A Fool for a Client (18 page)

The stunning redhead tossed her head back, shaking the spirit of life back into her hair.
Moments later she cast her gaze around with an air of proprietorial contempt, as if she were looking for some one in particular.
The gesture kept the men at bay, at least for the time being.

The double doors that opened onto
The Green Light
were more or less central, with the strobe-lit dance floor to the left of the rectangular room and the well-stocked bar to the right.
But the symmetry was broken by the ceiling which was higher over the dance floor than over the bar on account of the balcony restaurant which overlooked the gyrating revellers below.

Justine turned right, her eyes settling on her prey.
She headed for the dimly lit bar.
It was an L
-
shaped arrangement with about ten seats on either of the two sides.
Although six or seven seats were free on the side near the dance floor, Justine chose the other side, the quieter side, sitting down on the only vacant seat.

She looked around discreetly.
The area around the bar was illuminated by subdued lights set into several flower beds in the corners.
But even in the dim light she felt the eyes of dozens of men on her body, their thoughts doing what their hands dared not.
This was a place where men went to make a quick score and where women went to get picked up without all the stalling and small-talk.
She forced herself to ignore it, and focussed her attention on the disco arena.

The brown-haired man in olive green needlecords and blue shirt who sat to her right didn
’
t seem to notice her, although the man to her left could have sworn that she pulled her high stool a few inches to the right before she sat down.
She was fumbling around in her purse looking for something, pulling out a cigarette and inserting it clumsily between her lips.

Should I light it? wondered the loser to her left.
Am I her type?
Am I a bit old for her.
Will she care about my pot belly and receding hairline?
Is she under-age?
Too late!
Damnit!

The man to her right was lighting the cigarette.
Not a word had passed between them.
He had just stretched out his hand in a manner as proprietorial as that of the girl when she had entered the room, and lit the cigarette, the skin of their hands barely brushing in that first moment of innocent physical contact that would either erect a barrier between them or break the ice.
Their eyes had met so far only in the mirror.
But they looked like were kindred spirits who both thought they owned the world.
The man, confident of his superior strength as the final arbiter of claims, relished the thought of taming her.

“Does a pretty girl come to a place like this to drink alone?” he asked.

“Is the
P
ope Jewish?” she replied.

There was a second of silence for station identification, and then he burst out laughing.
She smiled in response.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“A tequila sunrise.”

He snapped his fingers aggressively at the barman: the standard macho gesture for impressing girls.
She didn
’
t look impressed.

“A tequila sunrise for the lady.”

He wondered about her.
Her clothes made her look cheap but her face held too much concentration and purpose.
It wasn
’
t the vapid look of a dumb thrill-seeker.

“You
’
re Irish,” she said after the moment of silence he had let pass in order not to show that he was too eager.

“No prizes for guessing that.”

“Would there be any prizes for guessing that you
’
re
Northern
Irish?”

“Now how would you be knowin
’
that?” he asked.

“There are a lot of Irishmen in
New York
.
I recognize the differences between the mellower
Eire
accent and the harder Northern Irish accent.”

“And what do you prefer,” he asked looking straight at her,” hard or mellow?”

“Hard,” she replied, meeting his eyes without flinching.

“I suppose you
’
re a student then?”

“Now how would you be knowin
’
that?” she asked, imitating his accent.

“Your age.
Most girls your age are students in this country, most white girls that is.
Even if they
’
re studying something as useless as Liberal Arts with its paper degrees that aren
’
t worth wiping your arse on.
Colleges are as common in
America
as pubs are in
Ireland
.”

She flinched at his crudeness, but let him continue.

“Anyway it
’
s not unusual to meet college girls in places like this.
College girls are after the same things as most other girls, and most boys for that matter.”

“Am I that obvious?” she asked good-humouredly.

“Let
’
s just say I know how coy you college girls are about admitting what you want, especially in
New York
.”

“You
’
ve been reading too much Dorothy Parker.”

There was no anger in her tone, and she held his eyes with a cheeky smile on her face.
He knew that he was riding on the right track.

The barman arrived with her drink.
Murphy paid him, handing over a hundred dollar bill even though he had several tens and fives.
Justine pretended not to notice the fives and tens and looked on feigning the appropriate degree of awe as the face of Ben Franklin slid across the bar.
The barman dawdled off to bring the change.

“What are you studying then?”

“
Pest
control.”

“Are you serious?” he asked incredulously.

“Well actually, medicine.”

Murphy
’
s right hand rose into the air holding his glass between them in a respectful salute.

“I
’
ll drink to a girl whose studying for a noble profession Miss...?

“Levy.
Justine Levy.”

“To your health, good fortune and success.”

He swallowed a man-sized gulp and slammed the glass down.
Justine sipped her drink delicately.
She regretted not having practiced drinking beforehand.
She was supposed to look like a hard-drinking woman-of-the-world with morals as loose as her clothes were tight.
But it wasn
’
t working out.
The performance just wasn
’
t coming
off right.

She took another sip, keeping her eyes on Murphy.
His eyes held hers as if he was getting the right signals and knew it.

“You
’
re a strange one you are,” he said casually.

“Why?” she asked nervously.

“You haven
’
t asked me
my
name.”

“Like you said, I
’
m the coy type,” she responded, gathering her wits together as quickly as the pressure between her temples allowed.
“I like to let the man set the pace.”

Oh very good, Justine.
Appeal to that streak of macho in him

the one that forms a cross with that streak of cowardice.

“Sean Murphy.”

“A pleasure to meet you.”

They raised their glasses together with a clinking sound and drank together.

“Your parents must be very proud to have a daughter studying medicine.”

“I haven
’
t had a father since I was nine.
He shot himself.”

“Shot himself?
Why?”

“Is suicide a rational act?
Does it need a logical reason?”

“Just asking,” said Murphy, backing off.

“A battle-scarred
Vietnam
veteran.
He lived with it for seven years and then blew his brains out.”

“You must
’
ve been shaken by it.
I guess it left a few scars on you.”

She could have accepted pity from a close friend or even from a sympathetic stranger, but the realization that she was being offered consolation by a
man whose hands were soaked in innocent blood turned her stomach.
She prayed to God that the anger hadn
’
t crept onto her face.

“I guess it did.”

“How about your mother?”

“She didn
’
t take it as hard as I did.
Seven years of living with a manic depressive toughened her.”

“No, I mean how does she feel about her daughter studying medicine?”

“She was proud of me.”

“She
’
s got a right to be.
What made you decided to study medicine?
Was it anything to do with what happened to your father?”

“I never really thought about that... I guess it was.”

She knew that it was.
It had everything to do with her father.

“Did you say your mother
was
proud of you?”

“Yes.”

She blinked back a tear.

“An accident?”

“In a way.
A slow lingering death in a hospital bed.”

“I know how you felt.
My mother
’
s dying now.
I wish I could get back to see her.”

“What
’
s stopping you?”

“The same people who wanted to hang George Washington.”

“The British?”

“The British?”

“In what way?”

“I
’
m a wanted man.”

“What for?”

“I
’
d rather not talk about it?”

“Something you
’
re ashamed of?”

“No, I just get tired talking about it.
Maybe some other time.”

You
’
re so sure there
’
ll be another time you arrogant bastard.

“Do you feel like dancing?” he asked after a brief silence.

Justine was about to refuse, but she was in the act of drinking and Murphy had grabbed her wrist and dragged her off her stool before she had time to speak.
The drink spilled over the bar as Justine slammed it down angrily.
Her first inclination was to turn her anger on Murphy.
Normally she would never have stood for that sort of behaviour from a man.
But she remembered that she was playing a role and she stopped herself from showing anger just in time.

She wasn
’
t used to disco dancing and she felt a bit awkward, as if the eyes of others on the dance floor were focussed on her, scrutinizing her every move. She dismissed the thought as paranoia.
If they were looking at her, they were interested in her body not her dancing.
In any case, she soon found that Murphy was as awkward as she, possibly more so.
They had been dancing for only a few minutes, when the music turned quiet and slow.

Murphy had timed it perfectly
–
suspiciously perfectly.

The lights stopped flashing and were replaced by a slow, undulating change of colour from blue to green to orange to yellow to red to pink to purple.
The young couples
–
some lovers, others almost strangers
–
slid there arms around each other and moved in slow, gentle steps across the floor.
Some of them were put at ease by the drink or by drugs.
Justine was fully alert, and intended to remain so.

It was some two hours later when he drove her home.
The car screeched to a halt outside the apartment building.

“Thanks Murph,” said Justine, taking off the seat-belt.
“It
’
s been a great evening.”

He slid an arm round her shoulder.

“Hey wait a minute.
Aren
’
t you going to invite me in for coffee?”