No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  She held up dirty hands. "Flat tire," she explained. "Do you have somewhere I can wash up?"

  He directed her to the bathroom and then laid out their dinner. Minutes later she emerged from the bathroom. He noted that she had applied a fresh coat of lipstick.

  When they finished eating, he suggested they take their tea into the main room and get comfortable. She surprised him when she ignored the obvious choice of the couch and instead remained standing in front of the fireplace.

  "Are you cold?" he asked.

  "No, it just feels good to stand. I've just been sitting all day doing paperwork? She pointed to the lone picture on the mantel. "Your mother?" she asked.

  "The grand dame herself."

  "She looks—"

  "Prosperous?" Blackstone asked.

  "I was going to say elegant. I like the coat. Is it sable?"

  "You have a good eye," he said.

  "The frame is Cartier, isn't it?"

  "I'm doubly impressed. It's somewhat ornate for my tastes, but it was a birthday gift from Evelyn last year, so what could I do?"

  "And Evelyn is?"

  "My mother. "

  "And your father?" she asked.

  "Two husbands ago. We don't hear from him much. Are you always this inquisitive?"

  "Comes with the job, I guess. Does it bother you?"

  "For you I'm an open book. In the spirit of interoffice cooperation and all that."

  Her fingers grazed the Lalique crystal frog next to the framed picture. "You don't seem to be hurting," she said.

  "It doesn't cost that much more to go first-class," he said. "Not if you focus on the things that really interest you." Her hands fluttered nervously to the top button of her blouse. A trace of black grease was still visible on her knuckles. She had also chipped a nail.

  As they talked he opened the bottom drawer of the chessboard table and removed a heavy box wrapped in a soft white towel. Balancing the box in his lap, he folded the towel twice and used it to wipe off the table's clear lacquer surface, taking a moment to admire the alternating squares of burgundy Italian elm burl and blond maple that lay beneath the protective coating. If only life were laid out in such an orderly fashion, with each space denoted geometrically and all players a known quantity

  "How about you?" he asked. "Do you have family near?"

  "They're in Arizona," she said. "Tempe."

  "That's a college town, isn't it?"

  "Yes. Both my parents are professors?

  "What did they think about you joining the FBI?"

  "They were disappointed. My father thought I could be anything I wanted."

  He grunted a small laugh. "Sounds like something Evelyn would say"

  When he was satisfied that the cloth had not found any stray dust, he lifted the lid off the rosewood box on his lap. The chess pieces were individually wrapped. They were made by Jaqué, the prestigious London firm. The set had cost him over a thousand dollars, but it was well worth the expense. Each piece was hand-carved and -weighted. The black pieces were ebony the white, Indian boxwood; circles of leather had been glued to the bottoms.

  The chessmen weren't overly ornate. The knight was the classic horse head, not some armor-clad crusader aboard a rearing steed. Serious players cared more for the weight and feel of the pieces. He'd seen some sets where it was impossible to distinguish bishops from pawns, kings from queens, and had refused to play with them.

  Working from the magazine notes, he arranged the pieces of the Fischer-Najdorf game played in 1962. The game had gotten interesting after the thirteenth move. Fischer had begun his favorite way—moving out his king's pawn to free diagonal files for his queen and bishop. Najdorf had responded with the classic Sicilian defense. They had exchanged material, a knight and two pawns each. Fischer castled, Najdorf did not—devoting his energies instead to forming a strong center position. It was at this point that Blackstone invited Claire to sit.

  "I'll take white," he said.

  "That makes me Najdorf, I suppose," she said.

  "Do you mind?"

  "Not at all. Where's your chess clock?"

  He pulled out the dual-faced timer. "What should I set it for?" he asked.

  "Let's try five-minute intervals."

  "Speed chess?" he asked.

  "It's a good exercise for making yourself rely more on your intuition," she said. "is it your move?"

  He answered by placing his queen on A4.

  "Check," he said.

  "You picked an interesting place to begin," she said and brought her knight over to protect her king.

  "Good move," he said.

  "It was the obvious choice," she said.

  His heart beat faster. Now the game was going to heat up. He considered the board and said, " know about the Canyonville connection."

  She looked at him, but said nothing.

  He captured her bishop with his rook. She lifted an eyebrow His rook was vulnerable to a center pawn. Hardly an even trade of material. She took the bait.

  "So you understand our involvement," she said, capturing his rook.

  "Was John Garillo an informant?" he asked.

  "I'll check with the head office."

  He moved his knight towards the center of the board. "To see if he was or to see if you can tell me?"

  "Either or both," she said, her eyes never leaving the board. The ticking of the clock seemed to Fill the room. She brought her kingside bishop out, clearing the rank of squares between her king and rook. She was looking to castle, a good protective move. It had just come too late.

  He moved his knight again. "Check."

  Her only out was to move her king, which meant she couldn't castle later. It was against the rules for her to castle out of check. Obviously she was a stickler for rules. She moved her king a square toward him. She had only two choices.

  Again he brought his knight around. "Check."

  "Why do I feel this sense of unrelenting pressure?" she asked. She moved her king out of check. His next move would involve some finesse. He moved his bishop, removed his hand, and then quickly tried to slide the piece back to its original position.

  She stopped him. "You took your hand off."

  "I meant to—"

  "Sorry" she said, "but that's the rule."

  "I don't think you're sorry at all," he said, smiling ruefully He watched her assess the board. Her eyes darted from space to space as she played out the consequences of her next action. He knew what she was thinking. She was asking herself how she could capitalize on his mistake. Moving his bishop there had left it vulnerable to her bishop. But if she captured him with her bishop, he could retaliate with the pawn in front of his king. Then she could bring out her queen and threaten his king, perhaps shift the momentum of the game.

  She captured his bishop. He groaned for her benefit, then captured hers. She obviously dicln't understand the principal of positional sacrifices, either.

  "Would you like some more tea?" he asked, his hand hovering over the stop button on the time clock.

  "Stalling for time?" she asked.

  "It's your move," he reminded her, stopping the clock. "This is a friendly game, Claire. Or did you want to make it more interesting?"

  "What did you have in mind? A wager?"

  "That would work," he said. "What shall we put at stake?"

  "How about a no-lose proposition?" she asked, her eyes locking on his. They were very clear, he noticed.

  He put his hand on hers, caressing the flesh of her wrist with his thumb. "How this evening ends," he said, his voice suddenly throaty "what happens between you and me, won't be decided by anything but mutual consent. I think we have that already Don't we, Claire?"

  He had her full attention. He could see it in the way her eyes watched his lips move as he spoke.

  "What do you want?" she asked in a husky voice. She didn't pull her hand away

  "If I win, I get to ask you a question that you must answer. If you win, I'll owe you an answer."

>   "How do I know that you have any answers that I'm interested in?"

  "Nothing's more dangerous than a biker on speed with a live grenade, don't you think?" he said.

  She looked at him, then back at the board. "Am I being hustled here?"

  "Do you want to concede?" he asked.

  Instead of answering him, she brought her queen out. The pawn he had used to capture her bishop was all that stood between her queen and his king. He slid his kingside rook to the center of the board. She responded by moving her queenside rook a square forward—out of its corner. She restarted the clock.

  "When will you be done with my evidence?" he asked.

  "Is that your question?"

  "No. It's premature for me to collect on our bet. I haven't won yet."

  "That's right," she said.

  He moved his rook across the board, threatening her queen. If she captured his rook with her queen, then his knight would take her queen and put her in check.

  "Rat," she said.

  "Tell you what," he said. "I'm going to take us off the timer." He turned the clock off; she didn't object. She pondered her next move for fifteen minutes.

  Then a smile spread over her face as she moved her queen back to stand beside her king. It was a good move, but not good enough to save her.

  He moved his queen one square diagonally His play was what is known in chess as a quiet move. Quiet moves are played during an attacking sequence and, although they pose no immediate threat, will clear the board for a much more aggressive move later. Often quiet moves are the deadliest of all. She brought her queen out again, biting her lower lip. He could see that she was feeling desperate to bring out material, to give herself offensive options. She closed her mouth again and he found himself studying the moisture that remained on her lips. Noticing his delay she looked up from the board. For a moment their eyes locked, then he captured the pawn next to her king.

  "Check."

  She couldn't take his bishop without moving into check from his queen. She moved her king out of harm's way He moved his bishop.

  "Do you want a notepad?" he asked. She nodded yes.

  While she plotted her options, he studied her face. The line between her eyes deepened and her nostrils flared slightly She wasn't in check. Yet. But he had rendered her helpless. He was watching her eyes the moment that realization dawned on her. He also realized that he had an erection.

  "So what's your question?" she finally asked.

  "I'm not ready to ask it yet."

  "What happens now?"

  He stood and took her hand. "Come on," he said, pulling her to her feet. " want to show you the rest of the house."

  Later, hours later, her head nestled in the crook of his arm. As she ran a lazy finger up his breastbone, she said, "That was a nice touch earlier"

  He smoothed back her hair. "Which?"

  "You know," she said, "when you pretended to make a mistake. I'll have to remember that."

  "If you want to stop by tomorrow," he said, "I'll give you what I have on that biker with the grenade."

  "Sounds like a very bad man," she said, teasing his nipple with her teeth.

  Blackstone let out an involuntary groan. "Yeah," he said, rolling toward her, "he beat up a hooker, but she came forward."

  "Umm," she said, grinding into him, "that was good of her."

  He burrowed his face into her neck and she said something that he missed. She pushed him away and asked again. "Did she ID the car he was driving?"

  He had to take a second to compose himself; he was having trouble concentrating. His blood, it seemed, was busy elsewhere. "Rental, Oregon plates. Mercury Comet, she said."

  She put a hand to his mouth. "No more shoptalk, okay? Tomorrow will take care of itself." Then she pulled him on top of her. This time he was the one to stop.

  "My turn," he said. "Was John Garillo working for you? Was he a snitch?"

  "I think you wasted your question. It sounds like you figured that one out for yourself."

  "Does that mean yes?" he asked. But she didn't answer, she was too busy doing incredible things with her lower anatomy He wondered briefly if she was into yoga or some other exotic discipline. All talk of the job was soon forgotten.

  They made love until they were both spent. Afterward, Claire fell immediately into a deep sleep.

  Blackstone listened to her rhythmic breathing. Somewhere outside, a freight train lumbered down the tracks. Southbound, he decided, with a full load. He knew all the sounds the trains made: the whoosh as two passed each other, the screech of their brakes. Even at a distance of miles he could tell whether they were approaching or departing. He stared at the stars and catalogued the day's events, including this most pleasant of endings. He had no regrets, and judging from her contented smile as she slumbered, neither did she. Yet something nagged at the edge of his consciousness, something he'd seen or something he'd heard, but he was too tired to chase the elusive thread of reasoning. If it was important, he decided, yawning, whatever it was would come to him tomorrow.

  He shut his eyes and a last image of the room formed in that netherworld of consciousness between dreams and reality The lamp by his bed became a queen. His last muddled thought as he drifted off to sleep was that she had him in check and he'd better do something about that.

  17

  MUNCH WOKE UP Wednesday morning to the sound of a phone ringing. It obviously wasn't for her. She rolled over in her cot and stared at the graffiti covered walls, surprised that she had slept so well. Throwing off the thin wool blanket, she stood and walked over to the door of her cell.

  "Can I make a phone call?" she asked the guard.

  The guard, a red-headed black woman, looked up from her newspaper. "Maybe later." The guard went back to her paper and then looked up again, taking in the sight of Munch in her grease—stained overalls. "You work at a gas station or something?"

  "A garage in the Valley " At least I did until yesterday, she thought. Who knew what was going to happen now.

  "What kind of stuff you do? Change oil?"

  "Tune-ups, brake work, clutches, electrical. You name it."

  "You ever work on Chevys?"

  "Chevys are my favorites," Munch said, moving closer to the bars that separated them. "What kind you got?"

  The guard put down her newspaper. "A '67 Camaro."

  "Rally Sport?"

  "Super Sport."

  "Great car."

  "When it's working," she said.

  "Have you been having problems?" Munch asked.

  "Yeah, when it gets hot—"

  "It won't start," Munch finished her sentence for her.

  The guard scooted her chair over to Munch's cell. "I put in another battery ignition switch, a starter—"

  "That's not the problem," Munch said. "It doesn't even click when you turn the key right?"

  "That's right."

  "But then you wait twenty minutes and it starts right up."

  "Yeah, yeah. That's exactly right."

  Munch read the woman's nameplate. "I've fixed that before, Officer Reese," Munch said. "You sure I can't get to a phone any sooner?"

  The guard looked both ways. "I don't know what you did, honey But I've got orders to isolate you."

  "I guess a cigarette is out of the question."

  "Sorry" she said. "How did you fix those other cars?"

  "I wired in a second auxiliary solenoid. Bring me a piece of paper and a pencil," Munch said. "It's easier to explain if I draw you a schematic. You can take it to your mechanic and have him fix it."

  The guard fetched Munch a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen. She watched as Munch drew a rectangle with two small posts, which she labeled with plus and minus symbols.

  "This is your battery;" Munch explained. "It puts out twelve volts."

  The guard nodded.

  "All right," Munch continued. "Your starter solenoid"—she drew a cylindrical object at the bottom of the page—"is mounted on top of your starter and requires eight
to ten volts to engage your starter. A solenoid is basically a gatekeeper. When it gets the message from the ignition switch, it opens the flow of current between the battery and the starter. You still with me?"

  The woman nodded again, clearly intrigued.

  "Is your car an automatic?"

  "Yes."

  "Allright." Munch drew several more squares and circles, explaining how each component worked.

  "The wiring insulation in the older Chevys tends to break down and leak current, especially when it gets hot. The starter solenoid requires an electrical signal of at least eight volts to operate, but by the time the current gets there it's only six or seven volts."

  "Until it cools off," the guard said, excited at the revelation.

  "Exactly" Munch said, "What I do is wire a Chrysler solenoid, which only requires five volts to operate, in series to deliver the needed eight volts to the GM solenoid." She quickly sketched the second solenoid into her schematic. "Think your mechanic can handle that?"

  "Shoot, I'd rather take it to you, honey"

  "If I ever get out of here," Munch said.

  The guard reached in her purse and grabbed a cigarette case. Then she unlocked the door to Munch's cell. "C'mon," she said. "You can smoke that in the bathroom."

  Munch smiled gratefully "Any chance we'll pass a phone on the way?"

  The guard looked both ways before answering. " don't think so," she said.

  "Hey; you've got a job to do," Munch said. " can dig it."

  The woman looked down the hall again, toward the phone. Munch knew she was weakening.

  18

  WHEN BLACKSTONE GOT to work Wednesday morning, he was in a rare good mood. The air was crisp and blown clean by the Santa Anas. Traffic had moved quickly on his way into the station. The coffee in the lounge was fresh and hot. By 9:15 he was seated comfortably at his desk, completely caught up on his paperwork and ready for the day

  Alex arrived at 9:45, a record-breaking fifteen minutes early He got himself a cup of coffee and then joined Blackstone in his cubicle to go over the day's agenda.

  "You got anything crunchy?" Alex asked.

  "Don't you eat at home?"

  "Yeah, I just got a taste for something salty" Alex reached into his pocket, but only found two toothpicks and a pack of matches. "So how'd it go last night?" was his next question.