculpture. “Such a nice office.”
“What say — how about I buy you dinner? Could I do that for you?”
She looked at him with surprise. “Why, Mr. — Jefferson. So nice of you to ask. Why, yes, I’d like that.”
Brody looked at his watch, a Rolex. “Almost four o’clock. I think we’ve done enough business for today. Perhaps we might go to a little place I know for drinks, then dinner afterward, when we’re hungry?”
“You’re very thoughtful.”
The evening turned out to be one of the most pleasant that T. Jefferson Brody could remember. The beautiful black woman with the striking figure was a gifted conversationalist, Brody concluded, a woman who knew how to put a man at ease. She kept him talking about his favorite subject — T. Jefferson Brody — and drew from him a highly modified version of his life story. Professional triumphs, wealthy clients, vacations in Europe and the Caribbean — with a few drinks in him Brody waxed expansive. As he told it his life was a triumphant march ever deeper into the palace of wealth and privilege. He savored every step because he had earned it.
After dinner — Chateaubriand for two of course — and a $250 bottle of twelve-year-old French wine, Jefferson Brody seated the widow Lincoln and her magnificent rack of tits in his Mercedes and drove her to his humble $1.6 million abode in Kenwood.
He led her through the house pronouncing the brand names of his possessions as if they were the names of wild and dangerous game he had stalked and vanquished in darkest Africa while armed only with a spear. Majolica plates from Rosselli, trompe-l’oeil paneling, Italian leather sofas and chairs, Jesurum lace tablecloth and bed linen, two original Chippendale chairs, Fabergé eggs — they were trophies, in a way, and it would not be overstatement to say that he loved them.
After the tour, he led her back to the den where he fixed drinks. She had a vodka tonic and he made himself a scotch and soda. With the lights dimmed and the strains of a Dvorak CD floating from the Klipsch speakers, T. Jefferson Brody ran his fingertips along the widow’s thigh and kissed her willing lips.
Three sips of scotch and three minutes later he went quietly to sleep. The remains of his drink spilled down his trouser leg and onto the Kashan carpet.
Mrs. Lincoln managed to lever herself out from under Brady’s bulk and find a light switch. She refastened her brassiere and straightened her clothes, then made a telephone call.
When Jefferson Brody awoke sunlight was streaming through the window. He squinted mightily against the light and rashly tried to move, which almost tore his head in half. His head was pounding like a bass drum, the worst hangover of his life.
“My God …”
His memory was a jumble. Deborah Lincoln, with the sublime tits … she was in — no, she was here. Here! In his house. They were kissing and he had his hand … and nothing! There was nothing else. His mind was empty. That was all he could remember.
What time is it?
He felt for his watch. Not on his wrist.
The Rolex! Not on his wrist!
T. Jefferson Brody pried his eyes open, gritting his teeth against the pain in his head. His watch was missing. He looked around. The TV and VCR were gone. Where the Klipsch speakers had stood only bare wires remained. His wallet lay in the middle of the carpet, empty. Oh God …
He staggered into the dining room. The doors to the china cabinet were ajar, and the cabinet was bare! The Spode china, the silver and crystal—gone!
“I’ve been robbed!” he croaked. “God fucking damn, I’ve been robbed!”
He lurched into the living room. The Fabergé eggs, the engravings, everything small enough to carry, all gone!
The police! He would call the police. He made for the kitchen and the phone on the counter.
A newspaper was arranged over the phone. He tossed it aside and picked up the receiver while he tried to focus on the buttons.
Something red on the newspaper caught his eye. A big red circle around a photo, a photo of a fat, frumpy black woman. The circle — it was lipstick! He bent to stare at the paper. Yesterday’s Post. The picture caption: “Mrs. Judson Lincoln, at National Airport after her husband’s funeral, reflected on the many civic contributions to the citizens of Washington made by the late Mr. Lincoln, a District native.”
“Lemme get this straight, Tee. You paid this woman you thought was Mrs. Lincoln four hundred grand. You took her to dinner. She slipped you a Mickey last night and cleaned out your house?”
“Yeah, Bernie. The papers she signed are worthless. Forgeries. I don’t know who the hell she is, but I’m sitting here looking at a photo of Mrs. Judson Lincoln in yesterday’s paper, and the broad who signed the papers and took the money ain’t her.”
“Did she have nice tits, Tee?”
“Yeah, but—”
Bernie Shapiro had a high-pitched, nasal he-he-he laugh that was truly nauseating if you were suffering from the aftereffects of a Mickey Finn. Brody held the telephone well away from his ear. Shapiro giggled and snorted until he choked.
“Listen, Bernie,” Brody protested when Shapiro stopped coughing, “this isn’t so damned funny. She’s got your money!”
“Oh, no, Tee. She’s got four hundred grand of your money! We gave you our four hundred Gs to buy that goddamn check cashing company, and you had better do just precisely that with it. You got forty-eight hours, Tee. I expect to see documents transferring title to that business on my desk within forty-eight hours, and they goddamn well better be signed by the real, bona fide, genuine Mrs. Judson widow Lincoln. Are you on my wavelength?”
“Yeah, Bernie. But it would sure be nice if you helped me catch up with this black bitch and get the money back.”
“You haven’t called the cops, have you?”
“No. Thought I oughta talk to you first.”
“Well, you finally did something right. I’ll think about helping you catch up with the broad, Tee, but in the meantime you had better get cracking on the Lincoln deal. I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Sure. Sure, Bernie.”
“Tell me what this woman looked like.”
Brody did so.
“This lawyer with her, what’d he look like?”
Brody described Jeremiah Jones right down to his shoelaces and bad teeth.
“I’ll think about it, Tee, maybe ask around. But you got forty-eight hours.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t do nothing stupid.” The connection broke.
Jefferson Brody cradled the receiver and picked up the ice bag, which he held carefully against his forehead. It helped a little. Maybe he should take three more aspirins.