Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (best fiction books to read TXT) 📗

Larry Schein, and Chrissy. Could that be it? Arranged from the start, with fabricated tales of abuse. But why?

I looked back at Chrissy and chased the ugly thought.

"I respect you, Jake," she said, suddenly.

"What?"

"You're really trying to help me, aren't you?"

"Of course; it's my job."

"Uh-huh. You're a very attractive man, Jake."

"I'm your lawyer," I said stiffly.

"Are the two mutually exclusive?"

I watched a tiny four-eyed horseshoe crab scuttle along the shore break, then burrow into the sand. "Actually, they are. At least while the case is pending. Afterward . . ."

I let it hang there. Afterward, barring a miracle, she'd be in prison.

"So you're just doing your job?"

Teasing me.

"Okay, it's more than that. I like you. A lot. I'm not going to stand here and tell you how beautiful you are, because every man you've ever met has told you that. I'm not going to make a pass at you, because that would only foul me up and it wouldn't help the case any."

"Are you going to win for me?"

"I'm going to try to win."

Don't ask me how, I thought. I don't know.

"Do you believe me, Jake?"

"I believe you think your father abused you, and I'm going to use it because it's all I've got. But it's more complicated than that. Life always is. I've got to pick up some rocks and look underneath."

"What do you expect to find?"

"Same as always. Snakes."

"Snakes," she repeated.

I thought about the therapy sessions and her nightmares. Perhaps she did, too.

We walked several more minutes before the Eden Roc and Fontainebleau came back into view. Chrissy turned to me, leaned over, and gave me a peck on the cheek.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"For being a man I can look up to without lying on my back."

"It's a deal," I said. "For now."

"Good. Now, feed me before I starve to death."

She took off running, her heels kicking up sand. I watched a second, then headed after her. Her motion was smooth, her calf muscles undulating at every step, her bottom rolling with each stride. I was never the fastest linebacker in the AFC East, but I could still catch a beach bunny model.

If I wanted to.

At the moment, I was happy to be right where I was. Okay, okay, I know. The modern man is not supposed to react like he's just descended from tree apes. I try, I really do. But I'm a throwback in lots of ways. Obsolete by today's standards. I still hold the elevator door for women, say "Thank you, ma'am" to waitresses, and pick up the check when I take a lady (yeah, I still use the term) to lunch. I prefer Tony Bennett to Tupac Shakur, Norman Rockwell to Andy Warhol, and Gene Kelly to Michael Jackson. I wasn't around at the time, but I am plagued by the notion that the 1940s, war and all, were somehow better than the 1990s.

We were no more than fifty yards from the rows of hooded chaise lounges that marked the Fontainebleau property when Chrissy seemed to stumble. I caught up with her as she stopped and turned, her body going limp.

Déjà vu. Only this time, she hadn't shot anybody.

I caught her just as I had before, sweeping her up in my arms. She breathed my name as I held her against me. Then, for a long moment, the only sound was the familiar slap of waves against the shore.

Chrissy came to, tired, disoriented, and hungry. We were in my Olds 442, headed toward Coconut Grove. She dozed off, and I made a call on the cellular, one of my few concessions to modern technology. My friend, legendary trial lawyer Stuart Z. Grossman, once said the cellular is the greatest advance of the twentieth century. No way, I told him. Not greater than the Wonderbra.

By the time we got to my little coral-rock house, my brain trust was there. I carried Chrissy inside, banging open the humidity-swollen door with my good shoulder. Waiting in the kitchen was everyone in the world I loved: my granny, my nephew, and my mentor.

Granny took a look and said, "That gal needs some meat on her bones."

Doc Riggs measured Chrissy's pulse, temperature, and blood pressure and pronounced her vital signs strong.

Kip sauntered by, sneaked a peak at Chrissy, then winked at me, guy to guy.

Granny had shown up with a wicker basket filled with food and home remedies, from essence of cherry plum flowers to essence of rye whiskey. In the next fifteen minutes, Chrissy downed three bowls of conch chowder, half a loaf of Bimini bread slathered with smoked swordfish, and a pot of chicken and dumplings, all washed down with a half jar of Granny's moonshine.

"A week of my cookin', and you'll be fit as a fiddle," Granny told Chrissy as she ate.

"I have a gargantuan appetite," Chrissy said between bites, "but I have to watch it. The camera puts on five pounds."

"And I'll put on another ten," Granny promised. "You like country ham with biscuits and sausage gravy, maybe some corn chowder with heavy cream, bread pudding for dessert?"

"Sounds great. Usually I eat bean sprouts and tofu with black coffee."

"Ye gods! No wonder I can see your hip bones."

I cleared my throat. "Granny, I think the fainting is due to stress, not malnutrition."

"Stress! You been listening to them shrinks again? You didn't hear anything about stress when I was a girl."

"When you were a girl, Freud wasn't old enough to masturbate."

"Don't sass me, Jacob, or I'll put you across my knee. And don't talk dirty around Kip."

"Kip? When I asked if he was ready for my lecture on the birds and the bees, he told me—"

"I'd seen the director's cut of Basic Instinct," Kip interrupted. "Plus a double feature of Showgirls and Kids. Next question."

"Jacob, what kind of a uncle are you?" Granny asked, grilling me with her black-eyed glare.

"A totally awesome one," Kip said, in my defense.

"A child shouldn't learn about sex from the movies," Granny said in a stern Dr. Joyce Brothers