The Devil's Interval by Linda Peterson

jazz joint out on Clement Street, The Devil’s Interval. That’s all I ask.”
    What the hell? Maybe the remarkable Ivory Gifford could teach me to change the oil in my car. Or mambo.
    â€œOkay,” I agreed, now more curious than scared.
    Isabella stood up. “Say thank you, Travis.”
    He stood as well. “Thank you.”
    â€œYou’re welcome,” I said. “And I’m glad you’re enjoying the books.”
    â€œI am,” he said. “Just finished The Tragicall History of the Life and Death of Dr. Faustus .”
    â€œAnd do you identify with Faust—or with the Devil?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “Sometimes neither, sometimes both,” he said. “But I do remember that Faust was redeemed by the love of a good woman.”
    â€œNot his mother,” I said.
    â€œNope,” said Travis, and a wry smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “He was redeemed by a woman named Margaretta.”
    He inclined his head in a mock bow. “It’s fate that we met, Mrs. Fiori.”
    â€œI’ll go see your mother,” I said briskly, “that’s all I can say for now.”
Interval No. 2 with Dr. Mephisto
    T ell me more about this photograph you saw of the murdered woman,” said Dr. Mephisto.
    The room felt overheated. “Why?”
    â€œBecause there’s something in it that’s haunting you,” she said. “You’ve both brought it up a couple of times.”
    I described it again. Briefly.
    â€œNice guy you’re hanging out with,” said Michael.
    â€œI’m not ‘hanging out,’” I said. “And don’t we assume he’s innocent until proven guilty?”
    â€œA jury of his peers says he was proven guilty,” said Michael.
    â€œAnd courts aren’t ever wrong?”
    Dr. Mephisto raised her hand. “The photograph?”
    â€œHey,” said Michael, “I’m glad to say what’s bothering me. I think there’s something very dark in that photo that’s intriguing you. Maybe you want me to bind your hands and rough you up.”
    â€œMichael!”
    Dr. Mephisto turned to me. “What do you think about Michael’s observation?”
    â€œIt’s ridiculous. I mean, I’m not a prude, and sure, I wouldn’t mind a little more adventure now and then.” The room grew very still, as if a breeze had just died down.
    Dr. Mephisto cleared her throat. “More adventure? In your sex life, you mean?”
    â€œYes,” said Michael, “why don’t you tell us what you mean?”
    This was not going well. How had I allowed myself to be led down this path? And what was with the “tell us?” Michael was aligning himself with McQuist, and I was going to be odd girl out.
    â€œThere’s nothing wrong with our love life,” I faltered. “It’s just that sometimes it seems like one more job—like putting away groceries or folding laundry.”
    I was talking to Dr. Mephisto, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see Michael metamorphosing into a lawyer, coiled, strategic, ready to strike.
    I was on to Dr. Mephisto’s bag of tricks already, so I anticipated what was coming.
    â€œYou want me to say this to Michael, right?” I asked her.
    â€œIn a moment,” she said. “First, let’s hear from Michael.”
    I turned to him. He smiled without one ounce of warmth. “I think this is excellent news from you, Maggie,” he said. “I’ve had several almost irresistible impulses to tie you up. And to spankyou. But, I’ve been under the misapprehension you would find that behavior objectionable, even antifeminist. I’m happy, no, let me be more accurate, delighted to know you’ll welcome that kind of attention.”
    I wished for a mirror suddenly, so I could see what this looked like. Two almost-forty-year-old educated people, parents, who went home to a mortgaged,