"Oh, come off it," Dominica said, still grinning. "Like men haven't gone for big boobs since their knuckles still dragged the ground. It's nice to see a little payback." Oh, great. A battle between the sexes. Jaine could just imagine the conversations going on around the building. She forced a smile as she handed back the newsletter. "I guess we're going to hear about this for a while."
"Are you kidding?" Dominica asked, grinning. "I'm going to frame my copy and hang it where my husband sees it first thing in the morning when he wakes up and last thing at night when he goes to bed!"
As soon as Jaine got back to her office, she dialed Marci's extension. "Guess what I just saw in the newsletter," she growled, keeping her voice low.
"Oh, damn." Marci groaned aloud. "How bad is it? I haven't seen a copy yet."
"From what I read, it's pretty much verbatim. Damn it, Marci, how could you?"
"That's a quarter," Marci said automatically. "And it was an accident. I don't want to say too much here in the office, but if you can meet me for lunch, I'll tell you what happened."
"Okay. Railroad Pizza at twelve. I'll call T.J. and Luna; they'll probably want to be there, too."
"This sounds like a lynch party," Marci said mournfully. "Could be," Jaine said, and hung up.
Railroad Pizza was about half a mile from Hammerstead, which made it a popular place with the employees. They did a booming take-out business, but they also had half a dozen booths and about that many tables. Jaine got the back booth, where they would have the most privacy. Within minutes, the other three arrived and slid into the booth, T.J. next to Jaine, Marci and Luna across from them.
"God, I'm sorry," Marci said. She looked miserable. "I can't believe you showed the list to someone!" T.J. was horrified. "If Galan ever finds out "
"I don't see why you're so upset," Luna said, puzzled. "I mean, yeah, it'd be a little embarrassing if people found out we're the ones who made the list, but it's really kind of funny."
"Would you still think it's funny six months from now when guys are still coming up to you offering to show you that they measure up?" Jaine asked.
"Galan wouldn't think it's funny at all," T.J. said, shaking her head. "He'd kill me."
"Yeah," Marci said glumly. "Brick isn't what you'd call sensitive, but he'd get pissed that I said I wanted ten inches." She gave a weak smile. "Guess you can say he'd come up short."
"How did it happen?" T.J. asked, burying her face in her hands.
"I went shopping Saturday, and I ran into Dawna what's- her-name, you know, that Elvira look-alike on the first floor," Marci said. "We got to talking, went for a late lunch, had a couple of beers. I showed her the list, we had a good laugh, and she asked for a copy. I didn't see why not. After a few beers, I don't see why not about a lot of things. She asked a few questions, and somehow I wound up writing down everything we'd said."
Marci had an almost photographic memory. Unfortunately, a few beers didn't seem to affect her memory, just her judgment.
"At least you didn't give her our names," T.J. said. "She knows who we are," Jaine pointed out. "Marci had the list, so any idiot can figure out she's one of the four friends. Take it from there."
T.J. covered her face with her hands again. "I'm dead. Or divorced."
"I don't think anything will come of it," Luna said soothingly. "If Dawna was going to spill the beans on us, she would already have told her pals on the first floor. We're safe. Galan will never know."
CHAPTER FIVE.
Jaine was on edge the rest of the day, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She couldn't imagine how nervous T.J. must have felt, because if this ever got out and Galan found out about it, he'd deal T.J. misery for the rest of her life. When it came down to the bottom line, T.J. was the one who had the most to lose. Marci was in a relationship, but at least she wasn't married to Brick. The thing Luna had going with Shamal King was on-again, off-again at best, without commitment.
Of the four, Jaine was the one who would have the least difficulty if their identities became known. She wasn't in a relationship, having given up on men, and she answered to no one but herself. She'd have to endure the teasing, but that was all.
Once she analyzed the situation and came to that conclusion, she stopped worrying so much. So what if some office clown tried to show off his wit? She could hold her own with any bozo.
Her improved mood lasted until she got home and found that BooBoo, in an attempt to impress on her how upset he was at having to stay in a strange house, had completely shredded one of the cushions on her sofa. Tufts of stuffing were scattered all over the living room. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, then to twenty. There was no point in getting angry at the cat; he probably wouldn't understand, and wouldn't care even if he did. He was as much a victim of circumstance as she was. He hissed at her when she reached for him. She usually left him alone when he did that, but in a moment of pity she scooped him up anyway and burrowed her fingers into his fur, kneading the limber muscles of his back. "Poor kitty" she crooned. "You don't know what's going on, do you?" BooBoo snarled at her, then ruined the effect by lapsing into a rumbling purr.
"Just hold on for four weeks and five days. That's thirty- three days. You can put up with me that long, can't you?" He didn't look as if he agreed, but didn't care as long as she continued kneading his back. She carried him into the kitchen and gave him a treat, then put him on the floor with a fuzzy toy mouse to battle.
Okay. The cat was trashing her house. She could cope. Her mom would be horrified at the damage and pay for it, of course, so all in all Jaine was just being a little inconvenienced.
She was impressed by her own mellowness.
She got a drink of water, and as she stood at the sink, her neighbor arrived home. At the sight of that brown Pontiac she could feel her mellowness begin to circle the drain. But the car was quiet, so evidently he had replaced the muffler. If he was trying, so could she. Mentally she put a stopper in the drain.
She watched out the window as he got out of the car and unlocked his kitchen door, which faced hers. He was wearing slacks and a white dress shirt, with a tie hanging loose around his neck and a jacket slung over his shoulder. He looked tired, and when he turned to enter the house, she saw the big black pistol in the holster on his belt. This was the first time she had seen him wearing anything except old, dirty clothes, and she felt a bit disoriented, as if the world had shifted off center. Knowing he was a cop and seeing him as a cop were two different things. The fact that he was wearing street clothes instead of a uniform meant he wasn't a patrol officer, but was at least a detective in rank.
He was still a jerk, but he was a jerk with heavy responsibilities, so maybe she could be more understanding. She had no way of knowing when he was asleep, short of knocking on his door to ask him, which kind of defeated the purpose if she didn't want to disturb him when he was sleeping. She just wouldn't mow her lawn when he was at home, period. That didn't mean she wouldn't tear a strip off his rhinoceros hide whenever he disturbed her, because fair was fair, but she would try to get along with him. After all, they would probably be neighbors for years and years.
God, that thought was depressing.
Her mellowness and charity toward all lasted... oh, a couple of hours.
At seven-thirty she settled down in her big easy chair to watch some television and read for a while. She often did both simultaneously, figuring that if anything really interesting happened on the tube, it would get her attention. A cup of green tea steamed gently at her elbow, and she antioxidized herself with an occasional sip. A loud crash destroyed the quietness of her little neighborhood.
She surged out of the chair, sliding her feet into her sandals as she ran for the front door. She knew that sound, having heard it hundreds, thousands of times in her childhood, when her dad would take her to the test sites where she watched them crash car after car. Porch lights were coming on up and down the street; doors were opening and curious heads were popping out like turtles peeking out of their shells. Five doors down, illuminated by the corner streetlight, was a tangle of crumpled metal.
Jaine ran down the street, her heart thumping, her stomach tightening as she braced herself for whatever she might see and tried to remember the basic first aid steps. Other people were pouring out of their houses now, mostly elderly people, the women wearing bedroom slippers and shapeless dresses or robes, the men in their sleeveless undershirts. There were a few high-pitched, excited children's voices, the sound of mothers trying to keep their kids corralled, fathers saying, "Keep back, keep back, it might explode."
Having seen a lot of crashes, Jaine knew an explosion wasn't likely, but fire was always a possibility. Just before she reached the car in the street, the driver's side door was thrust open and a belligerent young man erupted from behind the steering wheel.
"What the fuck!" he yelled, staring at the crumpled front end of his car. He had rear-ended one of the cars parked along the curb.
A young woman came running from the house directly beside them, her eyes wide with horror. "Omigod, omigod! My car!"
The belligerent young man rounded on her. "This your car, bitch? What the fuck you doin' parking it in the street?" He was drunk. The fumes hit Jaine's nose, and she moved back a step. Around her, she could hear the collective neighborhood concern changing to disgust.
"Someone go get Sam," she heard an old man mutter. "I will." Mrs. Kulavich headed back down the street, shuffling as fast as she could in her terry-cloth bedroom slippers.
Yeah, where was he? Jaine wondered. Everyone else who lived on the street was out here.
The young woman whose car had been smashed was crying, her hands over her mouth as she stared at the wreckage. Behind her, two young children, about five and seven, stood uncertainly on the sidewalk.
"Goddamned bitch," the drunk snarled, starting toward the young woman.
"Hey," one of the older men piped up. "Watch your language."
"Fuck you, pops." He reached the crying woman and clamped a heavy hand on her shoulder, spinning her around.
Jaine started forward, pure anger flaring in her chest. "Hey, buddy," she said sharply. "Leave her alone." "Yeah," a quavering elderly voice said from behind her. "Fuck you, too, bitch," he said. "This stupid bitch wrecked my car."
"You wrecked your own car. You're drunk and ran into a parked car."
She knew it was a losing effort; you couldn't reason with a drunk. The problem was, the guy was just drunk enough to be aggressive and not drunk enough to be staggering. He shoved the young woman, and she stumbled backward, caught her heel on a protruding root of one of the big trees that lined the street, and sprawled on the sidewalk. She cried out, and her children screamed and began crying. Jaine charged him, bulldozing into him from the side. The impact sent him staggering. He tried to regain his balance but instead fell on his butt, his feet in the air. He struggled up and with another lurid curse lunged for Jaine. She dodged to the side and stuck out her foot. He stumbled, but this time managed to stay on his feet. This time when he turned, his chin was lowered, tucked close to his chest, and there was blood in his eyes. Oh, shit, she'd done it now.
She automatically fell into a boxing stance, learned from many fights with her brother. Those fights were years in the past, and she figured she was about to get stomped, but maybe she'd get in a few good punches.
She heard excited, alarmed voices around her, but they were oddly distant as she focused on staying alive. "Somebody call nine-one-one."
"Sadie's getting Sam. He'll handle it."
"I've already called nine-one-one." That was a little girl's voice.
The drunk charged, and this time there was no evading him. She went down under his onslaught, kicking and punching and trying to block his punches all at the same time. One of his fists hit her in the rib cage, and the power behind it stunned her. Immediately they were surrounded by her neighbors, the few younger men trying to wrestle the drunk off her, the older guys helping by kicking him with their slippered feet. Jaine and the drunk rolled, and a few of the older guys were mowed down, collapsing on top of the heap.
Her head thudded against the ground, and a glancing blow stung her cheekbone. One arm was pinned by a fallen neighbor, but with her free hand she managed to grab a chunk of flesh at the guy's waist and twist it, pinching as hard as she could. He bellowed like a wounded water buffalo.
Then abruptly he was gone, lifted from her as if he weighed no more than a pillow. Dazed, she saw him slam to the ground beside her, his face mashed into the dirt as his arms were wrenched behind him and handcuffs snapped around his wrists.
She struggled to a sitting position and found herself practically nose to nose with her neighbor the jerk. "Damn it, I might have known it was you," he snarled. "I should arrest both of you on drunk and disorderly charges."
"I'm not drunk!" she said indignantly.
"No, he's drunk, and you're disorderly!"
The unfairness of his charge made her choke with rage, which was a good thing, because the words that hung in her throat probably would have gotten her arrested for real.
Around her, anxious wives were helping doddering husbands to their feet, fussing over them and checking for scrapes or broken bones. No one seemed much the worse for the fracas, and she figured the excitement would keep their hearts beating for several more years, at least. Several women were clustered around the young woman who had been shoved down, clucking and fussing. The back of the woman's head was bleeding, and her kids were still crying. In sympathy, or maybe because they were feeling left out, a couple more kids began wailing. Sirens screeched in the distance, coming closer with every second.
Crouched beside the captive drunk, holding him down with one hand, Sam looked around in disbelief. "Jesus," he muttered, shaking his head.
The old lady from across the street, her gray hair in pin curls, leaned over Jaine. "Are you all right, dear? That was the bravest thing I ever saw! You should have been here, Sam. When that... that hoodlum shoved Amy down, this young lady knocked him flat on his butt. What's your name, dear?" she asked, turning back to Jaine. "I'm Eleanor Holland; I live across the street from you."
"Jaine," she supplied, and glared at her next-door neighbor. "Yeah, Sam, you should have been here."
"I was in the shower," he growled. He paused. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." She scrambled to her feet. She didn't know if she was fine or not, but she didn't seem to have any broken bones and she wasn't dizzy, so there couldn't be any major damage.
He was looking at her bare legs. "Your knee is bleeding." She looked down and noticed that the left pocket of her denim shorts was almost torn off. Blood trickled down her shin from a scrape on her right knee. She jerked the torn pocket the rest of the way off and pressed the cloth to her knee. "It's just a scrape."
The cavalry in the form of two patrol cars and a fire medic truck, arrived with flashing lights. Uniformed officers began wading through the crowd, while neighbors directed the medics to the injured.
Thirty minutes later, it was all over. Wreckers had hauled the two damaged cars away, and the uniforms had hauled the drunk away. The injured young woman, lads in tow, had been taken to an emergency room to have the cut on the back of her head stitched. Minor scrapes had been cleaned and bandaged, and the elderly warriors shepherded home.
Jaine waited until the medics were gone, then peeled the huge wad of gauze and tape off her knee. Now that the excitement was over, she was exhausted; all she wanted was a hot shower, a chocolate chip cookie, and bed. She yawned as she began trudging down the street to her house.
Sam the jerk fell into step beside her. She glanced up at him, then focused straight ahead. She didn't like the look on his face or the way he loomed over her like a dark cloud. Damn, the man was big, a couple of inches, maybe three, over six feet, and with shoulders that looked a yard wide.
"Do you always jump feet first into dangerous situations?" he asked in a conversational tone.
She thought about it. "Yeah," she finally said. "Figures."
She stopped in the middle of the street and turned to face him, her hands planted on her hips. "Look, what was I supposed to do, just stand there while he beat her to a pulp?"
"You might have let a couple of the men grab him." "Yeah, well, no one was grabbing him, so I didn't wait around."
A car turned the corner, coming toward them. He took her arm and moved her out of the street. "You're, what, five- three?" he asked, assessing her.
She scowled at him. "Five-five."
He rolled his eyes, and his expression said, Yeah, right. She ground her teeth. She was five-five almost. What did a tiny fraction of an inch matter?
"Amy, the woman he hurt, is a good three inches taller than you and probably outweighs you by almost thirty pounds. What made you think you could handle him?"
"I didn't," she admitted.
"Didn't what? Think? That was obvious."
I can't slug a cop, she thought. I can't slug a cop. She repeated that to herself several times. Finally she managed to say, in an admirably even tone, "I didn't think I could handle him."
"But you jumped him anyway."
She shrugged. "It was a moment of insanity." "No argument there."
That did it. She stopped again. "Look, I've had it with your snide remarks. I stopped him from beating that woman to a pulp in front of her lads. Jumping him like that wasn't a smart thing to do, and I fully realize I could have been hurt. I'd do it again. Now carry your ass on down the street, because I don't want to walk with you."
"Tough," he said, and latched on to her arm again. She had to walk, or be dragged. Since he wouldn't let her walk home by herself, she picked up her pace. The sooner they parted company, the better.
"You in a hurry?" he asked, his grip on her arm reeling her back in and forcing her to match his more leisurely stride. "Yeah. I'm missing " She tried to think what was on television, but drew a blank. "BooBoo's due to cough up a hair ball, and I want to be there."
"You like hair balls, huh?"
"They're more interesting than my present company," she said sweetly.
He grimaced. "Ouch."
They drew even with her house, and he had to release her. "Put ice on the knee so it won't bruise," he said. She nodded, took a few steps, then turned back to find him still standing at the end of her walk, watching her. "Thanks for getting a new muffler."
He started to say something sarcastic, she could see it in his expression, but then he shrugged and merely said, "You're welcome." He paused. "Thank you for my new trash can."
"You're welcome." They stared at each other for a moment longer, as if waiting to see which one would start the battle anew, but Jaine put an end to the standoff by turning around and going inside. She locked the door behind her and stood for a moment, looking at the cozy, already familiar, feels-like-home living room. BooBoo had been at the cushion again; more stuffing was strewn on the carpet. She sighed. "Forget the chocolate chip cookie," she said aloud. "This calls for ice cream."
CHAPTER SIX.