Injustice for All (5 page)

She accepted my remark as a form of absolution. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“What will you do if you resign from the board?”

She shrugged. “Something,” she replied. “Homer told me tonight he’ll see to it that I don’t get a penny.”

“That’s just a threat. He can’t get away with it. You have an attorney. He’ll see that you get a fair shake.”

She laughed. “You don’t understand. Homer Watkins’ name isn’t up in lights. He doesn’t make headlines, but he’s a mover and shaker in this state. Stone-cold broke, he can still pull enough strings to get anything he wants, including electing his son lieutenant governor. I’ll be lucky to get out of the house with the clothes on my back.”

“I have an attorney,” I offered. “Maybe he could help.” I was thinking about Ralph Ames, who even then was preparing for a custody hearing to wrest my partner’s two kids out of a religious cult in Broken Springs, Oregon.

Ginger smiled, condescendingly. “How far do you think I’d get paying for an attorney on my own? It takes money to fight the system. I won’t have any.”

“Ames would do it if I asked him. He’s from Arizona. Phoenix. He handles all my personal affairs. Let him take a look at your situation. It wouldn’t cost you anything.”

A smile flickered around the comer of her mouth. “Beau, listen to me. These are big-time lawyers with big-time staffs. They’d chew up your little guy and spit him out. But thanks. It’s kind of you to offer.” “Promise me you’ll let Ames look it over first.

Talk about the best there is, Ames is it.”

Ginger laughed aloud. “All right, all right. If you insist, but he’d better not show up wearing cowboy boots and riding a horse. “

Chapter 7

I SPENT some time looking for a delicate way to suggest we get ready for bed. There was no easy way. I finally said it straight out. Ginger retreated into the bathroom to change while I grappled with the Chinese-puzzle roll-away bed. Partial assembly required. The bed was unfolded and sitting in front of the outside door when Ginger emerged from the bathroom.

She wore a jade-colored silk robe with a hint of filmy nightgown underneath. Seeing her, I realized I didn’t have a pair of-pajamas to my name. I’d been a bachelor so long, my last pair of Christmas pajamas had bitten the dust.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded, one hand on her hip. “Haven’t you ever seen a woman in a robe before?”

“Sorry. I was thinking about something else.”

I retired to the bathroom to contemplate my dilemma, finally opting for skiwies and no lights. That, of course, presented another problem. No light in a familiar room is one thing, and no light in a city apartment is another. But no light in a strange room where they’ve never heard of streetlights can be murder on shins, toes, and other unprotected parts of the anatomy. I blundered my way into bed after a bruising game of blindman’s buff.

Settling into the roll-away, I discovered the bed frame formed a rigid hump directly under the small of my back. It was a long way from the king-sized comfort I had grown accustomed to. At last I concluded the bed wasn’t any worse than some of the rocks I had slept on just for the hell of it during my hunting and camping phase. This at least had a somewhat higher purpose.

I tossed around a few minutes before dozing off. I had just entered that deep, initial alpha sleep when I heard her say, “Beau?” Adrenaline pumping, I made a dive for the .38 on the floor beside me. The roll-away tipped up on one comer, pitching me headlong onto the floor in a tangle of sheets, pillow, and blankets. Ginger switched on the bedside lamp.

“What happened?”

“I fell out of bed, goddammit! What’s wrong? Did you hear something?” “No, I was wondering if you were awake.”

“I am now,” I grumbled. I didn’t want to get up. The light still blazed while I sat on the floor clad in a discreet loincloth of sheet. I glared at her, and she started to giggle.

“It’s not funny,” I muttered.

She nodded, covering her mouth with her hand to contain increasing ripples of laughter. “Yes it is,” she gasped at last. “You ought to see yourself.”

I looked down. I had to admit that what I could see was pretty funny. The gun had skidded under the bed. No way was I going to crawl around on hands and knees searching for it. With as much dignity as I could muster, I unraveled my legs. At last, wearing the sheet as a toga, I stood on my feet, surveying the debris that had once been a tidy roll-away bed. “This is a very large bed,” Ginger said seriously, stifling her mirth. “It’s probably more comfortable than that thing, too.” That much was inarguable.

I said nothing. “Care to join me?” “Come on, Ginger. Get serious.”

“I am serious.” All laughter was gone from her mouth and eyes. “There’s plenty of room,” she added. “We’re consenting adults. We haven’t crossed any state lines.”

“But you’re the wife of the soon-to-beelected lieutenant governor. ” “The soon-to-be-former wife of the soon-to-beelected lieutenant governor,” she corrected with a hint of a smile. I moved to the far side of the bed and alighted cautiously on the edge of it. I waited for lightning to strike. It didn’t. “Would you like me to call the desk and see if they have any bundling boards?”

I turned on her. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I can’t help it.”

Tentatively I slid first one leg, then the other under the covers, clutching the sheet firmly in one hand as a security blanket. I settled warily on my pillow before I turned to look at her. She sat propped up in bed observing me with undisguised interest.

The deep neckline of her gown fell away revealing a firm swell of breast. “Do you think I’m beautiful?” she asked gravely. I looked up guiltily, convinced she had caught me peeking. “Of course you’re beautiful. Very beautiful.”

“Sig used to tell me that. I never knew if I should believe him. ” “My God, Ginger!

How could you not believe him?” “I still see a drunk when I look in the mirror.”

It was a comment made without guile. She wasn’t fishing for a compliment: she was attempting to understand, to sort out what was real and what wasn’t.

Obviously we weren’t going right to sleep. I propped my pillow next to hers, examining her carefully, critically in the golden glow of the bedside lamp behind her. I studied the curve of her forehead, the clear green eyes under delicately arched brows, the fine, straight nose, the gentle pout of her lower lip. “You’re not the same person now. I think that’s what Sig wanted you to realize. “

She drew her knees up and rested her chin on them, musing aloud. “I thought if I once quit drinking, that I’d be good enough, that Darrell would finally pay some attention to me. There are a lot of stories like that in A.A., you know, marriages that bounce back from the brink of disaster. But this is a thirty-six-year-old body.

I can’t compete with tender blossoms from the secretarial pool. “

Silence lengthened between us. Never glib, I could think of nothing to say. But then, I had never before found myself in quite this situation. “What’s the scar on your chest?”

“Huh?” Her question startled me. I looked down as though I had forgotten it was my chest and my scar, the stark white of an incision highlighted against the rest of my skin. “It’s from a bullet,” I said. “When did it happen?” ‘

“Last spring sometime,” I said carefully. The time, the date, the place are as indelibly inked on my soul as the scar is on my flesh. “Did you catch him?”

“Who?”

“The man who shot you.”

“It was a woman. She’s dead.”

“Oh. “

“Do you mind turning out the lights?” I asked. I didn’t want to talk anymore. The conversation was circling too close to my own hurt. It was one thing to help Ginger with hers. Dealing with my own was something else. The light snapped off. I could feel Ginger settling on her side of the bed. I groped under the bed and located my .38. Once it was within easy reach, I lowered my pillow, resting on it as if it were full of thumbtacks or nails.

“Beau?”

“Yes.’

“Could I just lie next to you? I need an arm around me. Someone to hold me.”

Tentatively, I held up the covers. She slid across the bed and nestled into the crook of my arm. I inhaled the fragrant perfume of her freshly washed hair. I felt the curve of her hip next to mine, the gentle swell of her breast under a layer of coven;.

For a long time we were quiet. I think I was holding my breath.

“Beau?”

“Yes.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m trying to remember which of the Ten Commandments says ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.’ “

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Covet me?”

Right then I realized the Garden of Eden was a put-up job. “Yes.’ Her hand flitted across my chest, her touch inflaming every strained nerve in my body. She pulled herself up until she lay on my chest, her lips grazing mine.

I was conscious of the tantalizing feel of silk against my skin, the musky odor of a woman’s awakening body. She kissed me, cautiously, as though unsure of my response.

I wasn’t sure either. I waited long enough to be sure lightning still didn’t strike, then I pulled her to me, my mouth seeking hers, finding her hungry, willing, eager.

She guided my hand through the cleft in her gown. Her breast was taut and expectant beneath my cupped fingers. I sampled her ear and traced the slender curve of her neck with my teeth and tongue. She gasped, and her body arched as gooseflesh swept across her skin beneath my fingertips. She slipped from my grasp. I heard her impatiently cast off the silken barrier of gown. My Fruit of the Loom hit the floor as well.

Ginger came back to me naked, sleek, and ready. Beyond pleasure, she sought only release.

She slid her body onto mine, moisture finding moisture, need finding need, plunging me deep within her. I grasped her slim waist, raising her, lowering her, hearing her sharp intake of breath each time I probed closer to home, each time I led her to the brink then drew her back, offering and withholding the final gift.

“Now,” she whispered. “Please.”

When the flood came, it engulfed us both. We surfaced in a quiet pool, spent and out of breath. “That was wonderful,” she whispered. “I’ll bet you say that to all the guys,” I teased. She was suddenly subdued. “There’s only been one other,” she said. “He’s never been this good. Ever.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” I drew her into my arms, cradling her head on my shoulder. “Are you going to shut up and go to sleep? It’s late. The desk clerk is coming for the goddamn roll-away at eight in the morning.”

“I’ll be quiet,” she said. “I promise.”

She snuggled against me. We lay like that for a long time. Her breathing steadied and slowed. I listened as her heart beat next to mine, a thud followed by a smaller echo. Deliberately I tried to slow my breathing, hoping to God I wouldn’t snore.

Time passed slowly. I stared, sleepless, at the empty space above the ed, wondering how long it takes to learn to sleep double in a double bed, to misquote a familiar song. Probably a long time. “Beau?”

“What now?”

“I can’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Sleep like this. I don’t know how to sleep with anyone but Darrell. ” I pulled her to me, holding her for a moment in a crushing bear hug. I kissed the top of her forehead, then shoved her playfully toward the other side of the bed. “Go sleep over there, then, spoilsport. ” “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I understand.”

And I did understand. Ginger Watkins had been caught up in the need to know she was still alive-a normal phenomenon in the aftermath of death, an instinctive affirmation of survival. If I hadn’t been there, she would have found someone else. I just got lucky.

Chapter 8

THE telephone jarred me awake at seven. “Detective Beaumont? Darrell Watkins is on the phone. He wants to speak to Mrs. Watkins. Should I put him through?”

I felt the unaccustomed warmth of a body snuggled close to mine. It took time to clear my head. I turned, and Ginger stirred, nestling comfortably against me. She had evidently moved there in the middle of the night, our sleeping bodies overcoming our conscious objections. “Sure, that’s fine,” I said into the phone.

With a noisy clatter I fumbled the phone back into place. “Ginger. Wake up. You’ve got a call.”

Her eyes opened and focused on mine with a look of startled dismay. The phone rang again before she could say anything. I handed it to her. “Hello?” Ginger said, her voice still thick with sleep. “Oh, hello Darrell. ” There was a long silence as she listened to what he had to say. Meanwhile, I lay naked under the covers, considering the best way to get to the bathroom while maintaining some degree of modesty. “No.

I haven’t changed my mind,” she said firmly. That galvanized me to action. I had no intention of eavesdropping on her domestic conversation. I groped on the floor, found the discarded roll-away sheet, and wrapped it around me. With clean clothes from the closet, I withdrew into the bathroom and took a bracing hot shower.

The water pounded me. Despite lack of sleep, I was invigorated, stimulated. Exhaustion, my constant companion for months, dissolved. I was incredibly happy, except for one small cloud on my horizon. Ginger might be remorseful.

I didn’t want guilt or regret to tarnish what had happened between us, even if it was nothing more than the survivor’s timehonored, near-death screwing syndrome. Maybe that’s all it had  been for Ginger, but not for me. It had reawakened J. P. Beaumont’s lost libido.

I was glad to have the old boy back.

Humming under my breath, I emerged from the bathroom. Ginger sat on her side of the bed with her legs tucked under her. She was wearing the lush silk robe.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Do you always sing in the shower?”

“Only when I’m happy,” I told her.

“I see.”

I looked at her, trying to assess the effect of her husband’s phone call, hoping for some sign to indicate if she was glad to see me or if she wanted me to drop into a hole someplace. Her face remained inscrutable. “Is Darrell coming up?” I asked, for want of something better to say. “He wanted to, but I told him no. He thinks he can talk me into changing my mind. It won’t work. I told him I’m staying here the rest of the weekend. I had planned to, anyway. There’s no sense in going home just to fight.”