Perfect Match (24 page)

Wilson put his fork down, surveying the room, as he adjusted
his sport coat to conceal his orange polka-dot tie. “Well, next time I’ll make
sure we coordinate outfits. This is embarrassing; after all I’m owner of the
most popular men’s clothing store in town.”

The waiter appeared tableside with dessert suggestions.
After he’d delivered his specialty listing, Madison said, “I’ll have the
Passion Fruit and Strawberry Flan, with black coffee.”

“And you sir?”

“I’ll have the Double Fudgey-Wudgey Chocolate Cake and
coffee, but I’ll need cream and sugar.”

“Yes sir. Excellent choice.”

After the waiter headed to the kitchen, Wilson said, “Please
excuse me. My hair doesn’t feel right in back. Need to take a look in the
mirror.” He left the booth, trailing off with, “The stylist was not at her best
the other day…”

Madison thought, yes, always the woman’s fault.

As she glanced around the room, several men tried to make
eye contact with her, but she looked away.

In a few minutes Wilson returned to their booth, still
fiddling with his hair at the back of his neck. “Damn stylist really whacked up
my hair by about fourth an inch. I will not tip her next time, if there is a
next time.”

The waiter asked, “Will there be anything else this
evening?”

Madison shook her head.

Wilson said, “No.”

“Then I’ll prepare your check.”

While the waiter was gone, Wilson said, “I’ll take you to my
place for drinks. Your apartment is too cramped for me.”

Madison eyed him. “Not interested in that. I’m going home.”

“What brought that on?”

“The entire evening, that’s what. Nothing but goofs by you.
Remember, you get one goof with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And you probably never will, but I’ll tell you. You’re the
most self-centered man I’ve ever met.” She stood. “You’ve had nothing but
insults for everyone from the time you picked me up.”

Still looking puzzled, he said, “You can’t just leave?”

The waiter approached cautiously. “Is there a problem?”

Madison snapped, “Nothing that you can fix.”

Wilson tried again, “Sit down, you can’t just leave. This is
embarrassing me.”

The waiter took a step back.

Wilson croaked, “How are you going to get to your
apartment?”

She leaned toward the table. “Walk or hitchhike. How about
that?”

Surrounding diners stopped eating, listening to the
unfolding drama.

She took a step toward the door then spun around and said
sharply, “And don’t ever call me again. Did you get that?”

She strode for the door, maître de and two assistants
flanking her, wringing their hands, asking if the service was alright.

Wilson turned crimson, as the stares bore in on him. Crimson
clashed with his new tie.

When Madison stepped outside, the fresh air invigorated her,
even though her disgust and anger had reached mountain-top highs. Thinking
about Wilson and the similarities between Hollis brought her to a seething
rage. She asked herself, are there any decent men left in the universe?

She slipped on her light jacket, sauntering by the trendy
businesses along the street. Be damned if I’ll be directed where to go, how to
dress, how to grovel! She reminded herself that with the new spring fashions
she’d want to take Selena shopping for a couple of new outfits. But only if
Selena’s health improves. She was feeling angry again that she’d wasted an
evening with another jerk, when she could’ve spent it with Selena. I should go
back to the restaurant and choke Wilson with that hideous tie of his.

She reached the corner of the block and decided to go down
the side street, although most businesses had closed at 6 o’clock. It was now
8:50 p.m. A coffee shop and deli were still open at the far end of the block.
The city of Asheville, along with private business, had embarked on an
aggressive renewal plan. The upgrade to the street lighting was a work in
progress. But city workers had already installed some of the large sidewalk
planters with trees.

She’d walked half-way down the block, passing a dark alley
on her left. Laughter drifted her way, along with the crumpling of metal cans,
and clinking as they bounced on the concrete. Sounds of the night, she thought
as she walked on to the next store front, Total Woman Designs. Her
sister-in-law, Luella, had told her about this neat little shop. Snappy
designs, reasonable prices, and most were locally handcrafted.

As she studied the fashions in the display window, she heard
the flutter of tennis shoes and the guffawing voices coming out of the alley.
She went on full alert, as she saw from the corner of her eye the stair-step
height of the three males coming her way.

They were keeping their distance until the last minute when
the tallest one brushed against her jostling her against the plate glass
window, saying, “Hey, bitch, ready for some action?” He jerked the side of her
jacket and top. She pumped her left elbow backwards, clipping the short one in
the mouth. The back of her right elbow struck the middle one in the chest. The
two males winced, but the three scurried on past laughing. The short one said,
“The bitch busted my lip.”

The big guy groused, “Suck it up Buster.”

She observed their appearance, as her anger flashed like a
lightning bolt. “Stay away from me. Don’t come near me again!”

The tall guy turned and mimicked her. The other two laughed.
They hustled on down the sidewalk toward the deli, not looking back.

She sized them up. Automatic response from her gang days.
She picked out the leader and the followers by their body language and voices.
They got to the other end of the block, turning the corner. She had the urge to
chase them down and beat them within an inch of their lives. They’ve got some
nerve to think they can just walk up and touch a woman.

She was about to turn around when the three young men
appeared at the corner and headed back up the block toward her. She read the
signs. She’d seen that look on faces many times, as a gang member. Thinking
quickly, she decided running from them was not the best option, not in heels.

She stepped in the shadows, reached for her phone on the
outside pocket of her shoulder bag, dialed 911. When the dispatcher answered,
she said, “Three men are about to attack me.” She gave them the street
location. “I’m Madison Winston. Send help, now!” She ended the call, pocketed
her phone, and clicked on her business recorder. She shouldered her pocket book
across her body, both arms and hands now free.

The three males were moving closer, starting to run. Two
seemed determined, but the third acted nervous and undecided, as he kept
looking around, and then up at the tall guy. There was a large blue metal
construction-site dumpster further down the street but too far away for her to
grab a healthy two by four piece of wood to use as a weapon.

She could now hear their voices and catch a few words,
“bitch…nice legs…she’s asking for it…drag her ass…alley,” as they moved closer.
She stepped beside one of the landscape planters. All systems were pumping full
blast especially her anger.

An abandoned newspaper rack with missing door, stood
silently. An assortment of beer bottles sat on top. She snatched two, scored
them at an angle on the rusting edge of the rack, and tapped the bottles just
right on the rack’s edge. She thought, at least I haven’t lost my street edge.
The bottoms broke from the bottles, leaving sharp edges.

She called out, “I told you to leave me alone. Don’t come
near me, and don’t touch me again!” She thought, where in the hell are the
police? Buying donuts?

More laughter from the males. The voice of the big white guy
was clear now. “Hey, bitch, the reason you down here by yourself is what’s in
my pants. I got what you want.” He grabbed at his crotch as they closed the
distance.

The other two males laughed. “Yeah, we got what you want.”

Madison raised her voice again, “I’m warning you, don’t come
any closer.”

Laughter from the three. Big guy responded, “Or what? What,
bitch, what?”

She said, “I’ll fight for my life, that’s what!” She stepped
from behind the planter, both hands armed with broken beer bottles. She cocked
her right arm back, with a clutch grip on the neck of the bottle. She took aim,
as she remembered practicing years ago in vacant lots. She wondered, is my aim
as good at 34 as it was at 16? Her arm moved in a smooth arc, then a strong
snap of her wrist, and the release. The brown bottle was transformed into an
amber bullet of unpredictable destruction.

The big guy was still leering when the flying bottle cracked
across his mouth, splintering, slicing flesh, chipping teeth, and sending a
thudding shock to his brain. He stopped, knees buckling, hands reaching for his
blood drenched mouth. His tongue fished around trying to release embedded glass
slivers. He let out a painful groan and whimpered, “Wh…”

Second tall guy, Hispanic, took another step, reaching for
his buddy. “Hey, man—”

Madison yelled, “I said stay away from me.”

Second tall guy looked up at Madison. He started her way,
determined. Bad move. She’d already launched her second glass nightmare,
heading for him, striking him on the side of his neck gouging off flesh and
releasing blood and fear. His hand slapped at his wet neck, stumbling back,
leaving his buddy on the ground to fend for himself. “Gotta get out of here…”
He turned to run but tripped and fell. He scrambled to get up, but was
disoriented.

She could tell the shortest guy was frozen by fear. His feet
were patting up and down, as he looked to his partners in crime for what to do
next. He was shaking his hands.

Madison had already armed herself with another bottle,
picked from the sidewalk. She had a perfect shot at the guy trying to stand.
Better not hit him in the back. Not defensible. Funny though how criminals can
attack their victims from any side, but the defender…well now that wouldn’t be
playing fair, would it? She looked back at the shortest guy, still shaking.

“Lady, please don’t hit me.” Each word trembling.

Madison commanded. “Get on the ground, face down. Now!” He
dropped with a splat.

Second guy was ten feet farther down the sidewalk, braced
against another landscape planter, puking his guts out, moaning as he clutched
at his neck.

Madison stood ready for battle, when blue lights and sirens
filled the street. Four police cars had entered from opposites ends of the
block. One of the search lights caught her waving. When she tossed her third
bottle against one of the buildings, glass splintering, the three guys let out
simultaneous shivering moans. The little guy wet his pants, a puddle darkening
the sidewalk where he was lying.

As soon as the officers approached Madison, she pointed and
said. “Those three, they attacked me.”

One of the female officers motioned Madison away from the
guys on the ground. “Let’s step over here. Do you have any injuries that need
immediate attention?” The officer had noticed that Madison’s skirt was twisted;
her top was half hanging out, and blood on the elbow of her jacket.

The other officers piled out of their cars, assessing the
three men, and starting immediate communication with EMS and other personnel.
They worked quickly with precision. The ends of the block were being cordoned
off and only a few cars had crawled past, passengers gawking at the commotion
as the police arrived.

The officer asked a few preliminary questions, but Madison
interrupted, “Look, let’s streamline all this. I’m Madison Winston. I called in
the 911, and I thank you for coming to my aid. I’m going to go with you to the
police station for the follow-up, but I will not make any other statements
until I have my attorney with me.” She leveled a firm look at the officer.

The officer nodded, “That works. We’ll go to the station
shortly. Let me give you a seat in the car for safety.”

She stopped her recorder, and dialed the direct number to
Fallington Enterprises’ attorney-on-call. When answered, she said, “Hi, this is
Madison. Three men attacked me in downtown Asheville. Can you meet me at the
police station?” She listened. “That’s correct. I’ve made no statements. See
you at the station, Beth.”

10:45 p.m.

Attorney Beth Malcomb met with Madison to learn the details
of the attack, before meeting with a detective. Beth used her laptop to prepare
a brief statement, and print copies on a portable printer. She handed a copy to
the detective, when he entered the interview room. He placed the statement,
along with his legal pad, pen, and recorder on the table, opposite side from
Madison and Beth.

“Good evening Ms. Winston and Ms. Malcomb.” He handed his
business card to each. “I’m Detective Alan Korbit. Sorry you had to wait. We’re
really backlogged today.” He massaged the back of his neck with his right hand.
“Mind if I stand a few minutes?”

They nodded approval.

Alan was a 25-year veteran on the force, and well respected.
He was divorced, but had two daughters in college. He had a square face,
penetrating black eyes, and full head of curly gray hair. His stocky build was
neatly dressed in dark suit and tie, with crisp white shirt, French cuffs. Good
choice of cologne, soft.

He picked up Madison’s statement, reading, as he walked back
and forth on the other side of the table. When finished, he said, “I wish
everyone would do this…write a concise statement…make my job easier.”

Neither woman smiled.

“But I do have a few questions of clarification. Mind if I
record the interview?”

Madison said, “No.”

Beth added, “Don’t mind at all.” She activated her recorder.

Alan clicked on his recorder, spouted the date and time
according to the clock on the wall, and some internal reference number.
Pointing to Madison and Beth, he said, “Would you please identify yourselves
for the record?”