Courting Trouble

gotten up early to get back to Bennie’s, so she wouldn’t be worried. Or discover that her rookie associate was sleeping with the enemy. Anne needed to cover her ass. Literally.

She hustled down the cobblestone sidewalk, breaking a sweat in the thick air. Philadelphians always said, “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” but Anne didn’t agree. It’s hot, stupid. She pushed up the sunglasses sliding down her nose and jogged the remaining two blocks to the street she’d parked on, slowing to catch her breath when she saw a line of cars she recognized from last night. She cooled down past a blue minivan, a white Mercedes 430, and a blue Ford truck, which was the last one at the top of the row.

Anne stopped, looking around in confusion. Dude, where’s my car? There was no red Mustang on the street. In fact, there were no cars at all where the cars had been parked last night. Had they all left? Was she on the wrong street? She checked the green street sign. Delancey Street. Right. She had parked here last night.

She looked around for the Mustang but it was nowhere in sight. She turned on her heels and came face-to- face with a red-lettered sign that she hadn’t noticed the night before, when she was in heat. It read: NO PARKING TOW ZONE. But it could just as accurately have read:

RANDOM.

17

Loser! Anne’s heart sank. The Mustang had been towed! She cursed herself and her red roots. Her bad planning and her lack of undies. What was she going to do? She could go back and get a ride from Matt, but she didn’t want to reveal her stupidity. Now she knew what he had meant, “This is the beginning, where I tell you only the good stuff about me.”

Anne got another idea, a better one than parking a getaway car in a tow zone. Sooner or later a cab would show up, and until then she would start walking. It would take an hour to get to Bennie’s house, walking from one end of town to the other, but it was in the no-choice category.

She started to hoof it, heading west, up Delancey, and taking mental inventory. The Mustang was a rental anyway, and she still had a cell phone and a knock-off Smith & Wesson. What else did a girl need? And even though the gray sky was lightening to a watercolor blue, she was reasonably safe. Kevin would still be hiding from the cops. There was only one problem: she’d never make it to Bennie’s in time, now. What to do? Anne wracked her brain for a good lie, but came up empty, which worried her. Maybe the sex had sapped her superpowers. Disarmed, she’d have to tell the truth. She’d have to admit that not only had she committed high treason, she’d been too horny to read a traffic sign.

She kept walking and took her cell phone out of her purse, calling Bennie’s home number. “It’s me,” she said, when the call connected.

“Murphy?” Bennie sounded sleepy. “You’re calling me? Aren’t you in your room, in bed?”

“Not exactly.” Anne looked for a cab as she headed uptown. The street was littered with trash and paper cups from the night before. Plastic poppers lay popped in the gutter. “I’m so sorry, I thought I’d be home by now. I’m calling so you wouldn’t worry.”

“What shouldn’t I worry about? Where are you?” She sneezed, and Anne cringed.

“Gesundheit. I’m sorry, really sorry. I’m on my way.” She bit her lip. This was a lousy way to repay Bennie’s kindness. No wonder she never told the truth. It was hard. “I was at Matt’s house last night. I’ll be home in an hour unless I can get a—”

“Did you say Matt? Matt Booker? Why? Was it settlement talks?”

“Not exactly.” Anne flushed, but maybe it was the heat, or the humidity. “I spent the night with him. I’m seeing him, Bennie. I think.”

“Matt Booker? You’re seeing Matt Booker? What? How long has this been going on?”

“One night. Look, I know it sounds terrible, but this is personal, not business.” Then she remembered about Matt’s injuries, and didn’t know if she should tell Bennie. Would she be betraying Matt if she told? Would she be betraying Bennie if she didn’t? And what about Gil? Mental note: There are many good reasons why you shouldn’t sleep with opposing counsel.

“You and Matt Booker are personal? Are you crazy?”

“I shouldn’t have done it, I know.”

“He’s plaintiff’s counsel!”

“I was weak.”

“God, I keep forgetting how young you are!” Bennie shouted, then caught herself. “We’ll discuss it when we see each other. But here’s more bad news. I’m looking out my bedroom window, and the press has taken up residence in front of my house, waiting for me to come out.”

“They weren’t there last night.”

“That’s because they sleep at night, like you should have been. Bottom line is, there’s no way you can get back in without you or the car being recognized.”

The car is no problem.

“Meet me at the office,” Bennie said, sternly. “Use the back entrance. We have to get ready for the memorial service. It’s today, at noon. It would be nice if you attended. You’re the guest of honor.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“Okay, see you at the office. Be careful.”

“Don’t worry.”

Bennie harrumphed, then hung up.

Anne slipped the phone in her purse and hurried to the corner for a cab. None was in sight, so she kept walking. It was less than an hour to the office from here, and she headed for work, picking up a free tabloid from an open box on the way. It was City Beat, that paper she’d heard about, and its circulation must have been local only. THE FUGITIVE, read the headline, above a blown-up mug shot of Kevin, and Anne was thrilled. Everybody would be looking for him now, even regular citizens.

She read the story as she walked, and it was all her history with Kevin, with a sidebar about Mrs. Brown. She glanced up at the byline: By Angus Connolly. The gonzo reporter in the Australian bush hat had gotten his big scoop. She wished him luck, then tossed the paper into the nearest trash can.

Anne was sweating big-time by the time she got uptown and ducked the horde of reporters, TV cameras, and Nikons massing outside the office on Locust Street. She scurried back down the alley behind the office building, hid her breasts past Hot and Heavy, and finally escaped upstairs to the office and past the empty reception area to Bennie’s office in the back.

Bennie’s door was open, and Judy and Mary occupied the two chairs in front of her desk. The office was cluttered with law books, awards, and dark-red accordion files, and the lawyers were huddling over something Anne couldn’t see. She called a guilt-ridden hello, and all three heads looked up at once. Mary and Judy smiled instantly, but Bennie shot her a look that said you-are-in-such-big-trouble, deep-shit-would-be-an-improvement.

“I’m so sorry to have worried you, Bennie,” Anne said quickly, meaning it. She’d had ten blocks to think about what a jerk she’d been, and she’d concluded that as wonderful a man as Matt was, she didn’t belong with him, not yet. Tuesday she’d be in court against him, and a man wasn’t always the answer. Anne felt vaguely like an alcoholic who’d fallen off the wagon. Mental note: Men rehab sucks.

“We’ll discuss it another time. We have work to do.” Bennie’s scowl seemed all the more severe because of her ersatz-mourning clothes. She wore a black suit with an off-white shirt and black pumps, and her curly blond hair had been tamed by a black linen barrette. “Someday in the future, I may accept your apology. Right now I’m taking it under advisement.”

Sitting on the desk, Judy was smiling. “Have a nice time, Murph the Surf?” She had on a black cotton sweater with short sleeves and a funky black skirt, shin-length. With black fake-ponyskin clogs.

“Oh, stop, Jude,” Mary jumped in. She looked like a friendly nun, in a plain black A-line dress. “I think Matt’s hot, too, and you deserve to be happy, after what you’ve been through. And I trust you not to tell him anything about the case.”

“Thanks,” Anne said, but Bennie still wasn’t smiling.

“By the way, I’ll take my gun back.”

“Sure. Sorry about that.” Anne tugged the revolver from her purse, and Mary blanched.

“Is that really a gun?”