frame of her office.
Lorna looked
up from the card. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
“You be
careful around him, Princess. I don’t like the cut of his jib.” Use
of a sailing term reminded Lorna of the twenty-four footer they
once tooled around Tampa Bay in before his first bankruptcy.
“I’ll be
okay,” she answered, still reflecting on the card.
“Well,” he
harrumphed. “You might as well have this.” A single rose with
wilted edges appeared in the space between them. “I was all set to
use it to get in your knickers tonight, but Clarence Darrow stole
my thunder.”
Taking the
rose, she sampled the depleted bouquet. Before she could thank him,
he followed the deliveryman’s track, shuffling down the aisle in
the direction of the elevators and home.
A second or
two before he reached it, the doors opened. A blonde woman from
Robbery Division stepped out. Holding the door with one foot, she
kissed him on the mouth. Taking his arm, they stepped back inside,
leaving Lorna alone with the oncoming shift gathering around. Her
relief, a thin-faced human named Shackleton, eyed her with a
guarded stare while he sipped on a cup of coffee. His expression
reminded her yet again, there were no friends in Major Case, only
rivals, leaving her feeling even more grateful for Mike’s
presence.
Her eyes
returned to the tattered rose lying across the desk blotter. The
motive behind Mike’s gift dawned on her. Filling with emotion, she
fought back a tear. The cheesy remark about sex had been a
smokescreen. The gruff bastard knew she felt bad about being alone
on this of all days, and had tried to show someone cared. Twenty
years ago, such an act would never have occurred to him. Did
sensitivity accompany the wisdom of age? Or did part of the
Twelve-Step program bring it out?
She didn’t
have an answer.
When she
arrived home, she took a nap, awaking at six in the evening without
calling the number on the card to accept the invitation. After
getting up, she showered and dressed, putting on a green, sequined
miniskirt with matching vest over a white silk blouse, her best
outfit. Back during the halcyon days in Vice, with alternate
weekends off, she’d acquired it at an estate sale. The style had
returned, but more importantly, they didn’t make clothes of this
quality anymore—at least, not at the stores she shopped.
Discovering this was a stroke of luck.
Forsaking
cotton panties with breakaway morph seams, she chose a silky little
bikini that slid over her thighs, sending a tremor throughout her
body. She pulled on a new pair of nude hose she’d been saving.
Even as the
car drove up, she hadn’t decided whether to go. While adjusting the
post on an earring, she tracked the path of the dark limousine to a
vacant spot in front of her building. Its headlights made two white
cones that thinned out to nothing in the misty night air.
The Maglev,
together with clean-burning transportation all the futurists
predicted for the twenty-first century, had never arrived. The old
fossil fuel burners still dominated. Pollution declined because
there were fewer cars and factories. Fewer people, too, after the
Plague of 2026, with all of the dislocations that followed.
Still debating
whether or not to go, she waited for a full minute while the large
car’s idling engine burned seventeen-dollar-a-gallon gas.
“Oh, what the
hell.” She snatched up her clutch and draped a knitted shawl around
her shoulders against the chill.
As Lorna
emerged from the building, the driver snapped the door open.
“Evening, ma’am.” He offered her an arm. She ducked down, feeling
the way into the commodious dark compartment with her free
hand.
“I thought for
a minute you weren’t going to show.” Jerry’s voice came from the
black silhouette outlined against the opposite window.
“It crossed my
mind.” Earlier she promised herself not to take him to bed, but her
body betrayed her from the start. The best compromise seemed to at
least
Lorna looked
up from the card. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
“You be
careful around him, Princess. I don’t like the cut of his jib.” Use
of a sailing term reminded Lorna of the twenty-four footer they
once tooled around Tampa Bay in before his first bankruptcy.
“I’ll be
okay,” she answered, still reflecting on the card.
“Well,” he
harrumphed. “You might as well have this.” A single rose with
wilted edges appeared in the space between them. “I was all set to
use it to get in your knickers tonight, but Clarence Darrow stole
my thunder.”
Taking the
rose, she sampled the depleted bouquet. Before she could thank him,
he followed the deliveryman’s track, shuffling down the aisle in
the direction of the elevators and home.
A second or
two before he reached it, the doors opened. A blonde woman from
Robbery Division stepped out. Holding the door with one foot, she
kissed him on the mouth. Taking his arm, they stepped back inside,
leaving Lorna alone with the oncoming shift gathering around. Her
relief, a thin-faced human named Shackleton, eyed her with a
guarded stare while he sipped on a cup of coffee. His expression
reminded her yet again, there were no friends in Major Case, only
rivals, leaving her feeling even more grateful for Mike’s
presence.
Her eyes
returned to the tattered rose lying across the desk blotter. The
motive behind Mike’s gift dawned on her. Filling with emotion, she
fought back a tear. The cheesy remark about sex had been a
smokescreen. The gruff bastard knew she felt bad about being alone
on this of all days, and had tried to show someone cared. Twenty
years ago, such an act would never have occurred to him. Did
sensitivity accompany the wisdom of age? Or did part of the
Twelve-Step program bring it out?
She didn’t
have an answer.
When she
arrived home, she took a nap, awaking at six in the evening without
calling the number on the card to accept the invitation. After
getting up, she showered and dressed, putting on a green, sequined
miniskirt with matching vest over a white silk blouse, her best
outfit. Back during the halcyon days in Vice, with alternate
weekends off, she’d acquired it at an estate sale. The style had
returned, but more importantly, they didn’t make clothes of this
quality anymore—at least, not at the stores she shopped.
Discovering this was a stroke of luck.
Forsaking
cotton panties with breakaway morph seams, she chose a silky little
bikini that slid over her thighs, sending a tremor throughout her
body. She pulled on a new pair of nude hose she’d been saving.
Even as the
car drove up, she hadn’t decided whether to go. While adjusting the
post on an earring, she tracked the path of the dark limousine to a
vacant spot in front of her building. Its headlights made two white
cones that thinned out to nothing in the misty night air.
The Maglev,
together with clean-burning transportation all the futurists
predicted for the twenty-first century, had never arrived. The old
fossil fuel burners still dominated. Pollution declined because
there were fewer cars and factories. Fewer people, too, after the
Plague of 2026, with all of the dislocations that followed.
Still debating
whether or not to go, she waited for a full minute while the large
car’s idling engine burned seventeen-dollar-a-gallon gas.
“Oh, what the
hell.” She snatched up her clutch and draped a knitted shawl around
her shoulders against the chill.
As Lorna
emerged from the building, the driver snapped the door open.
“Evening, ma’am.” He offered her an arm. She ducked down, feeling
the way into the commodious dark compartment with her free
hand.
“I thought for
a minute you weren’t going to show.” Jerry’s voice came from the
black silhouette outlined against the opposite window.
“It crossed my
mind.” Earlier she promised herself not to take him to bed, but her
body betrayed her from the start. The best compromise seemed to at
least
Similar Books
