Primal Fear (4 page)

SIX

The snow had turned to a freezing drizzle. Vail half ran, half slid the two blocks from the el station to the two-story frame house he owned. The house was located on the near northside, ten minutes by elevated from downtown, a perfect location for Vail, who did not like to drive and had never replaced his car after it was stolen two years before. Developers had reclaimed the section, restoring the old two-story frame houses to modest turn-of-the-century splendor. It was a pleasant, upscale, eight-block-square community unto itself, quiet and unassuming, peopled mostly by college teachers, musicians, young professional people on the come and retired aesthetics. In deference to the historical feel of the place, Vail did not hang out his shingle. A brass plaque on the front door said simply M. V
AIL
, L
AWYER
.

Sliding glass doors separated both the den, to the left of the entrance, and the living room, to its right, from the large vestibule which was now the bailiwick of Naomi Chance, the secretary, receptionist, organizer, researcher and aspiring paralegal of Vail’s domain. The den had become Vail’s office. A large rambling room with alcoves and built-in bookcases and an open fireplace. It was dominated by an enormous, hulking oak table which Vail used as a desk. Ten or twelve stacks of letters, case files and books had encroached on him and confined the lawyer to a small working area in the center of the table. His high-backed leather chair was on wheels so he could spin around the room—to bookshelves or file cabinets—when necessary. There was an old black leather couch in front of the fireplace for more intimate conversations with clients.

The living room became a waiting room and the second floor his private suite, its four bedrooms, each with its own bath,
reduced to three after he turned the largest into a sitting room. So he could accommodate two guests if necessary, although he rarely had visitors. On rare occasions he, or a friend, cooked in the kitchen adjacent to his office.

“You’re late,” Naomi said as he came through the door, stamping his feet and shaking the chill from his shoulders. He took off his jacket and tossed it over the hat tree near the door.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, heading into the office. “How old’s the coffee?”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Good.” He went to the old-fashioned ten-gallon urn he had taken as part payment for handling a restaurant bankruptcy, poured himself a mug of coffee and stared at Naomi, who was standing in the doorway to the office with a package in hand. She was a tall, ramrod-straight woman the color of milk chocolate, almost Egyptian-looking, with high cheekbones and wide brown eyes. Her black hair was done in cornrows, each tipped with a different-colored African bead. A gorgeous creature who, at forty, had the wisdom of a sixty-year-old and a twenty-year-old body. There was absolutely nothing one could criticize about Naomi Chance.

“This came for you ’bout an hour ago,” she said. “I’ve been dying to open it.”

“Then open it. Hell, don’t stand on ceremony. Who’s it from?”

She pulled the taped card off the package, took out the note and read it aloud: “‘Thanks for all your help. Hope the story offends you. Connerman.’”

Inside were six copies of the magazine and an original print of the photograph set in an old-fashioned wooden frame. Vail stroked the wood with his thumb and laughed to himself. Connerman was being sarcastic, of course, about helping. Vail had hardly spoken to the writer while Connerman was working on the article. He never talked about himself. He wasn’t particularly modest, he just figured the less people knew about his private life and his past, the better.

“File the copies,” Vail said, and put the photograph on a bookshelf.

“Don’t you want to read it?”

“Already did.”

“Well why didn’t you say something?”

“Forgot.”

“Crap, Marty. Is it any good?”

“Usual Connerman gonzo bullshit. Go ahead and read it. And write him a note for me. Tell him I’m suing him for thirty-five dollars—every cent he has in the world.”

“That’s nasty.”

“He wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Well… what happened this morning?”

“Oh,” Vail said with a shrug. “All taken care of. No appeal. Heyhey gets one-point-one mil, we get five hundred thou, he leaves town forever. Case closed.”

“That’s great! But how’s Mr. Pinero going to take it?”

“He already took it. I told him. He had a little fit. Now he’s happy.”

“God, what a day, and it isn’t even noon yet. Why don’t you go take a nap?”

“Very funny.”

“Have you seen this?” she asked. She spread-eagled the morning
Times
between outstretched arms.

“Read it on the el.”

“A terrible thing,” she said. “What do you think?”

“I think the archbishop’s dead and they’ve got a suspect in custody.”

He sat down, pulled off his shoes, put his feet on the desk and, leaning over, began rubbing them vigorously. “Must be zero out there,” he said.

“Want me to run upstairs and get you some dry socks?”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” he said, looking up at her. “I mean, that could be construed as extremely chauvinistic. You are a legal assistant, not a valet.”

“I’ll be right back,” she said. As she walked toward the door, she said, “They say this kid who did it—”

“This kid they
allege
did it…”

She stopped and turned back toward him, leaning on the door-jamb.

“Allege, okay?
Allege
… but according to the story, they caught him hiding in the church with the weapon.”

“Repeat with me …”

She rolled her eyes and mimed his words as he spoke.

“Innocent until proven guilty.”

He smiled patronizingly. “Very good. Just remember, right now, as we speak, this kid … what’s his name?”

“Aaron Stampler.”

“This kid, Aaron Stampler, is innocent. And don’t believe everything you read. You know what they say about the newspapers: the first time they print an error, it’s a mistake. The second time they print it, it’s a fact. And don’t believe everything you hear, either. The first day of law school my professor came into class and said, ‘From this day forward, when your mother says she loves you—’”

She finished the sentence for him: “‘—you’ll seek a second opinion.’ I know, and the second thing he said was, ‘Always ask why.’”

“Very good, you’re learning.”

“Why not? I hear it every damn morning.” She went up the stairs.

Although Naomi knew very little about the law, she was a quick study and a voracious digger. When pointed in the right direction, she gnawed through red tape, digging out information from the devious and suspicious minions in charge of public records, and tracking names and details through labyrinths of newspaper microfilms. Give her a name, she’d come back with a biography. Ask for a date, she’d produce a calendar. Ask for a report, she’d generate a file. She was unmarried, could type 120 words a minute, take shorthand, and occasionally, when he was buried in law books, could rustle up a pretty good meal in the kitchen. What more could Vail ask except that, with time, perhaps, he might mold her into a pretty good paralegal.

She came back and dropped a pair of wool socks in his lap.

“Thanks,” he said. “Okay, let’s run the list.”

She sat down across from him and flipped open her book. But he was not listening. He was engrossed in Naomi.

There were times, and this was one of them, when Vail wanted to just sweep Naomi off her feet and carry her up the stairs, Rhett Butler style. But they had a deal, Naomi Chance and Martin Vail. Business, not pleasure. The sexual attraction had been there from the beginning, from the day she answered his ad in the local weekly. There had been one night, two months after she came to work for him, when the barrier had fallen. And what a night it was.

They had been working late on a brief that was due in the morning, finishing at midnight. The office floor was piled with books and notes, scraps of papers. A mess. Naomi was stretched out on the couch in front of the fire.

“We deserve a little party,” Vail said. He went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of Dom Perignon and two glasses.

“I’ve been saving this for a year,” he said. “And I’ve been wanting to drink it for two months.”

He popped the cork, filled both glasses and leaned over the sofa. They tapped glasses.

“Here’s to us,” he said. “A pretty good team.”

“I’ll drink to that,” she said.

By the third glass, Vail was seated on the sofa, rubbing her feet. The sexual tension in the room was electric, both of them trying to avoid the inevitable. His hands moved up to her calves, then her thighs.

“Marty,” she said slowly.

“Just relax.”

His hand moved up higher, caressed the smooth sheen of her panty hose, his fingers barely touching her.

“Oh my God,” she sighed. She rose to meet his exploring fingertips, pressed against his hand. Stroking her, he lay down beside her, kissing her mouth, then her ears, the small place in her throat, and she responded by putting her hand behind his head and moving it ever so diplomatically down to her breasts. Months of pent-up denial exploded and they began frantically undressing each other without ever losing the cadence of the mutual seduction. Undressed, she loomed above him in the light from the fire, straddled him, settled down on him, moving in soft, wet circles while he touched every pore of her. Finally she rose slightly and guided him into her, leaning forward, trapping his cries with her mouth.

Hypnotized, they made love, stopped, held back, trembling, until they could not resist the demand of their senses and so started again, until the tension was no longer bearable and it ended in mutual release.

“Oh God!” she had cried, falling down across him and stretching out her long legs, tightening them and keeping him trapped while they kissed until, finally, it passed. He lay under her, arms enfolding her, lightly scratching her back as they regained their breath, napped, awoke, and then in frenzied reprise, made love again.

It was four
A.M.
when she suddenly lifted herself off him and jumped off the sofa.

“Oh my God,” she stammered as she began dressing.

“What are you doing?” Vail asked.

“What does it look like? I’m getting dressed.”

“Just stay here for the night. Why’re you going home now, for Christ sakes? It’s four in the morning.”

“You crazy? Everybody in the neighborhood’ll know I stayed here. Besides, I’ve got to go home and change my clothes. And I don’t have my toothbrush. This was very … unexpected.”

“Fuck everybody in the neighborhood. Hell, I don’t even
know
everybody in the neighborhood.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

Vail said, “Shit.” He lit a cigarette, propped some pillows on the back of the sofa and sat up smoking and watching her as she finished dressing. “Why don’t you take a cab over to your place, pick up some clothes and a toothbrush—”

“Martin! Just stop it.” She pulled on her jacket, kissed him on the cheek and started out, but turned at the door with a deep sigh.

“Look, that was just great, Marty. You don’t know what that did for this old carcass and ego. But we can’t ever do it again.”

“What do you mean!”

She came back and sat on the edge of the couch.

“It would change the whole working relationship.”

“What!” He looked at her with disbelief for a moment and laughed. “You’re very strange, Naom. You are a very strange lady.” He started to reach out to her but she pulled back.

“No, I’m almost forty years old and I’m getting practical in my old age. I just don’t want to start wondering on my way to work every morning whether I’m gonna be humping or helping.”

“C’mon. It wouldn’t be that way.”

“Oh yeah, sooner or later. Sure it would. We’d be sneaking upstairs for quickies between depositions. Next thing you know I’d have a couple of outfits over here—in case I decided to stay over. I like my job, Marty. I love my boss, I get paid real well and on time. I love the neighborhood. Let’s not screw it up, okay?”

“It was awful damn good, Naom.”

“It’s
always
awful damn good, Marty.”

“That’s an old wives’ tale.”

“And I’m an old ex-wife.” She reached out and stroked his cheek. “Okay?”

He shrugged. What could he say? Who argues at four in the morning?

“Okay?” she repeated, somewhat ruefully.

“Yeah, sure. Okay.”

“ ’Course,” she said with a smile as she got up to leave, “that doesn’t mean we can’t keep an open mind on the subject.”

So the tension was still there. Nothing had gone away, it was just put on hold.

“You look absolutely devastating this morning, Naom,” Vail said. “I just want you to know that before we get started.”

“Don’t you start.”

“I’m not starting anything. I can’t give you a compliment?”

She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth and made a little growling sound. Then she said, “You must be homy. Get stood up last night?”

“I went to the Silver Screen last night, alone. Two of my all-time favorites,
Out of the Past
and
The Stranger.
Beautiful prints. No scratches, sound track like crystal…”

“You’ll get mugged, going down there to that old dump.”

“Been going to that old dump since I moved to this freezing frigging city. So …”

“So, there’s no list to run. You’re clear today. You thought you were going to be working on the appeal, remember? However, you do have Leroy penciled in with a question mark.”

“Ahhh, Leroy. Okay, run the nitty on Leroy, short version.” He lit a cigarette, laid his head back and closed his eyes. She was great at reducing all the aggravating details of a file down into a nice, concise, chronological, detailed synopsis.

“Leroy Nelson,” she began. “Ugly boy. White, male, twenty-six. Works at the Ames Foundry, lives with his mother on Railroad Avenue—he was divorced about six months ago. Two priors. The first, simple battery, fight in a bar, he was convicted, paid a five-hundred-dollar fine. The second was possession of stolen property. Caught with a hot TV and stereo, copped to possession of stolen goods, no jail time, did six prob. That was eighteen months ago. Been clean ever since.”