Key Witness (4 page)

Paula dated more than the other two did, more being a relative term. She was less discriminating about whom she went out with than they were, and she was more openly accessible, easier. Her vibe said, “Yes.” Violet’s and Peggy’s said, “Let’s check this out first.”

They all were looking for the one right man. None of them were finding him. They talked about it. Sometimes talking about it helped. Sometimes it didn’t.

The band finished an up-tempo rendition of “Dock of the Bay.” “Here’s one for all you lovers out there!” the singer, a heavyset, exuberant woman, yelled out over the microphone. “Two, three, four!”

They segued into a mournful version of “Unchain My Heart.”

Violet and her friends drifted off the dance floor and flopped into their chairs at their table, over near the wall, at the edge of the action. They watched as couples paired off and started slow-dancing, bodies melting into each other.

Paula fanned herself with a menu. “Damn, it is hot in here.” She was provocatively dressed; her skirt was a mini; she had the legs for it, and the ass, too. Paula knew that she had the prototypical black woman’s butt. You could balance a dinner plate on it and still have room for rolls and dessert, as her mother would say.

“You look like one of those hookers out there on Farraguet Avenue,” Peggy had joked to Paula when they’d met up earlier for dinner. “You’d better be careful some guy cruising by in his Mercedes doesn’t hit on you for a quickie.”

“What model Mercedes?” Paula had answered, deadpan.

Paula was proud of her flowering tush; men followed behinds like hers. Right into her bed, she hoped—but only if he was the right man.

The trouble was, as they all knew from experience, you couldn’t know if he was the right man or not until long after that, and by then, when you found out he wasn’t, it was too late.

Just then a man approached their table. He looked them over, then leaned down to Violet, whose dress, moist with sweat, was clinging to her voluptuous figure. “Can I have this dance?” he asked politely.

Startled, she looked up at him. He was rail thin, looking like someone whose forever-heroes were James Dean and Jerry Lee Lewis: hair greased in a fifties-style pompadour, sideburns halfway down his cheeks, short-sleeved western shirt, jeans, cowboy boots. Interesting-looking in a way, like a scorpion is interesting: deadly—you don’t get near someone like this.

“Thanks, but I’m taking a break,” she told him, politely but distantly.

“You sure?” There was a cockiness in his voice. He was devouring her body with his eyes. She was used to that.

Firmly: “Yes, I’m sure.”

He took a step back, as if the rebuff had been unexpected. Then he smiled at her. His teeth were long and canine, like a wild dog’s.

“Maybe later,” he said, his voice holding out hope, while at the same time mocking her.

She looked away. This man had no attraction for her.

His smile faded. He stood there, hovering over her one more moment to be sure, then walked away and was swallowed up in the crowd.

“You blew it, girl,” Paula teased her.

“Yeah, my dumb luck,” Violet answered.

“That guy was creepy,” Peggy said.

Violet nodded her agreement. Being held by a man like that, even for three minutes out on a dance floor, was not in her plans.

The song ended with a crescendo of drum brush. “We’re gonna take a break!” the singer announced over the cacophony of voices. “Won’t be long, so don’t y’all be leaving, hear?” A flourish of drumroll. “We
shall
return!”

Violet felt a sudden moistness between her legs. “Damn!”

“What is it?” Peggy asked.

“I’m getting my period. Son of a gun!”

Peggy and Paula moaned in sympathetic unison.

“I don’t have anything on me,” Peggy said, rummaging in her purse.

“Me, neither,” Paula echoed. “They’ve got a dispenser in the ladies’ room.”

“I’ve got my own tampons in the trunk of my car,” Violet said. “I’ll be right back.”

She checked her dress as she walked toward the exit. The flow had just started—the dancing had brought it on prematurely; She could feel that her underpants were wet, but it hadn’t soaked through to the dress, thank God. She could put in a tampon in the ladies’ room, discard her panties, and everything would be fine. The heaviness of her flow wouldn’t start until tomorrow.

As she approached her car, which was parked at the far edge of the lot, she saw a man standing near it, looking in the side window as if he was checking to see whether or not it was locked. A young man, tall. Black. He had a strong, athletic, sexy body, and he was handsome, almost beautiful. He looked to be a teenager, she could tell that from a distance, but definitely a man—the kind of young inner-city man, particularly minority men, who are men by the time they’re twelve.

He wasn’t aware that she was approaching. He took a step toward her car.

“Hey!” she called out. “That’s my car. What are you doing?”

He turned and looked at her, his face devoid of intention.

She ran toward the car. Be careful, she thought, he could be dangerous—but she wasn’t about to watch some street punk break into her car.

“Get away from there!” she yelled at him.

He stepped back.

Eyes stared into eyes. His were dead eyes, eyes that masked feeling. She felt a shiver as he looked at her.

Time was suspended for a moment. Then he turned his back on her and strolled away, turning the corner and disappearing in the shadows.

She unlocked the trunk of her car and took out a couple of tampons from the box she kept there for such emergencies as this. Locking the trunk up again, she took a last cautionary look over her shoulder and walked back inside.

As Violet sat down at the table (detouring first to the ladies’ room), Paula stood up. “It’s stuffy. I’m going to get some air.” She grabbed her purse.

“I’ll watch your purse for you,” Violet volunteered.

“I’ll take it, just in case I get lucky.” She laughed, the low alto voice humming up from her throat.

“Don’t even think about it,” Violet cautioned her.

“Don’t worry, girl, that was a joke. I might be foolish, but I ain’t stupid.”

Paula slung her beaded purse over her shoulder and walked across the floor toward the back entrance. “Order me another vodka tonic,” she called back over her shoulder. “Extra slice of lime.”

As she saw her friend leave it flashed on Violet that she should have said something about that kid she’d encountered, just to let Paula know. She should get up and follow Paula out, she thought—but immediately she decided not to. The parking lot was well lit, there were people coming in and out, and Paula could handle herself.

It was hot outside, too, but not as hot as it was in the bar. Paula had been afraid that one of her friends would come out with her. She wanted to cool off from the heat, that was true, but more than that, she wanted a cigarette. She was supposed to have quit three months ago; and she had. For two weeks. Then the temptation had been too strong, and she’d started up again. But she kept it a secret, she snuck them on breaks at work and when she was alone at home. It wasn’t that she felt that she had to apologize—she was a grown woman, she could do as she damn well pleased—but she knew her friends would get on her case something awful, and she didn’t need any more disapproval or moralizing.

Anyway, she was going to quit again, this time for good. A week; two, tops. She just needed a little more time to work up to it.

In the parking lot out back, among the cars, she snapped open her purse and rummaged around the contents for her Virginia Slims. The crumpled pack was at the bottom, crushed under her wallet, compact, lipstick, other necessities. Binaca to cover the smoke-breath. She really ought to give this purse a spring-cleaning, she thought; there could be God knows what festering in it. Almost as bad as her car, which was overdue for a cleaning out, too.

The pack was empty. Damn! She was sure there had been one or two left from lunch. Or had she smoked the last one while she was getting dressed for tonight?

She really wanted a smoke. Being in a bar, having a drink, dancing, you needed a cigarette to complement all that.

At the edge of the parking lot, where it ended in an access alley that ran between rows of buildings on either side, a man was standing alone, leaning against one of the old brick structures. Standing there, casually leaning, the position of his body that of someone with no agenda, no time frame. Paula couldn’t see his face; it was dark outside except for where the lights lit up the parking lot, and he was past that area. She couldn’t tell if he was old or young, rich or poor, handsome or ugly, nice or cruel. She could only tell one thing—he was smoking. A thin plume of smoke drifted up out of the shadows above his head, forming a shimmery nimbus in the light from the parking lot that was bouncing off the wall behind him.

She could cadge a cigarette off him. One smoke and a light, that’s all. The thought relieved her smoker’s anxiety. She walked across the lot, her high heels clicking off a staccato drum-shot as they struck the asphalt. Crossing the space, she realized there was no one else out here. Just her and the man leaning against the wall, whose face she still couldn’t see.

The light on the overhead pole caught her as she walked and cast her shadow into the alley, a long sinuous projection. It was an attractive shadow, like from an old black-and-white cartoon, long legs, an elongated, willowy figure (the kind she’d always secretly wanted), the miniskirt ridiculously, almost obscenely short in this greatly exaggerated layout.

“Excuse me,” she called out when she was about a dozen paces from him. “Can I bum one of your cigarettes?”

She felt he was looking at her. To see who was suddenly intruding on his space. She smiled to try to put him at ease, and moved closer.

W
YATT AND MOIRA’S DINNER
companions were the Fairchilds and the Dugans. They went to L’Angleterre. It was Gault-Milleu rated the best restaurant (and the most expensive) in the region ten years running, but if you could afford it, it was worth it for the wine list alone.

Dennis and Marybeth Fairchild and Rod and Cissy Dugan were among their closest friends, going on two decades. Like Wyatt, Dennis and Marybeth were both high-powered attorneys, partners in different firms, and Rod was executive vice president and treasurer for Baldwin Aircraft. The net worth of the six people sitting at the table tonight, who had called ahead to have two bottles of ’85 Chateau Leoville Las Cases opened to have with their dinner, was deep into eight figures.

“I want to propose a toast.” Marybeth raised her glass.

“Hear, hear!” All glasses were raised. “To Wyatt Matthews, the man who brought Uncle Sam to his knees. To his
knees
!” Marybeth crowed. “Who got his own profile in
Time.
”

“Not to mention
Forbes
and
Business Week
,” Rod added.

They clicked glasses and drank.

“Thank you,” Wyatt smiled, “and shut up.”

“Shut up baloney,” Dennis said. “You the man, Wyatt. You kicked the government’s ass in one of the biggest cases of this decade, man. That is no small thing. Anyone who can take on the SEC, the Justice Department, and Common Cause at the same time and bring them to their knees is a player, palsie.”

“Thanks,” Wyatt said, feeling uncomfortable. “Now let’s drop it, okay?”

As they looked over their menus Cissy turned to Moira. “I think I found a location for our store that would be perfect,” she said, excited. “I’m meeting the Prudential agent tomorrow at ten. Can you come? You need to see it; you’ll fall in love with it.”

Moira glanced at Wyatt. “I think I can.”

Under the table, he put his hand on her knee and squeezed gently. “Go for it,” he encouraged her.

She put her hand on his and squeezed back.

Moira and Cissy had never worked. College educated, both women had married early, but instead of going into the workforce, they had stayed at home in the role of mothers and homemakers and supporters of their men and kids. Old-fashioned women, in today’s terms.

But now their kids were suddenly older, leaving the nest; they’d gone from toddlers to teenagers with frightening speed. Moira didn’t want to be one of those women who grow old on the golf course, eating three-hour lunches and sitting around gossiping and getting drunk. Cissy didn’t, either; so a few months ago they’d decided to go into business together. Something small and manageable, and, if possible, with an artistic touch. Making money wasn’t the issue; they had money. They wanted to have fun and be their own persons, even if the scale was small and local.

They envisioned a bookstore. Or a music store. Or a combination; sort of a vest-pocket Borders. With a cappuccino bar, of course. Maybe a fireplace, a focal area for readings and music.

They even had a name picked out: Lucy & Ethel’s.

“So what’s happening in everyone’s world?” Marybeth adroitly changed the subject. “Anything new and exciting?”

“Our next-door neighbors were robbed,” Moira told her.

“When?” Cissy asked.

“About two hours ago.”

Dennis said, “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

Dennis turned to Wyatt. “Were you there? Did you see anything?” he asked.

“I saw the aftermath.”

“The woman was shot,” Moira continued, unable to contain herself. “A sixty-six-year-old woman. Shot in her own house by robbers.”

“Did the police catch them?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.”

“Did they get a description?”

“Two black men. Gang members, according to the man.”

“Who knows nothing at all about gangs,” Wyatt said dismissively. “They don’t know what they saw, there weren’t any lights on.”

“They were young and black,” Moira insisted. “The Spragues were sure of that.”

Cissy turned to Moira. “How badly was the woman shot?”

“She got hit in her side. She should be all right.”

“Thank God for that.” The women nodded in supportive female agreement.

“She should have had her own gun,” Rod declared.

“She did,” Wyatt told him.