Solomon And Lord Drop Anchor Part 23

Shank smiled, or at least, he bared his teeth, small and jagged like eroded slivers of rock. "Maybe not, but we like to think we've bought some insurance."

"Sorry, I'm not for sale."

Shank's teeth vanished, and little vertical furrows appeared on his sloping forehead. "Max led me to believe you'd already been paid for."

d.a.m.n him!

"Max," she said, casting him a murderous glance, "is behind the times. Here's a news flash. I didn't go to law school to join some conspiracy that could put me in jail. I don't work for Atlantica, and I don't work for Max. As of today, I'm an employee of the United States government, and I'm not going to prost.i.tute myself for you or anyone else."

"What!" Max was staring at her, wide-eyed. "Lisa. Lisa, darling, I thought we had a deal."

"There are no more deals, and there never will be. Now, you two are conspiring to obstruct justice, and I want you out of here."

Shank's laugh crackled like dead leaves underfoot. "Hey, Max. Call a cop. We're obstructing justice here."

Looking worried, not laughing at all, Max hurriedly stood and walked toward Lisa, who stiffened and folded her arms across her chest.

"Lisa, just hear Shank out," Max said, agitated. "Please. For me."

She'd never seen him this way, so nervous and unsure. There was i a shift of power going on here, but why?

Jesus, Max. You're his boss. Why are you deferring to this glorified security guard?

"You've got five minutes," she said, "and then the two of you can get out of here."

Max nodded thankfully and returned to the sofa and his drink.

Shank ground out his cigarette in a crystal bowl on the coffee ! table and said, "We need you to use whatever legal mumbo jumbo you can come up with to win the case."

Mumbo jumbo? Oh, that's clever. Try to fool the guy who's maybe the smartest legal mind in America.

"But if you can't persuade him with the law," Shank continued, "we have a backup plan."

"Really? And what would that be?"

His smile was a leer. "Max showed me your bedroom, all frilly and smelling of powders and perfumes."

"Are you out of your mind?" Lisa exploded. "What do you think I am?"

"I don't know," Shank said. "What do you think you are?"

She was so astonished by his tone, by the insinuation, that she was momentarily speechless. Who was this thug to insult the boss's girlfriend, to throw his weight around with Max standing right there? Jesus, she didn't have to take this. Incensed, she turned to Max. "Are you going to let him talk to me like that?"

Max looked as if he might have a stroke. "Lisa, please-"

"It's not enough that you're planting an agent on the Court you want me to seduce Truitt, too."

"We're just counting on you to do what you do best Lisa," Shank said.

"And what would that be?" she asked, eyes narrowing. "Say it!"

Shank moved closer, drilling her with his dark eyes. His face was just above hers, invading her s.p.a.ce, making her skin crawl, as if she'd just walked into a cobweb. She fought the urge to flinch and turn away.

Max, how could you let this lowlife bully me?

When Shank was close enough for Lisa to see every acne crater and smell his sour breath, when he filled her entire range of vision, . when she felt both a distinct revulsion and a palpable fear, he spoke in a snarl, "You'll f.u.c.k him, Lisa. You'll f.u.c.k him real good."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" She whirled toward Max. "Did you hear that? This has gotten way out of hand. Since when am I taking orders from your rent-a-cop flunky?"

Shank laughed again, the sound of a rottweiler barking. "Is that what you told her, Max, that I'm your flunky?"

"Now see here, Shank ... ," Max said, making a jerky gesture with his arm and spilling his drink, his voice trailing off.

Lisa looked at Max in astonishment.

"Now see here?" Like some effete character in a tux straight out of Noel f.u.c.king Coward.

"Get the h.e.l.l out of my apartment, both of you!" Lisa shouted.

Seemingly amused again, Shank turned to Max. "How 'bout it, boss man, should we leave? Should we vacate the premises?"

Max started to say something, but nothing came out. He seemed to be nailed to the sofa and to have lost the power of speech. He meekly turned his palms upward in a gesture of surrender.

"Max is plumb out of ideas," Shank said, "so I'll do the talking. In case you missed it the first time, you'll f.u.c.k the judge till he's blue in the face. You'll f.u.c.k him till he's cross-eyed. You'll f.u.c.k him till he's deaf, dumb, and blind. You'll turn him upside down and inside out and suck him dry. And when he's so dizzy he doesn't know his own name, you'll get his vote because he'll do any d.a.m.n thing you ask."

Stunned, a flood of bitter memories swept over her: her father telling her that she'd always be able to make a living on her back, the guys at the Tiki offering her wads of bills to meet them in the parking lot after closing, Crockett trying to pimp for her, then beating her up when she wouldn't go through with it. Max had protected her then; now, he was pushing her into it. The realization came to her with sickening clarity. After all these years, Max had become her pimp!

"In short, Lisa," Shank went on, seeming to enjoy every moment, licking each word with his tongue, "you'll do the judge just like you did old Max here, though frankly, jailbait p.u.s.s.y was probably sweeter. That so, Max? Was it better in the old days?"

"Now Shank, there's no need for that," Max said, standing up but not moving toward the other man. Not leaping across the room and decking the foul-mouthed pig, which is what Lisa imagined Sc.r.a.p Truitt would have done. She pictured Truitt slugging the swine, breaking his jaw, citing some principle of natural law that empowers a man to defend his woman's honor.

"Oh, ex-cuse me," Shank said, dragging out the words, taunting them both. "You two were in love. The h.o.r.n.y executive whose wife didn't understand him and the stripper with the genius IQ who could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch."

She slapped him, the cr-aack of hand on skin seeming to echo in the apartment. Finally, Max moved, dancing around the coffee table, coming up to Shank, apologizing, begging forgiveness, the girl doesn't get it yet, it's not her fault, Jeez Shank, it'll be okay.

"Shut up, Max," Shank said with a certainty that his order would be followed.

It suddenly occurred to Lisa that if Max was afraid of Shank, she probably should be, too. Who was he, anyway?

Shank turned back to Lisa and lowered his voice to a frightening whisper. "You're not fully aware of the situation here, Lisa, and I'm taking that into account. Max has protected you, and I let him. I didn't want to embarra.s.s him, to cut off his b.a.l.l.s in public, so I always walked two steps behind him, like the wife of the j.a.panese emperor. Except now, I'm a little tired of getting f.u.c.ked up the a.s.s. It's important for you to know exactly how it is, to appreciate Max's position and your own."

He's talking about Max as if he weren't here. But then, he really isn't.

Shank smiled at her, but it was the smile of the wolf contemplating the hen. Then his right hand shot out, quick as a snake, and seized her by the. wrist. His left hand grabbed her above the right elbow, and he twisted hard, spinning her around, bending the arm painfully until the back of her hand pressed against her shoulder blade. She couldn't see his face as he spat out the words, "You're nothing but a little s.l.u.t who's forgotten where she belongs. You think you're smart, but if you were, you would have sized up the situation long ago. You would have shown respect. You would have had fear."

He cranked her arm higher, and a searing pain shot through her shoulder. She thought of a chicken's wishbone snapping in two.

He leaned even closer to her, brushing his lips through her hair, exhaling foul breath. "Do you know why they call me Shank?"

"It's ... it's your name," she said, confused.

"No! My name is Shakanian. A shank is a blade that cuts fast and deep. I'm a knife, and I'll cut right to the meat of you. Do you understand?"

"Yes." But she didn't understand. It was beyond comprehension.

"What do you know about me, Lisa?"

"Nothing," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"So let me tell you. I live alone. I don't have a wife or a friend or a parakeet. What I've got is a lot of time to think. Lately, I've been thinking about you and how much you owe Max here, which really means how much you owe Atlantica. Do you follow me, Lisa?"

Wordlessly, fighting the pain, she nodded.

"Good." He released the pressure on her arm slightly but did not let go. "Do you like the movies, Lisa?"

Whether it was the pain or the fear, or the utter inanity of the question-for a second, she thought he was asking her out-Lisa couldn't answer.

"I'll bet you do," he said. "I'll bet you like foreign films with subt.i.tles or love stories with sappy endings. Me, I go to the movies by myself, and I like to laugh, forget my troubles. So I see the comedies. Reservoir Dogs, Bad Lieutenant, Natural Born Killers. Ever see any of them?"

"They're not comedies," she heard herself say.

"Sure they are. Take the scene in Reservoir Dogs. One of the robbers has a cop tied up. He wants to know who's the informant in the gang. The cop won't tell him, so the robber cuts his ear off."

With his free hand, Shank roughly grabbed Lisa's ear, twisting it, painfully. "Now, here's the funny part. I'd already done it. I cut a guy's ear off maybe ten, twelve years before I saw the movie. So I'm watching it, thinking you don't get that much blood from an ear. That wasn't realistic. But the screams. The screams were real."

He's a madman, and he's going to cut me.

She knew a girl from the Tiki whose jealous boyfriend slashed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to keep her from dancing. Lisa was paralyzed with fear. Her eyes searched frantically to see if he was holding a knife.

He let go of her ear and his hand brushed against her neck, seductively, stopping to fondle the single pearl earring. Then he kissed her neck, and unleashing his tongue like a serpent, he licked her. With a repulsive slurping sound, his tongue slithered up the slope of her neck.

I'm going to throw up. Jesus, if he doesn't stop, I'm going to ...

His tongue withdrew and his teeth clenched the pearl earring, holding it there a second, freezing her with terror. Then he wrenched his head downward, ferociously tearing the post through her earlobe, yanking it free with a twist of his head like a pit bull mauling its prey.

She screamed as the pain shot through her, the sensation of her own shredding skin terrifying her.

Max stood, frozen in place.

Shank twisted her arm even higher against her shoulder blade. "Do you have fear now, Lisa? Do you have respect?"

Blinking through tears, she begged him, "Please! Please stop."

"Say it, b.i.t.c.h!" Again he twisted her arm, until she thought the ligaments would tear loose from the bones.

"I have fear," she cried, eyes squeezed shut, her shoulder screaming in agony. "I have respect."

He let her go. Her arm throbbed. Her ear stung. Blood dribbled from her earlobe. She felt faint.

"Good," Shank said, pocketing the b.l.o.o.d.y earring like spare change. "I've got confidence in you, Lisa. When you're through with the judge, he'll vote to revoke the Const.i.tution if you ask him to. You do your job, Lisa, we've got no problems." He flashed a smile as jagged as a cracked eggsh.e.l.l. "You don't, I'll take your other earring and the ear, too."

He said it softly, matter-of-factly, without anger. Max hurried to Lisa's side and wrapped his arms around her just as her legs buckled.

Still speaking in a hushed voice, Shank said, "Now why don't you take a little walk so Max can bring you up to speed?"

Silently, Max guided her to the door. She was too shocked, too much in pain, to protest. As she stepped into the corridor, Lisa took one look back inside the apartment. Shank was lighting another cigarette. He took a deep drag, then tossed the match onto her Persian rug.

CHAPTER 6.

The Shoe Box SAMUEL ADAMS TRUITT MAY HAVE BECOME A JUSTICE of the Supreme Court but at home, he still carried out the trash. And walked the dog, a russet-haired mutt with retriever and shepherd blood named Sopchoppy, Sop for short. And verbally sparred with his wife, Connie, she of the patrician good looks and slashing wit. And on regular cycles, for the past two years, he gave his wife twice daily injections of Pergonal plus a 5 A.M. blood test, all aimed at increasing her egg production so that with the help of a fertility expert, a petri dish, and divine intervention, they could enjoy the benefits of parenthood.

So far, the in vitro fertilization had not worked. All the ultrasounds, all the drugs with their chaotic mood-altering side effects, all the hours in the doctor's office squeezing her hand while a scope was inserted through her abdomen into the ovaries, all the needles depositing fertilized eggs into the uterus ... all for nothing.

For a while, he thought the experience brought them together. It was one of the few remaining areas of common pa.s.sion or even interest. They laughed over Truitt's discomfort at walking into the OB-GYN's waiting room filled with suspicious women, then disappearing into a rest room to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e into a plastic cup.

"Was it good for you?" she had asked.

"My hands were too cold," he replied, "so the nurse helped."

Connie had shown him endless wallpaper patterns, paint chips, and photos clipped from Architectural Digest as they set about planning the nursery. Sam Truitt didn't know calico from chintz, and in fact spent several years of bachelorhood with window coverings of old bedsheets, but he took an interest in the mythical nursery for the mythical baby because it made Connie happy.

But lately, after so many misses, after Connie's headaches and nausea, exuberant hopes followed by deep despair, after more than twenty-thousand dollars in medical bills, there was little talk of babies and ba.s.sinets. Connie's moods had become both extreme and unpredictable. She would burst into tears at the sight of a pregnant woman or laugh hysterically at inopportune times.

Today, Truitt knew, Connie had been to the doctor to see if the latest implant of a fertilized egg or "pre-embryo," in Dr. Kalstone's lingo, had taken hold.

G.o.d, let her be pregnant.

Sam Truitt wanted to be a father; he wanted Connie to be happy; and he wanted to preserve his marriage. At the moment, all three were in jeopardy.

He had just stuffed a bulging garbage bag into the plastic curbside container. He had walked and p.o.o.per-scooped Sop, fed and brushed him, and told him he was sorry there were no game birds to chase in the neighborhood.

Carrying the recycle container to join the garbage at the curb, Truitt opened the gate in the black wrought iron fence to what was laughingly called their front yard. It was a rectangular s.p.a.ce of dry brown gra.s.s roughly large enough for a single grave. One block away was the old Chesapeake and Ohio Ca.n.a.l, the narrow manmade waterway where tourists now ride in mule-drawn boats and locals hike and jog along a towpath lined with giant sycamores and willows.

The cramped town house was only twenty-seven feet wide-fifteen feet shorter than his snap to the punter-but stood three stories high. It was, Connie told him, a shoe box standing on end.

But it was in Georgetown, which is where she wanted to live. Insisted on it, really. Her family's second home had been here when she was growing up, when her father was a U.S. senator from Connecticut. That house was three times the size of this one. But property was cheaper then, and her mother's inheritance fueled not only Daddy's political career but also a lifestyle far in excess of what an elected official could provide.

Truitt walked up two flights of stairs to the bedroom, eager to hear about Connie's visit to the doctor but apprehensive at the same time. She sat at her vanity applying makeup, seemingly oblivious to his presence.

If she's silent, does it mean she's not pregnant? No, the husband is not permitted to draw an adverse inference from the wife's failure to testify.

At thirty-eight, Connie was a striking woman whose fine bone structure, manner, and posture spoke of cultured breeding and expensive schooling. Truitt did a fancy sidestep to get around her without banging her elbow. "At home, I had my own sitting room," she said in greeting, as if reading his mind about the tight confines of the town house.