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  That song ended, but he didn’t end the dance. All the others wiped perspiration from their foreheads and clapped and went back to their seats, or stood around waiting for the next song, but he just kept up a steady rhythm with Cynthia, as if the music had never stopped.

  She liked it.

  The next song was a slow one, and he pulled her even closer, his big hands covering her back.

  “What’s your name?” he whispered into her hair.

  “Cynthia.”

  “Cynthia,” he repeated. “I’m Warren.”

  Warren. Cynthia buried herself in him, not caring any more if Irene saw her or not.

  Joseph wouldn’t dance.

  “You don’t have to dance,” she had said to him. “Just listen to the music and hold me.” One or two steps in their living room was enough for Joseph, then he looked at her as if he should have known better than to marry her.

  She hated that look.

  She took a fresh grip on Warren, reaching her hands up to his shoulders, pushing her stomach in closer to his. It had been a long time since she’d gotten hot and steamy with a big dark guy. It felt great. He liked it too. She rubbed against the bulge that was growing alongside his leg, and he kneaded her butt with those massive hands, and pressed her up against him even harder. It took her breath away. She felt light headed and weak with desperation. She wanted this man. She’d forgotten what passion felt like.

  When he led her off the dance floor, her legs were wobbly, her mind befuddled. All she could think about was getting him away, alone. All she could think about were her hands on his skin, his smooth, dark skin. She wanted to taste him, she wanted to feel him, she wanted him to do whatever he wanted with her. She clung to his hand with both of hers and stumbled along behind him as he pushed through the crowd and out the back door.

  The chilly air hit her sweaty body with a slap, but before she had time to react, he turned and lifted her clean off her feet.

  His lips, big, soft, hot and urgent, clamped over hers and she could taste the beer, she could lose herself in that kiss, but he was so big, and so powerful, and he had taken such complete charge of her body that she just let him.

  She just let him.

  He lifted her off the ground with one massive arm around her waist. She hung there, hands in his hair, trying to kick off her shoes, while his other hand worked at first her zipper then at his own.

  She got one shoe off and heard it fall to the ground.

  He pulled down her jeans and sat her down on the cold metal fender of an old red pickup truck. She pulled one foot out of her pants and then wrapped her legs around him, the thought briefly flying through her mind at what they must look like out here, in the dark parking lot, under the smoggy Los Angeles starscape, with her jeans hanging from one leg. Irene would shit.

  Then he entered her, slowly, carefully, so as not to hurt her, and all rational thought escaped with the rush of air out of her mouth.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed, and curled up in toward his chest, as he moved her with those big hands.

  “Oh my God,” she said again, then sat up straight and arched her back. She looked up at him, but his eyes were fixed upon something distant and spiritual. She tried to get a grip on him, but he was so big, his rhythmic movement so relentless that she could grab fistfuls of his shirt, but that was all.

  “Oh God!” she said, as the pressure at the back of her skull began to build. He moved her back and forth, the heavy power of him as sure and steady as a freight train. Cynthia had never been so entirely consumed before. He filled her completely. Tiny orgasmic waves began to waver up from their primal connection out through the top of her head.

  “God damn!” she said, as the waves intensified. “God damn!” Then she saw the concentration increase on his face, and he brought his lips down and locked them onto hers with such tight suction that he seemed to suck the orgasm right up through her body.

  She shuddered and cried out, but he wouldn’t pause, wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let her finish, and the orgasm drew itself out until she thought she would die.

  Finally, finally, he lurched, grunted, then slowed, and stopped.

  When the storm was over, Cynthia felt tears on her cheeks. Warren stood, unmoving, his eyes closed. She broke off the kiss, and he just waited, quietly, his hands covering her back, a thin sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. Cynthia drew in a couple of ragged breaths and leaned her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and put his chin on the top of her head. She had no room for thought. Sensation took up all her consciousness. Little contractions and chills and vibrations continued their way through her, and most likely, through him. They just waited them out.

  When she opened her eyes, the stars were brighter.

  He let her down easy, her rubbery legs shaking. He zipped up his jeans and stood quietly while she put on her sock, pulled up her jeans, then hung on to him with one hand as she put on her shoe. She didn’t know what to say.

  When she was dressed again, he put his arm around her and they walked back into the tavern.

  Warren headed for the bar; Cynthia to the ladies’ room.

  When she came out, she saw him sitting at a small table with another guy. A fresh pitcher and three glasses stood full on the beer-washed table.

  She put her hands on Warren’s biceps, feeling their firmness, and a wistfully possessive feeling came over her.

  Impossible, of course.

  She pulled out a chair next to his and sat down, then thirstily downed half a glass of beer. She looked over at him and smiled, put a hand on his wrist, then leaned over to kiss him.

  He turned his head in to the kiss, and as he did so, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He did a double take, then kissed her perfunctorily. Then he sat back and stared boldly at the bar.

  “This is Sam,” he said, introducing her to the other man at the table. Then he picked up his beer and walked away.

  Sam held out his hand and smiled. Cynthia shook his hand, but she had a feeling she’d just been dumped. She had a feeling she’d just been had. If it was true, it was going to hurt. She refused to believe it.

  She tried to smile at Sam, but he was no Warren. His eyes were too small and too close together, he was smaller and kind of chubby-cheeked, although he looked like he was some kind of Indian, too.

  “Hi,” Sam said.

  “Hi,” Cynthia said, then pulled her hand back and looked around for Warren.

  “I’m Sam Begay. Warren’s brother.”

  “Brother,” Cynthia said, nodding, trying to find the family resemblance, and seeing none. Where Warren was tall and big and muscular and square-featured, Sam was small and pudgy and round and soft. “I’m Cynthia Schneider.”

  “I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “I’m from San Francisco.”

  “Ah,” he said. “A girl from the north country here to spend tourist dollars. That’s very good.”

  Cynthia turned around again, but she couldn’t see Warren at all. She ignored the feeling of desperation, and told herself that he’d be right back.

  Sam signaled the waitress for another pitcher, though the one on the table was only half gone. He poured more into their glasses, and Cynthia gulped a little too much too fast.

  “What do you do, Sam?”

  He smiled again, and his teeth weren’t all that great. Cynthia looked around quickly, but Warren wasn’t coming back. Not yet. “I extract dollars from tourists.”

  She looked down at her fingers, the euphoria she had felt only moments ago turning sour. “That’s nice,” she said.

  “Want to dance?”

  “No,” she said flatly, and that was the end of the discussion.

  Silently, Cynthia began to drink. The more she drank, the more belligerent she began to feel.

  When both pitchers stood empty on the table, Cynthia stood to go to the bathroom, and found that her legs didn’t work very well. She hadn’t realized she was getting so drunk.
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  She made it to the bathroom without incident, and as she came out, she saw Warren.

  He was standing at the bar, talking to Irene. They looked pretty cozy.

  Cynthia went back to the table, and she could see that Sam, who matched her beer for beer, was looking about as sober as she was feeling. She grabbed her purse. “Bye,” she said.

  “Wait,” he said, and stood up. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “No, thanks, I’ll get a cab.”

  “Well then, I’ll wait with you.”

  “No, that’s all right.”

  “Coming back tomorrow night?”

  “No.” Cynthia slung her purse over her shoulder and left Sam standing at the table, disappointment on his face. His disappointment was nothing compared to what she felt.

  She walked back over to the partition by the bathrooms, that place where she had stood when she first watched Irene, that place she’d been standing when Warren first asked her to dance.

  Irene was smiling up at Warren, her perfectly made up face stunning in this dim light. Of course the older, smarter, prettier sister would get the only great guy in the place. Of course Irene would talk with him and joke with him and laugh with him. How many words had Cynthia traded with Warren? She was too needy. All she wanted was a steamy fuck in the parking lot, and that’s exactly what she got. Irene was likely to have a whole weekend of him.

  Cynthia’s hands trembled as tears quivered in her lower lids. Of course Irene would have it all. Irene had it all. Irene would always have it all.

  Cynthia would have nothing. And whenever she got something good—like Joseph—she couldn’t hang on to it.

  She put her head down and willed her drunken legs to get her out the back door and into the fresh air.

  The night air tasted sweet after the smoke-choked bar. She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to sober up, wishing it was a little bit colder. Wishing it was freezing. Wishing she could just walk around in snow and ice with no coat so the pain of that could diminish the pain in her soul. The pain of always being second best.

  She looked up at the sky. The stars were magnificent.

  She walked past the old red truck with her moist butt-print still on the dusty fender. She touched it with a finger and that tiny tear escaped her bottom lid and landed on her hand.

  Chapter 5

  Irene heard her phone ring as soon as the elevator doors opened. What is it, she wondered as she made a dash for the apartment door, fumbled her keys and finally shouldered through the door, that made each phone call so damned important?

  Bench appointment, that’s what.

  She dropped her carry-on next to the open door and grabbed the telephone just as the answering machine clicked on, realized she’d answered it, and clicked off again.

  She plucked off an earring, took a deep breath so she wouldn’t sound as if she had just got off the Stairmaster, and said quietly, “Irene Nottingham.”

  “Irene, it’s me.”

  “Cynthia?”

  “I think I’m in trouble.”

  I should have let the answering machine get it, Irene thought. She walked over to the door, pulled her keys out of the lock, dropped them into the bowl, then kicked her suitcase out of the way so the door could close. Cynthia in trouble. What else was new? “What kind of trouble? Where are you?”

  “At the police station. They want to question me about some murder.”

  Irene’s head snapped up so hard and fast she thought she might have damaged a vertebra. She automatically clicked into her professional mode, and spoke very slowly and very forcefully. “Say nothing until I get there. Listen to me, Cynthia—say nothing. Tell them your attorney is on the way.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Just don’t say anything. I’ll be right there.”

  “Irene? I didn’t do it.”

  “Don’t be afraid. Just keep quiet. I’ll be right there.”

  “Call Joseph, okay?”

  At least she didn’t kill Joseph, Irene thought. “Just don’t say anything,” she said. “I’ll be right there.” She clicked off the telephone, then speed-dialed Joseph’s office.

  “Joseph Schneider.”

  “Joseph, it’s Irene.” She heard her voice soften when she spoke to him, she couldn’t help it. She loved Joseph.

  “Irene. Hi.” His voice was guarded. She imagined he’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop about Cynthia. Well, here it is.

  “Cynthia’s in some type of trouble, Joseph. She just called me from the police station.”

  “Good lord,” Joseph said. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s scared. I’m on my way down there. Want to meet me?”

  “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

  Irene reattached her earring, decided her traveling clothes were good enough for a police station, got her briefcase from the closet, grabbed her keys and left.

  Just when Cynthia’s options were expiring, she found some way to renew them. Every time Cynthia’s situation became desperate, someone saved her. And here it was, once again.

  Irene couldn’t imagine what lengths Cynthia would go to in order to foster this ongoing dependency.

  ~~~

  Irene was talking with a man in a cheap suit when Joseph arrived at the police station. The man took Irene’s card and disappeared into the back. Irene came over to stand next to Joseph. Her hair, razor-cut and short, looked terrific. She wore a black leather blazer over a white t-shirt and faded blue jeans. She looked great and she smelled good.

  She put a hand on his bicep, and it was all he could do to hold it still. The heat from her lithe fingers went right through his suitcoat.

  A young woman with a clipboard came out from the back. “Miss Nottingham?”

  “Wait here, Joseph,” she said, and followed the woman down the hallway.

  Joseph sat down in a hard, molded-plastic orange chair, feeling extraneous. He didn’t like being there. He knew that everybody who looked at him thought he was there because he’d done something wrong. He was being prejudged, as always. Needing something to take his mind off it, he picked up a magazine. Field and Stream, three years old, tattered.

  “Joseph?”

  Irene was back, leading another man in a shiny suit. “Detective Matthias,” Irene said,

  “this is Joseph Schneider, Cynthia’s husband.”

  Joseph stood up and held out his hand.

  “You’re black,” the detective said.

  Joseph felt an attitude coming on. He looked at Irene, who looked with amazement back at the detective. “So I’ve been told,” Joseph said slowly.

  Detective Matthias, a robust, fit man with graying hair and bleached out blue eyes, clamped his hand over Joseph’s hand and shook it. “Didn’t mean to be rude,” he said.

  “I want him to wait with Cynthia,” Irene said.

  “We’re holding her for questioning, Irene,” Matthias said.

  “Have you charged her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “There will be no questions until you do. Now why don’t you let Mr. Schneider in to see his wife while we talk about this, just you and me?”

  Detective Matthias looked over Irene’s head at Joseph with an “ain’t she something”? look. Joseph knew the feeling. Irene had a way of taking firm control of a situation, from Thanksgiving dinner to seeing her sister down the aisle. When she did, her way was pleasant and logical, and absolutely, immutably, concrete.

  “Perhaps you could just wait a few minutes,” Matthias said.

  Joseph nodded, and sat back down, the magazine forgotten in his hand.

  ~~~

  Irene half expected to find a couple of worn out blue uniforms wanting to speak to Cynthia about some shootout in the street that she may or may not have witnessed, but instead, she was ushered into an interrogation room, where a Hispanic man in a suit, obviously a cop, waited along with Owen Crowell, the Assistant DA. Irene felt as if she were walking into some kind of an ambush.

 
; Detective Matthias was clearly in charge. Irene had dealt with him before. Seasoned, competent, calm, agreeable. She shook hands with Owen, who did not smile flirtatiously as he had the last time they’d seen each other. This time, Owen was all business.

  “Detective Ramirez from Los Angeles,” Matthias said, introducing the third man, and he and Irene shook hands. As they did, she saw Matthias lean over and whisper into Owen Crowell’s ear. Owen nodded. Irene didn’t like the look of any of that.

  Formalities out of the way, they all sat around the beat-up table, a closed brown file folder in front of Matthias.

  “Los Angeles,” Irene repeated, looking at the Hispanic police officer. “This has to do with Cynthia Schneider?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ramirez said.

  Matthias opened the file folder and pulled out a sheaf of eight-by-ten color photographs. He sailed them across the table, and they fanned out in a trail of gore. “Warren Begay. Navajo construction worker. Hung out in a bar on the outskirts of LA.”

  Warren Begay was as dead as a man could get. He was lying on his side in a blood-soaked bed.

  Irene leafed through the photographs. She tried hard to maintain a casual yet professional appearance, as she knew they were studying her face while she studied the gore. But it was difficult. This was ugly. Very ugly.

  Then she saw a close-up of the dead man’s side. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Looks as though most of the skin on his torso was removed in one long strip about an inch wide,” Matthias said.

  “Like peeling an apple,” Owen chimed in.

  Irene shuddered, took a deep breath. “Los Angeles. What’s that got to do with—”

  Owen held up his hand. “Warren Begay went partying at his hangout on Friday night and picked up a woman named Cynthia Schneider.”

  “In Los Angeles?” Irene shook her head. “I doubt it.”

  “Corroborated,” Owen said, “by his brother Sam and a whole barfull of witnesses.”