Part 25 (1/2)
Hadn't thought about that one, had you?”
”Go to h.e.l.l, George.”
”Not before Limey's client,” George said. Woodrow was at the door.
”Oh, Woodrow, did you see today's paper?”
Woodrow turned back and George tossed it his way. He caught it and took the rubber band off.
”You made the front page. Governor's going to form a committee to look into the contracts awarded to Strober Industries. Starting with the board. According to that article, you went to law school with one of the board members.”
”The article's wrong.”
”That's what I thought,” George said, ”but it makes good reading. Since there's nothing else interesting to read about. Like a good collar. Or a murderer brought to trial.” George swiveled in his chair and tapped at his computer.
”See you, Woodrow.”
Woodrow didn't move. He held the newspaper in a hand that was suddenly sweaty with an arm that felt weak. George whistled and it irritated the heck out of Woodrow. He opened the door, closed it again, and said: ”George.”
”Yep, Woodrow.”
”I am worried about Tara. I wouldn't mind knowing what was going on at her place. Keep an eye on her and let me know if you see anyone suspicious around her house. A discreetly watchful eye. Might help.”
”I can spare some men for that kind of public service. I hate to see a fine attorney put in a bad position because of our negligence.”
”Yeah. Just remember, I'd hate to see any of us in a bad position.”
Fourteen.
It was perfect. The kind of place Tara imagined Ben would have. A stucco bungalow bigger, she was sure, than it appeared from the outside. On this short, half-moon street, there were only six houses that at one time had been home to families, the porches host to bicycles, the yards the domain of children. Now the porches were bare and each of the freshly painted buildings housed a business. A doctor, a paralegal, and a dentist were on the left.
An accountant sort of in the middle, considering there were six houses and no middle. And on the right another dentist and a psychologist.
Tara stood in front of the last house. Neat and white, it sported a tasteful bra.s.s plaque on the far right. She'd driven there without thinking. Now she was thinking twice.
Tara looked at the unpretentious building and walked up the steps, ignoring the long ramp running from sidewalk to porch. She rang the bell and stepped back, holding her purse in front of her, looking like a trick-or-treater anxious to see what surprises this place held for her. No one came, so she rang again and stepped farther back and to the right, hoping to peek through the window.
It was draped.
”Hi!” Tara twirled. A woman leaned over the railing that wound around the porch of the dentist's place. She was dressed all in white. Tara would have pegged her for the dentist but noticed her nails. No way she could work on anyone's mouth with those.
”You looking for Ben?”
”Yes, I am.” Tara walked to the end of the porch on her side so they wouldn't have to yell.
”Doesn't he keep regular office hours?”
”Usually, but he's testing today.”
”Oh, I better come back then,” Tara said quickly.
”He probably won't feel up to seeing anyone.”
”Are you kidding? He loves company after those things. They get him so pumped up. You might as well go watch. He's just around the corner.” She pointed a purple talon north and Tara looked after though there was nothing to see except traffic.
”You can't miss it. It's the little place with the blacked-out windows. I don't know the name but it's not even a block up.”
”If you think it's all right.”
”Believe me, I know it is.”
”Okay, I'll see if I can find it,” Tara called.
”Thanks.”
”No problem. If you miss him, want to leave a message?”
Tara shook her head.
”No. If I don't find him, I'll come back another time. Thanks again.”
Tara went down the stairs and at the sidewalk paused. She looked back over her shoulder and gave the woman a nod, then headed in the direction she'd indicated. A walk would do her good, and if she found Ben, all the better. Thankfully, the need for a sympathetic ear wasn't as urgent as it had been. She turned the corner and began looking at the storefronts, and wondered if seeking Ben out was wise. The floodgates of their relations.h.i.+p were rusty.
They might not open as she antic.i.p.ated.
There might be one rejection more today, but there also might be salvation.
She checked out the shoe repair and next to it an empty storefront. Next to that was a small boulangerie, a twirling sign outside announcing that the bread was fresh today. There it was, next to the boulangerie. A store with blacked-out windows.
Nothing announced what business was taking place behind the worn door, but the woman had said Ben was testing. Tara put her hand on the k.n.o.b, hoping she wouldn't walk in on some therapy session, and pushed. The door opened and it was the sounds of combative men she heard.
Tara stood in an anteroom. There was a narrow doorway on the far right. She headed toward it cautiously, listening to the sounds of battle. Cries and slaps, thumps of bodies. .h.i.tting the ground, came from the room beyond. Cautiously she looked through the door, registered what she was seeing, then slipped into the larger room and sat on a folding chair, one of six against the wall.
No one noticed her. Not the eight men kneeling against the wall to her right, not the one man standing between them and the mirrored wall to the left, and certainly not the two men warring in the middle of the room with the killing moves of karate. One of these men was Ben.
He was magnificent. Dressed in white cotton pajamas, black slippers on his feet, a brown belt around his waist. He faced off with another man.
This one was standing, and Ben seemed disadvantaged in his chair. Yet the man on his feet was more often on his back. Ben pulled on him and he went to the ground. With a horrendous cry Ben mocked a killing blow to his throat. His opponent was up again and this time was brought to his knees with a feigned two-handed strike at the kidneys.
The man reacted as if he had actually been hit.
Over and over again the exercise was played out.
Sweat glistened on Ben's face, rivulets ran down his chest, and Tara was mesmerized by the beauty of such a deadly art and the man who indulged in it. His arms, corded with muscles, cut through the air, creating sound by the mere force of motion.
His fingers curled and stretched into weapons designed to disable and kill, yet he used his knowledge with such precision that he and his partner seemed connected by respect, not by fear. There was a moment when Tara turned her head, terrified that Ben had made a mistake, that his hands had actually made contact with flesh and blood.