by Elaine Fox
So she’d been drafting documents and working on points to cover in discovery all afternoon.
Planners’s attorneys had rejected her renewed overtures to talk about a settlement, which didn’t surprise her, so it was full speed ahead with the suit. The case was already on the docket, with a trial date less than two months away.
That wasn’t the only reason she stuck close to her desk. Halfway through the day Marcy had realized she and Truman had never decided where they were going to meet, let alone when. So she stayed in her office—foregoing even her afternoon Diet Coke from the machine down the hall—hoping he’d call.
She felt like she was in high school.
At quarter to five the phone rang.
“I’m sure you don’t normally leave as early as five like the rest of the world,” his quiet voice said, “but I thought we could meet at five thirty.”
Marcy willed her pulse to stay slow. “Five thirty’s fine.” She leaned back in her desk chair, taking her first full breath of the afternoon. “Where?”
“Pockets Pool Hall.”
She could hear the smile in his voice.
“Pockets Pool Hall,” she repeated, somewhat deflated. “Why there?”
“Because they’ve got a great happy hour buffet. Hottest chicken wings you’ve ever tasted. Plus I figure I can take you for a few bucks with a couple of games of eight ball.”
She massaged the back of her neck with one hand. “Did you talk to Guido?”
“In fact, I did talk to Arthur. He was…well, let’s just say he’s not the toughest nut to crack.”
She would’ve liked to have seen Truman grilling Arthur. Based on Arthur’s reaction to him in the diner, Marcy was sure Tru was in total control of the interview. Still, she asked, “He have anything interesting to say?”
“Five thirty, Miss P. I’ll tell you what I know.”
She sighed. She was hoping they could meet somewhere over here, like Restaurant Nora or even Childe Harold, near her apartment. Some quiet place where they could discuss things over a half-decent bottle of wine. The idea of shouting over the clatterings of a pool hall while wrestling with some orange chicken wings just tired her out.
“Listen, Truman, it’s going to be hard to talk in a pool hall. If it’s just the free food you’re after why don’t you come over here and I’ll buy?”
Silence gripped the line.
“You know, in exchange for your coming all the way over to this part of town,” she added quickly. “Not to mention tracking down Arthur for me.”
“Tracking down Arthur was easy,” he said.
She could picture the look on his face, that half-defensive, half-disappointed one she’d seen when she flippantly said she’d rather buy him a phone than not be able to get hold of him.
“All right.” She laid her head in one hand, elbow on her desk. Was she ever this stubborn about letting someone do something for her? Probably. “Where is this Pockets?”
He gave her the address—an okay part of Southwest—and said, “Five thirty,” hanging up like a spy whose communication device would self-destruct if he took any more time.
Marcy stood up, bending backwards to stretch her back. Though it was short, it had been a good day. The rest would have to wait until tomorrow, she thought, pushing papers back into the various legal accordion files.
Someone knocked on her door. She called for them to come in and one of the secretaries from down the hall entered.
“Oh, hi, Jan, what’s up?” Marcy asked.
Jan’s face was apologetic. “I took a message for you earlier today and then completely forgot. I’m so sorry.” The girl looked tired and harried, pushing her brown bangs up off her face where they stayed in an asymmetrical salute. She read off the pink message slip in her hand. “It was your mother. She wanted to remind you about the party tomorrow. And to tell you not to forget a salad. She was quite insistent on that last part.” Jan looked worried, and handed her the message. “I hope it wasn’t urgent. She didn’t say to call back or anything.”
Marcy shook her head, knowing the salad was her mother’s code for date. “It’s no problem. She’s just after me to go to a family picnic. I’d just as soon not talk to her about it again, to tell you the truth.” She looked at Jan in concern. “Is everything all right? You look exhausted. Anything I can do?”
Jan exhaled heavily. “Not unless you know any good caterers with nothing to do a week from Tuesday. Fotherington Banquets, the ones who are supposed to be catering the firm’s fall party? They canceled today and I’ve called dozens of others and nobody can put something together that quickly.”
“They canceled today? My God, that’s just criminal. What is it, ten days away?”
“Eleven. I’ve told every caterer it’s just hors d’oeuves, finger food, sort of a little client-firm, post-dinner happy hour, but I’ve been turned down by so many people I’m really getting frantic. I’m starting to believe I’ll be spending next weekend making pigs in blankets.”
Marcy shook her head, thought about offering to help her—she at least knew how to cook pigs in blankets—but with the cases on her desk right now there was no way she could spend a weekend making hors d’oeuves. “How many people are supposed to come?”
Jan sighed. “Around a hundred and fifty.”
“Oh my God. That’s a lot of pigs.”
Jan laughed. “Yeah. Well, better get back on the horn. Have fun at your party tomorrow.”
“Yeah, right.” Marcy looked down at her desk, then was struck by an idea. “Hey, Jan? Wait.”
Jan turned in the doorway.
“I think I might know someone…” Marcy’s mind raced. He could probably use the kitchen at the shelter. She could front the money for the ingredients. She was sure the food would be fabulous.
Jan’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? A caterer?”
Marcy met her eyes. “Yes,” she said, a smile breaking onto her face, “I do know a caterer. And I’m pretty sure he’s free right now.”
Jan’s expression went from confused to amazed. “Really? Is he good?”
“Best you’ve ever tasted,” she said, hearing herself echo Truman’s words. “You ever eat at the Bella Luna? Italian place on Connecticut Avenue?”
“No, but I’ve heard of it.” Jan looked at her excitedly.
“Well, I know the original owner, who was also the chef. Let me get in touch with him and let you know. You’re not working tomorrow, are you?”
“No, but here, let me give you my home number. Marcy, if you do this for me I’m going to owe you, big time.” She picked up a yellow pad of Post-Its and began writing. “Call me anytime, tonight if you have to. We’ve got a pretty generous budget for this. I’ll write down the range and you see what you can get him for, though I’m sure you’ll have to go the whole amount, since it’s so last minute.” She handed the top sheet to Marcy and winked.
“Good. I’ll call you.” Marcy took the paper, stuffed it in her briefcase, then swung her bag onto her shoulder.
This was going to be great. Catering was the perfect way for Calvin to get back on his feet.
Marcy pulled up in front of Pockets Pool Hall and looked in the window. Or rather at the window. Neon signs advertising everything from Budweiser to bratwurst littered the plate glass, making it impossible to see inside.
Three men in jeans and hooded sweatshirts entered, and a guy dressed completely in camouflage exited.
Marcy sighed and pulled the car back onto the street from the no-parking-yellow curb to drive another lap around the block. For some reason, parking was tough around here. She’d already been around twice. She hoped it wasn’t because Pockets was some tristate happy hour Mecca. She was dismayed enough about having to shout to Truman over the pool table about some guy who may or may not be threatening her, without having to be jostled by an onslaught of suburban chicken-wing aficionados at the same time.
She finally found a spot four blocks away that she took despite misgivings a
bout how far she protruded over an entrance to an alley.
She got out of the car and started down the sidewalk. The evening was warm—Indian summer—and just turning dark. The smell of fall was in the air. She loved this time of year, loved the smell of woodsmoke and the crunch of fallen leaves beneath her feet. Not that there was much of that right in the city, but still. She could smell it on the air, and she didn’t have to drive far to find it.
She imagined taking a hike in the woods with Truman. There’s a place they could talk. She should have suggested they meet at Sugarloaf Mountain tomorrow morning.
She smiled at the thought and looked over her head to see a nearly full moon. Good luck, she thought. Good things always happened when the moon was full. Though what would constitute good luck with Truman she wasn’t sure. That he would try to repeat what happened last week? That wouldn’t be good. That he’d given up? Somehow that wouldn’t be good either.
When she got to the bar and pulled open the door, she was glad she’d taken the time to change her clothes. Arriving here in a lawyer suit would definitely have drawn attention. Her jeans and dark sweater were much more innocuous. Truman had a knack for finding places devoid of yuppies—no small feat in Washington, unless you were willing to risk your life.
Her eyes scanned the crowd until she spotted him, bent over a pool table, his eye trained down the length of a polished cue stick. She paused a moment to appreciate the sight.
“Ten dollar deposit for the balls.” A guy with multiple face piercings intoned from behind a counter to her left. “Four and a quarter an hour for the table.”
She turned, and counted eight silver rings in one eyebrow.
“No thanks.” She smiled. “I’m meeting someone. In fact, he’s already here.”
“Good for you,” the guy said, in what she thought was a needlessly sarcastic tone, and turned back to his Stephen King novel.
She wound through the crowd, keeping an eye on each table she passed so she didn’t interrupt anyone’s shot or line of vision, and stepped up to sit on one of the tall chairs against the wall near Truman’s table.
Looping her handbag across the back she crossed her legs and said, “I bet you’re aiming for the seven but the four’s the one that’s gonna drop. In the left pocket.”
Truman straightened up, looked behind him, and saw her sitting against the wall. His mouth started a slow smile that sent waves of giddiness to her stomach.
She squelched it by motioning to the empty pitcher on the table beside her. “Been here long?”
His gray eyes glanced briefly at the pitcher but came right back to her face. The smile in them was irresistible. “Not mine, sorry. I was waiting for you, of course. Now what were you saying about my shot?”
“Nothing.” She smiled. “Just go ahead.”
He lifted a brow and turned back.
She watched him bend over the cue. God, but he had a nice butt, she thought. He cocked his arm, followed through with a smooth, practiced motion, and proceeded to bounce the seven off the right bumper and send the four into the left pocket.
“Ha!” she said, swinging her legs once or twice in the tall chair before letting her feet catch on the bottom bar.
He turned back. “I was trying to drop the four.”
“Well, you sure picked a roundabout way of doing it.” She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, looking around the crowded room. Every pool table was in use and the bar was full. A long banquet server was surrounded by a line of people, and the jukebox blared Aerosmith.
She looked back at Truman, who had watched her perusal of the room. “Cozy,” she said.
“I like it. I come here after work sometimes.” He started toward her, not stopping until he was nearly in her lap. He was so close she pushed back in the seat and looked up at him suspiciously. What on earth was he doing? He leaned closer, near enough for her to see the ring of black around his pale gray iris, and the smile still in his eyes, as he reached behind her, jerked briefly and backed up. With a provocative smile, he handed her a cue stick.
She exhaled, trying vainly to quell the surge of adrenaline his closeness provoked. For a moment she’d thought he was going to kiss her. For that same moment, she’d thought she would let him. Again.
From the look on his face, she could tell he knew that.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the wooden stick into a suddenly damp palm. “But I prefer to pick my own.”
She dropped down from the chair and turned to the wall behind her, where, yes, there was an entire rack of them. If she hadn’t been so busy checking out Truman’s body she might have noticed it before. She pulled them out one by one, assessing the length of each, testing their weight and balance, deliberately drawing the process out just to keep from looking at Truman.
What in the world was she doing here? she chastised herself. Did she have no spine? Could she not have told the man it was inappropriate to meet in a pool hall to discuss business? Could she not have insisted they meet someplace reasonably quiet?
And was she crazy to even imagine giving him permission to kiss her? She mentally scoffed. Like he would ask permission, or even have to. She’d have folded like a house of cards all on her own.
Would that really be so bad? a little voice in her head murmured. He’s single; you’re single. You just happen to be working on this case together, but that won’t last…
Marcy turned slowly back to him. He was gorgeous. And he wanted her still, she could tell. What would happen if she let her guard down again?
She’d end up in a dead-end affair with a construction worker, she told herself. And her raging hormones will have screwed up the first case Win Downey entrusted to her. No, it was better to resist him.
If she could.
“Find the magic one?” Truman asked.
“Ah, that explains it,” she said. “You were relying on magic.”
“Very funny. You’re quite the big talker there, aren’t you? So, what’s your game?” Truman leaned one hip against the table, both hands folded around the top of the cue. “Eight ball? Nine ball?”
“Straight pool,” she said, chalking the tip of her cue. “And since you were so anxious to meet me here of all places, I think we should make it worth my while.” She gave him a sly smile.
He returned one in kind. “Buck a ball?”
“I’m thinking twenty on the whole game.”
He shrugged. “It’s your dime. You’ll be thanking me later on for bringing you to a place where the chicken wings are free.”
“Lag for break?” she asked, and the confident look on his face dimmed briefly.
He tipped his head. “You first.”
She won the break, called solids, and pocketed six balls handily. Between Marcy’s second and third shots, a waitress had appeared, and Truman ordered a pitcher. Between her third and fourth he’d gotten a plate of chicken wings. By the time he’d returned with those, she was stepping up to miss her seventh.
Truman stood by the chair where she had sat looking decidedly uneasy. “You gonna want that twenty tonight or can I work it off, Miss Paglinowski?”
She laughed. “Hey, I just missed. It’s your turn. Go ahead, clear the table.”
Truman took his time ambling around the table. “So, Miss P., since you grilled me last time, I figure I’ve got a few questions you owe me answers to.”
Marcy swallowed and looked at her hands. “Questions?” Good Lord, she thought, was he going to ask her what she thought she was doing going to bed with him last week?
“Yeah.” He leaned over, made his shot. “Like, are you an only child?”
Marcy exhaled in relief. “No,” she said with a smile. “Two brothers.”
“One of them teach you how to pick a lock?”
“Actually, I taught them, though that turned out to be a mistake,” she said. “I was something of a tomboy.” She gave him a smile that was a half-grimace.
He looked at her a long moment, his eyes warm. “Well,
that wore off nicely.”
She hated herself for it, but she blushed. “Thank you.”
He missed his next shot and turned to face her. “Who picked this place, anyway?”
“I believe that was you, cowboy.” She watched him as she moved toward the cue ball and the easy shot that would put away her last solid. She wanted to make sure he wasn’t one of those men who hated losing to a girl. From his relaxed expression she was glad to surmise he wasn’t. Not that she’d have changed what she was doing if he were.
“Eight ball, side pocket,” she said, indicating the pocket with her cue. She promptly sank it and turned to face him with a satisfied smile.
“Where’d a nice girl like you learn to play pool like that?” His gaze was deceptively lazy. “One of the brothers?”
She shook her head, then said, “Prep school,” and rolled her eyes as she approached the plate of wings.
“Tough competition, those preppies.” He smirked. “I bet Daddy had to buy you your own table so you could practice over the summers.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Actually, we had several tables, so my less fortunate friends could learn the game too. So sad, you know, people who can’t afford pool tables.”
“All right, princess, I think we should make this best two out of three.”
She shook her head as she tossed the chicken bone on the pile and licked her fingers. This is good, she thought. Maybe if I look like a complete pig he’ll stop giving me those “come hither” looks.
“Tell me about Guido,” she said, reaching for another wing.
So Truman filled her in on Guido—everything except the part about him wanting to date Marcy, of course—and tried to keep his mind from wandering. It was all he could do not to picture himself taking her hand and licking the wing juice from each of her fingers himself. And he definitely couldn’t start thinking about where he’d go from there…
“I don’t know what they can do, short of actually paying off the judge,” Truman said, “but I know Judge—”