Part 5 (1/2)

”I know,” I said. ”But if we let him get away with it, he'll be at another mall in a few days. Hit on some other woman. The cops found a switchblade knife in his pocket. You don't know what he might have done to you if I hadn't been here.”

She thought that over and then asked, ”Who do I make the statement to?”

”The a.s.sistant state attorney who gets the case.”

”Won't that be you?”

”It'll be someone who works for me. I'm chief a.s.sistant state attorney.” I shrugged, meaning: that's a big deal in my world, not yours.

”Would you be able to handle this personally?”

”Why?”

”Do I have to tell you?”

She looked at me calmly. She could have said: Because I feel comfortable with you. Or even: Because you were here. But she had said, Do I have to tell you? What was she telling me? I felt guilty already, and nothing had happened.

”I'm a witness,” I said. ”I'll have to bow out at a certain time. But until such time comes, yes, of course I'll handle it.”

It will be difficult to justify that, I thought. And absurd. And I'll kill anyone who tries to stop me.

”Are you married?” she asked.

My heart pounded; her bluntness frightened and captured me. ”Happily married. With two kids.”

”And one more dumb question. Are you Jewish?”

”Yes.”

”I knew it. Something in your voice. Old World warmth. My goodness, you're blus.h.i.+ng. A bashful Jewish prosecutor. There aren't many, are there?”

She didn't have a southern accent, and I asked where she was from. Scranton, Pennsylvania, she told me. I asked more questions; it seemed safer than answering them. She had done a little modeling after high school, she said, then gone out to L.A to become an actress. But there were too many actresses, and some of them-this was a shock to her-could really act. In five years a few bit parts were all she managed to land. Then she got married and was brought by her husband to Jacksonville.

”What name did you use on the screen?”

”Constance Clark. My real name.”

”So you're not Jewish.” '

”I converted.”

”Why?”

”Out of respect for my husband.”

I liked that answer. It gave her a weight and depth that she hadn't had. It also implied that she was involved in her husband's life, cared for him, could fend off anything alien and potentially damaging. I had never met Solomon Zide, although you could not live in Jacksonville without knowing Zide Industries. Not just the conglomerate, that statewide octopus, but Solly's local projects. ZiDevco, the real estate development subsidiary, was changing the bulkhead line of Duval County, buying up mud flats and bay bottom and then, with the approval of the county commissioners, converting them to golf courses, yacht harbors, and home sites, from the low 80s to the 200s, as the ZiDevco billboards proclaimed. Progress, Florida style-full speed ahead, and d.a.m.n the ecologists.

”May I call you Edward?”

”Ted will do it.”

”I know you're a prosecutor and a happily married man, which on both counts I find interesting, but what else?”

”What do you want to know?”

An intense, clear light seemed to pour through her eyes. Much later, looking at some wallpaper samples in a department store, I identified their color as Copenhagen Blue. The color illuminated my dreams for a long time.

She said calmly, ”If I said 'everything,' would you feel I was rus.h.i.+ng things?”

I felt a sensation in my spine and fingertips: that spiraling high again. But I couldn't help wondering: why me? She's rich, beautiful, intelligent, and she's courageous to boot. And what am I?

I believed then that I was a man of value, but other than in the courtroom, I had never seen myself as a star. A good lover, good thinker, good father: all that. But not great, and I did not aspire to greatness. That was too narrow and rocky a path. I aspired to harmony, to ease of conscience, to well-being for myself and those under my wing.

Now I saw myself capable of losing all that. A great chasm, what I would soon think of as the Grand Canyon of my life-that wide, that colorful, that glorious-had appeared directly in my path. And I was stumbling toward it.

I didn't answer Connie Zide's question, just moved my hand toward hers; she clasped it, squeezing it as hard as I reckoned she could. Her fingers were thin and cool. Her eyes were knowing.

Nothing more happened that evening. I backed off. I said good night to her and reminded her to call me at the office. ”You have to file that complaint.” I gave her my business card.

The next afternoon, at the courthouse, she wore a beige suit, a dark-blue silk blouse, matching high heels, pearls, and a sapphire ring. In the daytime, I soon realized, she always wore gray or neutral- colored suits, but the austerity only heightened her sensuality. Was there something so primitive about her that it had to be cloaked in straight lines and muted colors? I wondered about that. And I still do.

I gave her a little tour of the prosecutorial warrens, introducing her to some of the peons. Then I took her statement and had it filed. My office, on the fifth floor, faced the river, a parking lot, a construction crane, and the Prudential Building. I had always been satisfied with it until Connie Zide visited-then it seemed shabby. There was an organizational chart on the wall next to my diplomas and the Great Seal of the State of Florida; on the desk was a mug that said BOSS, some leather-framed photos of Toba and my kids on the beach, and a bra.s.s pendulum clock. There was nothing original about the decor; I felt she must view me as utterly prosaic.

When Connie had called, she'd said, ”After we go through the business end of it, can we roll double or nothing? I mean”-chortling a little-”will you buy me another drink?”

”If you come here at four-thirty, Mrs. Zide, I'm sure I can manage that.” I was in conference then with two a.s.sistant state attorneys.

We went to the Marriott. At a table under a palm tree on the terrace, we had that conversation where she told me it had been ”all adrenaline.” We chatted for an hour, and then I smiled in what I hoped was a gracious manner and said, ”I'm afraid I have to go.” I realized that I had made a mistake. She was as lovely and dazzling as before, but she seemed nervous, as if she didn't quite know how to extricate herself from what I may have perceived as a commitment. I felt like a fool.

Out in the hotel parking lot she led me to her pearl-gray Mercedes convertible. When she brushed up against me, I grew a little giddy. I stared at her face in the shadowy light, wanting to say goodbye with at least a trace of style.

She sprang the locks of the car with a cras.h.i.+ng sound like the great bra.s.s gong being struck in an old J. Arthur Rank movie. With firm and lunatic intent, I strode around to the pa.s.senger's door, slid inside, and got all mixed up by the aroma of foreign leather and perfume. (Opium, she told me later; I didn't doubt it.) ”Connie ...”

”Ted . ..”

”Look, I know this is crazy ...”

”No, it's not crazy at all.”

She reached out for me, and I kissed her. About ten seconds into the kiss, Connie Zide began to moan. I had never known a woman -or, when I was younger, a girl-who moaned that way when she was merely kissed. I crushed her against me, bit at her lip, seized her arms. There was a recklessness in all this that was beyond thrilling: her b.r.e.a.s.t.s seemed to swell, her face grew hot, and my own body throbbed with a sense of power that I hadn't felt in years. Connie groaned urgently, then quivered ... then suddenly relaxed.

We disengaged, breathing unevenly. ”Jesus,” she said.

”What is it?”

”You don't know what happened?”