take the blame for misjudging George and exposing me to danger for five years. Momma loved me, I can’t put that scene into her memory. I can live with my memory of George—Momma can’t live without her memories of him.”
“So you didn’t tell your mother. You didn’t tell Jimmie. Who did you tell?”
“No one, I just swallowed it. Buried it in my mind as best I could for a few years. Acted as though nothing had happened. Later I could talk about it.”
“But what if he showed up again on her doorstep?”
“Never happen. He knew what he did. He knew he had to disappear from both our lives. We never saw him again. Maybe I should check with
“How were you able to get over hating him?”
“Actually, I’m thankful for one thing. During those years, while I was underage, he could have manipulated and molested me. He knew I trusted him. He had many opportunities to take advantage of me. I must have been a terrible temptation. But he controlled himself, no innocent hand touching my leg, no playful pat on my butt, no accidental brushing of my breasts. All that shit that men think a little girl isn’t aware of.
“I didn’t realize until later how important that was. Thanks, George, for not making me live my life as a molested child. Having said that, I still think you’re a creepy bastard and I hope you die screaming.”
She was dead serious, but I had to laugh. Betty Jo was quite a woman. I was impressed with how she handled the anguish in the years after the attack. The episode was obviously a passage of sorts for her. She had entered that hotel room as a child and left as an adult.
She wasn’t through, “I learned something else from that experience, and I try to get it across to the beautiful girlfriends I dance with. George had my body, but that’s all. At no time did he have me. You are not your body. Never think the only thing valuable about yourself is your body and what you can do with it.”
Her words struck me and I felt a strange agitation and discomfort. I questioned to what extent I had focused on her body and not her valuable inner self. I realized she was not as I had earlier believed.
Chapter Twenty-two
State Attorney Lawrence Moran started to leave his office for the day when he noticed one of his staff, Assistant State Attorney Melvin Shapiro, waiting at the elevator. Moran motioned him over. They went into Moran’s office. “Mel, I heard that the wife of our victim Bruce Banks is down here from Delaware. That’s still your case isn’t it?”
Shapiro nodded. “Mrs. Banks was over at the office of the medical examiner. The funeral director was with her. The M.E. phoned me to be certain it was okay to release her husband’s body for shipment back to Delaware. I said no problem.”
“And you interviewed Mrs. Banks?”
“And I interviewed Mrs. Banks. You want a copy? Not much there. In her statement, she said Banks just got in his pickup and disappeared. He’d done it before. Taken off for a couple of days without telling her. Fishing or something. Apparently, they weren’t exactly a pair of lovebirds. She was surprised to learn he drove to Florida. They know no one locally. Never heard of Abby Olin or Sandra Reid. So we still have no idea why Bruce Banks was down here.”
“Is she still in town?”
“I believe so, she’s getting their pickup released from the sheriff’s pound today. It’s registered to him only. But I told the sheriff to let her take it anyway. It’s been searched. She’s going to have things tough enough without us giving her a hassle over ownership. We have no interest in it. She’ll drive it back up.
Moran pushed the phone across the desk to Shapiro. “Phone the sheriff right now. Put a hold on that pickup until you can talk to Mrs. Banks again.”
Shapiro shrugged. Moran waited. When Shapiro had completed the call, he said, “We’re in luck. She hasn’t picked it up yet. They’ll hold the vehicle until I give the word. So what’s going on?”
“I want keep her in town for a few more hours. Locate her inform her that we’ll be prosecuting Sandy Reid for conspiracy to commit murder. Explain to her that she can bring a wrongful death suit against Reid and get some money. Then I want you to personally introduce her to some local attorney to handle it.”
“I can’t do that. We don’t do that. We don’t get involved encouraging ancillary civil actions. And if Mrs. Bank brings a suit against Sandy, she must also bring one against Abby Olin the co-conspirator.”
“If Abby Olin also has to defend a wrongful death action, that’s not my problem. I want Reid sued.”
“I’m not certain we’ll even have a conspiracy case against Sandy.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll have an excellent case against her. I’ve a feeling Abby Olin is going to tell us a whole lot more about Sandy’s involvement.
Chapter Twenty-three
We drove on deep into Georgia on I-95. My fondness for Betty Jo had grown into a strong liking for her personally, not just her body. Of course, with a woman that attractive, I do admit to a considerable preoccupation with her looks. But now I was interested in her personal life as well. I cared what happened to her.
She had trusted me with her George story and I felt we were closer, as if we had a history. She was chatty and polite and that was fine, except there was nothing special between us. I wanted to have dinner with her, have a few drinks, chat across the table, and get to know her better.
She was leaning forward searching for a better music station on the radio. I noticed how the shoulder belt crossed between and promoted her breasts. Had she positioned it that way on purpose?
She saw me. “You know, Freddy, you’re the poster boy for an ideal customer in the club.”
“Well, thank you very much.”
“Yeah, loaded with lust and money.”
“Few men can look at you and not get lustful. That’s the point isn’t it?” She could call me lusty. I was certainly guilty on that point. It would be difficult for me to conceal it. I asked, “What’s it like to have dozens of men mentally ravishing you while you dance?”
“What’s it like to be so horny you can’t drive straight?”
I might have drifted a little on the highway. I placed both hands firmly on the wheel and glanced in the rearview mirror just to show her I was paying attention. I thought my question was somewhat cool. I guess she didn’t think so.
Things weren’t working out. She was still keeping her distance. I needed to change that. She turned away to look out the window. That gave me a chance to steal another glance at her. I pictured her in the spotlight at the men’s club, up on the platform moving to the beat of the soft slow music. Now she’s unbuttoning her top. Slowly one button after the other, showing glimpses of her breasts spilling out of a deep red bra. With hips undulating, she peels the blouse off her shoulders, swings it around, and tosses it toward me. She steps closer, her eyes fixed on my face daring me to look away. She runs her tongue over her cherry-red lips. Other men are wondering why I merit such extraordinary attention from the star. My eyes are glued on her captive breasts as she leans over close to me and reaches back to unclasp the bra. She shrugs her shoulders and the bra is loose now, but she’s holding it across her breasts teasing. She dances and sways before me. Then she...
“Watch out you idiot!”
I slammed on the brakes. We swerved. With a screech of tires, my car spun to the side of the highway facing the opposite direction. Dust mixed with the echo of angry horns swirled around us. We slid to a stop off the shoulder onto the grass on the edge of a ditch. Fortunately, we hadn’t hit anything. Everything was okay. The other cars kept on going.
“Didn’t you see that goddamn car?”
I sat there for two or three minutes breathing heavily with my eyes closed tightly. My hands still firmly gripping the steering wheel. So embarrassed I couldn’t speak. My daydreams were getting the best of me, as though they were unconstrained and out of my control.
