“Eddie,” I say sliding in across from him, “I’m Gideon Page. I’d like to visit with you for a few minutes.”
Eddie Stiles is a short, pudgy young man with watery gray eyes and with a hint of a mustache (or maybe it’s just dirt) above his lips. Though the temperature outside is pleasant, he is wearing an expensive dark blue two pocket chambray workshirt unbuttoned over a muted striped T. I can’t see his pants or his shoes, but Eddie apparently doesn’t need any help spending his money.
“You’re Dade’s lawyer,” he says, eagerly reaching for my hand.
Ridiculously flattered that he knows who I am, I allow him to pump my hand as if I were visiting royalty or a major dope supplier. I realize I was nervous about this encounter, but this kid is hardly an intimidating figure.
“Eddie, let me get to the point. I want you to stay away from Dade. I don’t want you to talk to him; I don’t want him using your house. I don’t know what your story is, but the prosecutor says you’re one of their favorite topics of conversation.”
Eddie, his soft face as innocent as a baby’s, whines, “I been stayin’ away from him! The cops think I sell drugs, but they’re crazy! They’d bust me so fast, man! It’s just that I like the Razorbacks. They’re great athletes. Dade could go pro right now. Are you gonna negotiate his contract if you beat the rape charge? It’d be worth a bundle.”
I look at this guy in amazement. Words tumble from his mouth like a string of firecrackers being shot off. I prefer him on the defensive.
“You’re violating NCAA rules,” I tell him, “by letting players use your house.”
Eddie taps his glass against the Formica tabletop like a judge gaveling an unruly lawyer out of order.
“No way, man! I let non athlete students use my house for parties. If I do that, there’s no violation.”
Eddie, like other criminals I have known, has an answer for everything.
“Listen, I can help Dade if you’ll let me. I saw Robin coming out of the house that night when Dade was supposed to have raped her. I’d just pulled into the yard and could see her face in the porch light. She wasn’t upset at all. She was smiling even.”
I believe that like I believe I’m going to grow wings and a halo. I knock back a slug of beer. What do guys like this do when they allegedly grow up? Become lobbyists, I guess. Always wanting to help somebody out.
“Some how, you failed to mention this to the cops.”
Eddie has his hands up as soon as I get the words out.
“They didn’t really ask. Those guys hate my guts. They even think I’m a fag. That’s bullshit. Ask Dade. He wouldn’t put up with that kind of shit.”
What a pathetic little creature.
“Sometime soon, when I’m back up here, I’d like Dade to show me inside the house where the rape was supposed to have happened, but you never seem to be at home. You must spend a lot of time at the library.”
Eddie smiles at my little joke.
“Anytime you say, man.
Anytime you say. Anything I can do to help, I will. Just call here and ask for Eddie.”
“I’ll do that,” I say and slide out of the booth and head for my car, figuring it will do no good to stop by Dickson Street and have a chat with the owner of Chuck’s Grill.
He’s not going to admit that he gives free drinks to star athletes. Dade will have to take responsibility for him’ self. I drive home, wondering if I’m any different from Chuck and Eddie. That little weasel acted as if he had known me forever.
11
“I confess i feared the worst,” Amy says, laying her knife and fork on the chipped plastic dish in front of us.
“Actually, this was delicious. Here you’ve cooked me dinner, and you should be preparing for your burned baby case tomorrow.”
“For the money she’s paid,” I say, “I’m overprepared, believe me.” Amy must really have it bad for me. All I’ve done is burn a steak on the grill, popped two potatoes in the microwave, and thrown together a salad. I pick up the plates and take them to the sink. Dirty dishes make me feel queasy.
“The best part of our relationship,” I add, “is that you have such low expectations.”
Still seated, Amy leans down and pets Woogie, who has stationed himself by her chair.
“As long as I can still get a heartbeat,” she says, grinning at me, “I’m not gonna complain. You’re a low-maintenance kind of guy.”
I turn on the hot water and rinse vegetable juice off the faded dishes, wondering if she means I’m cheap. It hasn’t occurred to me until tonight that new cutlery wouldn’t send me to the poorhouse. It’s not as if I’d be outfitting a restaurant chain.
“I still can’t get over the fact you like ‘em so old,” I say, returning to a subject I know I am worrying to death. Yet, most people don’t go prospecting in a played-out mine if they have other options. As cute as she is, Amy doesn’t even have to dip her pan into the water.
Tonight, her tight jeans are making my heart speed up.
Clothed, her short, compact frame had led me to believe in the past she was always on the verge of carrying too much weight. Seeing her at the track cured that misconception. Unlike most humans, the more flesh Amy re veals, the better. Though her waist is short, her stomach, which is partially revealed beneath a jade shirt that is tied at the bottom, is as taut as a drawn bowstring. Above the waist she is delightfully voluptuous, a fact usually concealed by business suits and running bras.
“Let’s get this resolved once and for all,” she says, coming over to load my ancient dishwasher, and in the process patting me on the butt in a proprietary manner.
“I know this isn’t very original, but you remind me of my father.”
Damn. And they say men aren’t romantic. But if you don’t want spinach, don’t ask for it.
“I’m flattered,” I lie.
“You should be. He was a wonderful man,” Amy says firmly.
“Am I getting you for dessert?” She pinches my right cheek through my favorite pair of old jeans, thread bare in the extreme but totally comfortable.
Again, I am reminded of the contrast with Rainey. She would have cut off her hand before she would have played grab-ass with me.
“You want me to get out the Cool Whip?”
“I like you plain, Gideon,” Amy says seriously before pressing her full mouth against mine. Though I’m not crazy about making love on a full stomach, Amy’s tongue is delightful. So warm and eager. How nice it is to be wanted by her. If I have a heart attack, it will have been for a good cause.
In the bedroom I turn off the phone. Gina Whitehall has already called me once tonight. I know she is anxious about tomorrow, but surely I deserve to be off the clock a little while. As before, Amy proves to be a delightful, appreciative lover. From her purse she takes a vial of liquid and rubs oil over our vital parts until they smell like vanilla ice cream cones. After we do it twice in the same bed where I made love to Rosa thousands of times, curious, yet a little afraid of the answer, I ask, “So what was your father like?”
Cradled in the crook of my right arm like a child with a fairly fresh sheet almost but not quite covering her breasts, she says, “He felt responsible, the way you do.
Like him, you’re a worrier. You worry about Sarah.
You’re always worried about your clients. You’re like an old mother hen. I like that. A lot of men my age just worry about their cash flow.”
I reach across her and turn the phone back on, feeling her slightly damp hair against my left ear.
“You’re doing wonders for my masculinity.”
“You don’t need a bit of help in that department,” she says, her voice playful, yet, I hope, respectful, too.
The phone rings immediately as if to protest my audacity in briefly silencing it. She giggles like a child caught playing doctor. Since Sarah has been off at school, I have moved her telephone into my room.