Our time together was more than nice, though we never did get around to the movie or that conversation she’d been hinting about. I think Boots felt Clifford’s beating was enough for one day. She seemed content just to be with me, and I was actually pleased she was here.

As the late afternoon faded into evening, we splurged. Ordered garlic pies from Santarpio’s and hired a cab to haul them to my doorstep. Boots pulled her executive number, promising a fat tip if the pizza was delivered hot.

It was, and the two of us relaxed into comfortable domesticity. We spent a long time talking about the Verizon troubleshooting—a trip made extremely unpleasant by an obnoxious middle manager unable to accept her expertise or rank. Boots had spent her work life climbing hand over hand up the corporate ladder; from operator to national vice president of operations, so catching male hostility was hardly an isolated phenomena. This, however had been worse than usual.

“What kills me is I go back to the hotel and obsess over my part in it. An outright misogynist acts like it’s the Middle Ages and I end up feeling guilty. As if I never left the fifties.”

“You weren’t alive in the fifties.”

“You know what I mean. It’s the Lenny Bruce routine about the kid raised by wolves, then found by humans.”

“I told you that story.”

“No, you played the record... the boy graduates college cum laud...”

“And gets killed chasing a car after the party,” I finished.

Boots leaned across the couch resting her head on my shoulder. “It’s been a long time since we spent a night like this,” she murmured.

“Well, Lou’s situation has really thrown a curve. Clifford just threw beanball.”

“I’m not criticizing, just enjoying.”

Despite my kneejerk reaction, so was I. So much so that when the topic inevitably returned to Lou, Lauren, and Lauren’s extended family, I was able to talk without much tension. But as many times as we reviewed the situation, I kept coming up short. No new ideas about any of it.

“I don’t know, Matt. I certainly don’t want you to annoy that fascist Gestapo, or even this small town police Chief, but what if Lauren, or even Lou are actually in danger?”

“I agree—though for all intents and purposes, I’ve been fired.”

“That’s a problem,” Boots admitted with a small chuckle. “Hey,” she raised her eyebrows, “you never rolled that joint, how about doing it now?”

A surprise. Two, actually, since I suddenly realized I hadn’t been pining away for a drink. Our time together had quieted my jones. Raised a question I hadn’t considered in the shower—maybe I was just a goddamn fool.

I rolled the joint while Boots massaged the back of my neck with her strong fingers. “Let’s pretend we don’t know anyone involved,” she suggested, her mind stuck on Lou and Lauren. “What would you think then?

“Less worry, but not much different than what I think now. After all, the cops are guarding the house. But I’d still be pretty suspicious about Biancho’s decision to sic Wash on me.”

“Not ‘Wash,’ goddammit.” Boots yanked her hand away from my neck so I lit the joint. “Call him Clifford or call him an asshole, but don’t call him ‘Wash!’“

“We weren’t supposed to know these people,” I replied, my mind still working her question. “If I didn’t want to mess with the law but stayed on the case, I’d work the other side of the street. Investigate Lauren’s life, drag a net through the people she knows. Long odds, but better than no odds at all.”

Boots inhaled on the joint before handing it back. I toked a couple times then began to drift. The feeling reminded me of when I was around twenty—the days when I believed in a world without war. Reminded me of the times I’d flop down on the floor, head between two cheap loudspeakers, letting Dylan, Motown, and Aretha carry me through strawberry fields.

I pulled myself upright, offered Boots the joint, and placed it in the ashtray when she shook her head.

“Are you planning to do that?” she asked.

Somehow I thought she was talking about the music. I’m too old for the floor. Hurts my back. Dope’s different these days, more like feeling normal.”

“What are you talking about?” Boots asked, a lopsided grin underneath fuzzy eyes.

“Getting high,” I answered realizing Julie’s rent was a winner.

“Well, you’re there,” Boots said, her jaw losing some of its customary jut. “This stuff is very strong, isn’t it?”

I lit a cigarette. “I was floating.”

Boots sipped her wine, “Are we going to work that side of the street?”

I shook some of the float out of my head. “Not we, not easy, not safe. Lauren won’t cooperate and if word gets back to Biancho...” Clifford’s beating was still too fresh to leap at another. But even before Boots’ comment, I knew what I had to do. Fired or not.

“Does Lauren have to find out? You made friends with her daughter, maybe start there. Let her provide you with the basics and ask her not to tell.”

More helpful suggestions like that and our great night was gonna disappear. Very fast.

“You’re awfully quiet, Matt.”

“It will get back to Lauren if I start questioning her family.” Taking Boots’ suggestion felt like I’d be admitting my desire to see Alexis.

“Don’t interrogate. Frame it in a way her children will appreciate. Tell them the truth. You’re making certain of Lou and Lauren’s safety. Even if that got back, how angry could Lauren get?”

I guess Boots knew me well enough to realize I wasn’t going to quit. “Plenty. She told me to leave everyone alone.”

“I’m a little confused, doll,” Boots replied, the high sliding from her eyes. “You complain about being locked out, but you’re not showing much enthusiasm for sneaking back in.”

What could I tell her? I was frightened to see Alexis?

Boots caught a distorted glimpse of my thought. “I’m telling you Matt, the daughter is the place to start. She owes you after spending all that time talking about her problems.”

I wanted to pass on her comment, but decided it might seem suspicious. “Alexis doesn’t strike me as the grateful type.”

“What type is she?” Boots asked after a long inhale on her cigarette.

“Pushy, ambitious, hungry for success.” I focused on Lauren’s criticisms, “She has a real thing for her father.”

“How old is she?”

“Somewhere in her thirties?”

“Well, you better be careful,” Boots smiled suspiciously. “You’re almost old enough to pull her daddy trigger.”

“Boots, the way my body feels, I couldn’t pull a trigger on a gun. Come back to earth, okay? I agree it makes sense for me to keep working,” I said, hauling us back to safer ground.

“I don’t know how much sense it really makes, but I know you. You’re not going to quit. I’m just afraid you’ll do something stupid and confront this Police Chief, or even Clifford.”

I found it easier to listen to her fears about Clifford than her suggestions about Alexis. “You’re not worried I’ll deliberately light a fire under Lauren?”

Boots smiled and rearranged herself on the long couch, her head on the armrest, her calves across my lap. “Didn’t enter my mind. You’ve made peace with Lou and Lauren’s relationship. I can easily imagine you pulling a bonehead macho man with the cops, but at the same time I know how accepting you can be.”

“What’s worse, doll, being a schizophrenic or loving one?” I asked running my finger down her smooth, tan calf. Now that we’d gotten past Alexis, I felt a resurgence of my high and a whole lot of relief.

“I can always count on a joke at a moment like this.”

“You gotta have something to rely on, Boots.”

Boots shook her head, “You’re hopeless.”

I lifted her legs, slowly slid out from under, and stood. “You want another slice?” I asked.

“You mean there’s something left? You snarfed those pizzas like an animal.”

“Receiving end of an old fashioned whopping does that to me. I stood in place and carefully bent over until my palms were close to the floor.

“Your body is killing you, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh,” I grunted straightening. I walked stiffly into the kitchen and chased four Ibuprofens with a shot of Turkey and the last slice.

“Well, honey, we won’t add to the damage,” Boots called.

“Hmm,” I said returning to the living room, standing over her horizontal body, certain I never looked as good on the couch. “How are we going to do that?”

“Gently,” Boots whispered taking my hand. “Very gently.”

 

She kept her promise. Boots’s warmth and tenderness elicited a nervous pleasure. Pleasure in the knowledge we actually had about each other. Nervous because I couldn’t stop flashing on those psychedelic hours in the lighthouse where sex existed free of baggage and replaced by perverse.

We took our time. Time to know moments when Boots’s gentleness pierced me with guilty distaste for my confused hypocrisy.

As our excitement grew, my interior felt torn between her caring and my shame. For an added treat, I came to the image of a naked, snarling Alexis.