Marta's hair was disheveled, her makeup worn off. Her clothes were wrinkled and her gaze vacant. She hadn't eaten or drunk anything since lunch and her skin had a pinched, unhealthy pallor. Marta knew that face. She looked exactly like her mother after a binge. It was the last person in the world she wanted to be.
Marta shook off the echoes. She had to get going. She checked her watch. 8:30. Time was running out. What could she do? How could she shake him? Would there be more beatings? Something told her no. Steere wanted her paralyzed, not pulverized.
Marta unlocked the bathroom door and opened it quietly. She peeked through the crack and looked past her bedroom into the living room. She tensed at the sight of the thug even at a distance; her body remembered his blows even as her mind willed them to vanish. He was sitting on the plush sofa, his black cowboy boots crossed on the polished coffee table. He must have been six foot three, with a heavy brow, curly dark hair, and coarse features. He scratched his chest through a beige silk shirt as he read a magazine. He could have been somebody's lug of a husband but for the leather shoulder holster and Magnum.
Marta turned out the light and left the bathroom. The thug didn't look up from his magazine, and she eased onto her bed in front of the TV. A special news report was on. The mayor was holding a press conference, and she only half watched as a woman reporter shouted a question at him. Marta recognized the reporter from the Steere trial, a prom-pretty brunette named Alix Locke. Alix had dogged Marta for an exclusive interview, but Marta never gave exclusives, it was like making someone else the star. She feigned interest in the press conference while she tried to come up with her next move.
'Mr. Mayor,' Alix said into a tall microphone in the aisle, 'it's a yes-or-no question. Is there room in the budget to plow the side streets after this blizzard?'
If Mayor Walker was annoyed, it didn't show. He stood lanky, fit, and relaxed as a talk-show host. In the rep tie and rolled-up shirtsleeves he wore most of the time, the mayor was neither a handsome man nor an ugly one, with bright blue eyes, thick dark hair, and an electable smile. More persona than person, the image Mayor Walker projected was of a hardworking overgrown kid, just crazy enough to try and reverse the fortunes of a major American city. 'Yes,' the mayor answered, 'there's ample room in the budget to plow the side streets, Alix. Didn't you read my budget? It's almost as good as Tom Clancy.'
The reporters laughed and wrote it down. The press loved Mayor Walker, who, as far as Marta could tell, was a whiz at public relations. He kept his sentences short and grinned for every photo. He ate cannoli from an Italian bakery and fresh peaches from a Korean fruit stand; he was the first to check out a book from a new branch of the Free Library and the last to pet the anaconda at the Philadelphia Zoo. Most important, the mayor knew the secret to dealing with reporters: make their job easy, so they can go drink.
But Alix Locke wasn't smiling. 'With all due respect, those residents who are snowed in may not find that funny when November rolls around.'
The mayor's smile faded. 'The residents of this city know it's not an issue of money. The issue is whether we can get the plows down the narrow streets. As you know, there are countless streets in this historic city which are barely one lane wide. It doesn't leave much room for a plow. With those streets, all we can do is our best.'
'What exactly does that mean, Mr. Mayor?'
'It means that conventional snowplows won't fit down the street. They're too wide. We have to use the narrow plows and we're arranging now to buy them.'
The reporters nodded and scribbled. Alix Locke pursed her lips and fumbled for a follow-up question. Marta leaned sideways and checked on the thug. He was still reading his magazine.
On TV, Alix Locke was doing her best Brenda Starr. 'Mr. Mayor, you knew this problem would arise because it did last year. So the city had a year to order those snowplows. Why weren't they ordered and delivered by this storm?'
Marta stared at the TV images without seeing them. How would she get out of here? Then she had an idea.
12
Marta zapped the reporter into silence with the remote control and walked with discomfort to the living room. The thug looked up from his magazine, squinting slightly, and Marta stood at a distance, the nervousness in her smile genuine. She leaned on a large, paneled entertainment center near the telephone for support. 'I have to call the office,' she said. 'You said no phone calls. What's a girl to do?'
'No calls.'
'It's about the Steere case. It's important, and if I don't check in my associates will start to wonder. I said I'd be back at seven o'clock. I'm pretty punctual, and they know that.'
'Tough shit.'
'If I don't show up, they'll think something happened in the blizzard. Maybe they'll call 911.'
The thug peered over the glossy magazine and his flat brown eyes registered skepticism. 'So?'
'So they know this is my hotel. They may come here looking for me, maybe send someone. You want to explain who you are? Why I'm here?'
'Shut the fuck up already.' The goon set down the magazine. 'What's the phone number?' Marta told him the number and watched as he plunked them into a Trimline phone on the end table, looking remarkably like a gorilla at a miniature piano. 'Get on the extension and talk,' he said, gesturing. 'Keep it short. I'll be listening. Anything funny and it's over.'
'Got it.' In fact, Marta had counted on it. She picked up the receiver from the telephone on the entertainment center. 'Hello?'
'Mary DiNunzio,' the associate said when she picked up.
'Are you finished that motion
