Black Leather

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  Two older black women sat on the front steps of the building. “Excuse me,” Joseph said. “Can you tell me where I can find the manager of this building?”

  The one on the left, with wild gray hair and orange polyester double knit pants stretched tight over gigantic thighs said, AI manage this building.”

  Joseph pulled out the computer enhanced photograph of Irene. “You rent an apartment to this young woman?”

  The manager took her time looking at the photograph and then looked suspiciously up at Joseph. “That look like Miss Irene. I ain’t never seen her with black hair before, though.”

  “I’m her brother-in-law. She asked me to come by here and pick up a few of her things.”

  “Her things?”

  “Yes.”

  “She sick?”

  “No, why?”

  “Why ain’t she here herownself?”

  “She’s busy. Working on a big case.”

  The woman thought about that. “How do I know you for real?”

  Joseph handed her his card. “You’re welcome to call her.”

  The woman squinted at the card, extending her arms, then handed it to the woman sitting on the step next to her who adjusted her glasses and peered at the card. “College? You a college perfesser?” the other woman asked.

  Joseph nodded.

  Impressed, the manager grunted to her feet. “Well. Guess I better not keep no college man waitin’, huh?” The other woman laughed at that. “No, sir. That ain’t the way she goes.” She turned and headed up into the building. Joseph plucked the business card from her friend’s fingers and stepped quickly to open and hold the door for her.

  Joseph followed the orange pants up the stairs, reminded of the apartment he was in not too long ago, meeting Eduardo, seeing Irene’s artwork for the first time. Irene certainly had a tendency to level down, didn’t she?

  The manager stopped in front of a second floor apartment, pulled a ring of keys from her pocket and opened the door.

  The tiny apartment smelled like old potpourri that had gone to dust. It was overly decorated with lace and floral prints, heavy draperies, overstuffed furniture and bric-a-brac. Claustrophobic. The minuscule white kitchen was spotless, the walls were covered with flocked floral wallpaper, there was a hand-crocheted lace doily underneath or on top of almost everything.

  “Just what kind of stuff did Miss Irene ask you to pick up?”

  Without answering her, Joseph went into the bedroom and opened the closet. Instead of little old lady dresses with lace collars, it was full of black leather. Leather skirts, boots, pants, bustiers, jackets, all with big silver zippers and shiny chrome studs. A half dozen black wigs in different styles sat atop Styrofoam heads on the shelf.

  Miss Lillian’s closet. Miss Lillian’s wardrobe.

  Joseph half expected to see a leather outfit or two, but the overdose of it all was quite overwhelming. Sad, in a way.

  “My, my,” the manager said.

  Joseph reached in and touched a little leather dress. Soft, fluid, buttery. He’d love to see Irene in this. God help him, he’d give damned near anything to see Irene dressed like this.

  “That Miss Irene,” the manager said, breaking Joseph’s concentration and bringing him back to the task at hand. “She got herself some little secrets, don’t she? My, my.”

  Joseph closed the closet and looked around the tiny bedroom. There was another smell in there. Some acrid odor he couldn’t identify. He stepped around the manager and went to the dresser. A white runner, hand-embroidered with lilacs, covered the dresser, and family photos in little frames stood in a neat row on top of it.

  One photo was of a blonde woman sitting on the steps of this building with a black man and two tow-headed little girls. Joseph smiled and ran his finger across the top of the silver frame. Irene, Cynthia, Ellie and Myron. Picture of a happy family.

  The top dresser drawer was full of black lace lingerie. Joseph closed his eyes. He didn’t want to lose himself here, he was just looking for something, anything, he didn’t even know what any more. He put his hand in the drawer and the flimsy silk lace felt light and cool on his hand. Were there crotchless panties? Thongs? Little lace bras with nipple cutouts? He wished that the manager would leave him alone in here for a few minutes. He wanted to look through these things, he wanted to get a feel for Irene, for who she was and what she did when she dressed up as Miss Lillian.

  Cross dressing, dressing up, acting out, all of those behaviors had to do with changing one’s ego. None of those things were new to Joseph. In school he had read about it, had heard about it all. Even dressing up to go out on a Saturday night was a minor form of ego alteration. Put a woman who normally wears blue jeans into a beaded gown, and her personality changes. That’s common knowledge. But this was extreme. Add to it Miss Lillian’s penchant for mutilation, and it was very extreme. Even more, add to that the fact that none of the men complained, or pressed charges...

  Except one. Warren Begay. He complained. Perhaps he complained loudly. Perhaps he complained loudly enough.

  Joseph’s finger touched something that wasn’t lace. He pulled out a black leather thong.

  “Glory,” the manager said.

  Joseph’s pants were suddenly too tight. He dropped the bit of leather back into the drawer and closed it.

  The next drawer was sticky, and Joseph had to jostle it. Whatever was inside rattled. At first he expected to find more lingerie or hosiery, but the rattle indicated maybe condoms or sex toys. Finally it came open, first an inch, then another, and that sharp odor wafted up and stung his eyes.

  He yanked hard, and the drawer opened, unsettling the photographs on the top of the dresser. He didn’t want to look inside, but he did.

  The drawer was filled with black film canisters.

  Chapter 15

  Owen Crowell shook his head in disbelief at the page full of names, dates and places in front of him. He was alone. It was late and his desk lamp was the only light on in the cavernous office.

  That light illuminated three stacks of printouts: Irene Nottingham’s frequent flyer records which he had coerced from a mileage program employee; a printout of Judge Colburn’s court docket, filtered to show only Irene’s judgments; and police reports from the cities he’d faxed, based on Irene’s courtroom victories and her immediately subsequent travel plans.

  Almost every courtroom judgment in her favor coincided within days of either a medical report in the city she traveled to, or with a date on the back of one of those photos he had finessed from Joseph Schneider. There were very few blank spaces in his little legal-pad chart. Owen felt as if he were stalking a serial killer in development. In the larval stage, so to speak.

  He put all the police reports citing knife wounds in chronological order and went through them slowly. Unfortunately, the fax quality of the photographs was not the best.

  There was definitely a progression. From little nicks and slices requiring a couple of stitches each, to a New Mexico guy’s initials carved into his shoulder, to a round, convoluted Celtic design detailed on the arm of a man in Seattle, to stripping off patches of skin. Salt Lake City. Phoenix. Boise. Las Vegas.

  To murder in Los Angeles.

  Irene Nottingham. Soon to be Judge Nottingham.

  Owen couldn’t believe it. Underneath that cool, calm, well-tended beige exterior, loomed this blade-happy maniac. He couldn’t imagine what would happen when she got on the bench. Would she go absolutely insane with power?

  And bringing her down: what would that mean for his career?

  Owen dropped his pencil and clicked out the light. He ran his hands through his hair, then sat in the darkness, listening to the air conditioning, while he thought about breaking this kind of news to Walter, his boss. What would Walter think?

  It had to be an air-tight case, that’s what Walter would think. To accuse Irene Nottingham of murder with insufficient evidence would be the end of his career.

  But if he got all his ducks
lined up in perfect order, it could be his springboard. To the bench. Or better. Attorney General. Governor. Senator. There’s no telling. There might be no stopping.

  First things first.

  Owen clicked the light on again. He mustn’t let ambition blind him. This thing had to be handled with kid gloves, in strict confidence. He couldn’t rush forward with it, nor could he sit on it. He had to stay conscious and proceed gently.

  He picked up the phone and dialed.

  The phone only rang once. “Hello?” Joseph’s voice sounded fogged.

  “Joseph, it’s Owen Crowell. My hunch panned out. Irene’s victories in the courtroom coincide exactly with dates she took trips.”

  “The question is,” Joseph said, “did anybody get skinned in those cities on those days?”

  “A few.”

  Owen heard astonishment in the silence. He also heard what sounded like a recliner righting itself and a lamp clicking on. “I’m correlating all my notes, Joseph, then turning it over to a judicial investigator. This isn’t good information for me to have right now. I’m the prosecutor on Cynthia’s case.”

  “A judicial investigator?”

  “Being appointed to the bench is a political thing, Joseph. Irene has schmoozed in all the right circles, which is why she’s having an interview. But the committee, the power guys, don’t want to be caught with their pants down, so they’re doing a little background investigation on her. The governor makes the actual appointment, and he can’t afford to be embarrassed. It’s an election year. The committee, the governor, they all ought to know about this stuff.”

  “But what about Cynthia? She’s clearly innocent.”

  “Not yet, she isn’t,” Owen said. “This information doesn’t clear her.”

  “Doesn’t clear her?” Joseph sounded as though he was about to become very upset.

  “If you don’t like the way I’m handling this, Joseph, you’re welcome to take your information to the police.”

  “The police? What police? Which police? They’re transferring Cynthia to Los Angeles.”

  “That may be the best place for her, Joseph. She’ll have a new attorney there, one who doesn’t have a... vested interest, shall we say.”

  “But...”

  “I’ve got to go. We can’t discuss this again.”

  “Can I have your notes? The information on those cities, those dates, those guys who were cut?”

  Owen looked down at his legal pad, with everything written down so logically. The chart of numbers belied the catastrophic implication of the information. “I’ll drop copies of it all by your office, but you didn’t get it from me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you understand, Joseph? I disavow knowledge.”

  “I understand.”

  Owen hung up the phone, then looked down at the yellow pad again. The appointment to a vacated judicial seat was a highly political move. Irene had done her homework there, especially with the governor. If Owen could save those big guns from this type of embarrassment, they would be grateful indeed.

  Chapter 16

  Joseph yawned, stretched, kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on Irene’s glass-topped coffee table. She handed him a fresh glass of wine and he sipped it appreciatively.

  Good wine. One of life’s tinier, more important pleasures. Cynthia always bought whatever was on sale at the grocery store. She drank it like soda.

  Not Irene. Not this wine. Joseph rolled the clear liquid around on his tongue and bet she spent upwards of seventy-five dollars on this bottle, and it was the second of the evening. He liked being here. He liked Irene’s natural elegance. He liked the feeling of tension he had when around her. He liked the fact that she had secrets, and he knew about them, and she didn’t know he knew. It added spice. It gave him confidence.

  Irene picked up a pile of papers from the couch cushion between them and dropped it to the floor. Then she sat down, curled her feet up underneath her and sipped her wine.

  “No skin removed from Sam,” Joseph said, keeping the conversation professional.

  “No skin. Just one ordinary restaurant knife through the throat. A knife taken from the diner they were both in minutes earlier. Seen by a dozen witnesses.”

  “Cynthia’s fingerprints on the knife?”

  “No prints. No prints on the knife, on the car, or in the car.”

  Joseph sat up, putting his wine glass on the table where his feet had been. “I can’t believe Cynthia did this. You know, Irene, I was married to that woman, I lived with that woman, I just can’t believe she has it in her.”

  “It’s in her all right.”

  Joseph blinked twice, then slowly turned to look at Irene. “How can you defend her if you believe she’s guilty?”

  Irene reached out a cool, white, manicured hand and laid it on Joseph’s arm. He knew it was an innocent gesture, but his arm was so hot, and her hand was so cool, and she was so beautiful in this light, in this intimate setting... He didn’t think she ought to be touching him, but he’d be damned if he’d move out from under that touch.

  “It’s my job. Not everybody I defend is innocent. Innocence or guilt doesn’t even enter into it.”

  “That’s cold.”

  “That’s law.”

  Her hand slipped slowly from his arm, which was even harder for Joseph to endure. He watched it slip, inch by inch, from his skin, then slide across the intervening cushion, back into her lap.

  What had Owen said about Irene having a “vested interest” in the outcome of Cynthia’s case?

  He looked up, and she was looking directly into his eyes. “Maybe I should go,” he said to cover the guilty feeling he just had about her, and having said it, felt some of the tension dissipate. Her face was completely passive, as if it would be fine with her if he stayed, and fine if he left.

  He left.

  He ached, but he left.

  ~~~

  Owen had the plain manila envelope delivered to Joseph’s office around noon the next day, and it sat on his desk, untouched and unbearably intriguing. When four-thirty finally came, Joseph grabbed the envelope, shouted an over-the-shoulder “good night” to the staff, and went home.

  He lay the envelope on the dining room table while he microwaved and ate a freezer meal. Thus fortified, he poured himself a scotch, turned on his chair side lamp, and opened the envelope.

  He read it over, he looked at the pictures, but it all seemed like such an abstract case study. Irene’s face just did not fit in this starring role.

  The dates added up exactly as he expected them to, and when he had absorbed the entirety of the report, he put it all back into the envelope, laid it on the floor and turned out the light.

  He sipped his scotch in silence, and thought about Irene.

  He set his drink down and reclined the chair.

  He thought about her warm presence next to him in her well-appointed, yet homey, apartment.

  His hand went to that place on his arm where she had touched him. He could still feel the cool calmness of her long fingers. The woman was so intriguing that he could not stop thinking about her.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he said out loud, then rubbed his hands over his face and slugged down the rest of his scotch.

  It didn’t help. Irene was still on his mind, as much or more so than ever before.

  He looked at the place on his arm where she had touched him, as if expecting to find evidence of her touch. The impression her lithe fingers made was still so vivid.

  The phone rang, interrupting his solitude. He answered it with irritability.

  “Yes?”

  “Joseph?” The voice was tiny, timid. He barely recognized it.

  “Irene?”

  “Joseph, could you come over?”

  ~~~

  She opened the door with a gin and tonic in her hand. She wore a teal satin bathrobe, and was barefoot. The robe opened a little at the neck, and what looked like a vanilla-colored lace slip showed through.
The timidity in her voice on the phone had grown into full-blown fury by the time Joseph arrived.

  “It’s that tiny-minded little fucker Owen Crowell,” she said, throwing the door open and walking away from him.

  Joseph closed and locked the door, then followed her inside. “What?”

  “Fix yourself a drink, Joseph,” she said, then plopped down onto the couch and ran her fingers through hair that had had fingers run through it before. Her normally perfectly moussed blonde hair stood straight up in rows. She was pissed, and he found her more attractive than ever.

  He took a glass from the shelf, then opened the scotch. On the cutting board was half a lime and a razor-sharp little bar knife. He wiped the knife off on the damp bar towel and tacked it up on the magnetic strip that held a dozen more just like it, all as sharp as scalpels. He straightened them as he admired her taste in expensive cutlery. He smiled inwardly as he admired her audacity to flaunt these identical cutting tools as a decorating feature. He wondered if she bought them all at the same time, or if she belonged to some kind of Knife-of-the-Month Club.

  “He has aspirations, that Owen Crowell,” she said, bringing him back to the present. “He wants to fuck me or he wants to fuck me over. I don’t know which. Maybe both. I was paying my dues while he was still in junior high school, the little shit.”

  Joseph walked around to the back of the couch, set his glass down and began to rub her shoulders. This was the first time they had touched this way. The first time since he had separated from Cynthia, anyway. It felt natural, since they had known each other so long, and so well. It also felt a little bit too intimate, and Joseph wondered at himself, wondered if he was paving the way for some deeper intimacy.

  “Jerk,” she said, and there were tears in her voice.

  “Tell me from the beginning.” He kept rubbing her shoulders. They were so tiny. His desire was growing stronger.

  “Little shit.”

  “Come on now. Settle down.” He had to stop touching her. He had to. He picked up his drink, walked around and sat on the far end of the couch. “Drink,” he said.