Red - Jack Ketchum [25]
He could make the drive from his house to work in half an hour but today it took him three quarters of an hour before he passed the Coast Tide Inn and the Old Curiosity Shoppe and then the library and court house into the center of town. He parked the Escalade in his usual spot in front of Apple Tree Books and climbed the single flight of stairs to his office above.
Betty of course was already at her computer. She wore that pretty green sleeveless dress she knew he liked that went so well with her curly red hair. She greeted him with her usual smile and a good morning, Mr. Cleek. Twenty-one and eager and sweet as sugar.
“Mornin’ Betty. How’d things go with Mrs. Oldenberg? She satisfied with the papers?”
“Didn’t even read them. Signed them right away.”
“Fine. Though I always counsel against that.”
She looked at her desk calendar.
“You’ve got lunch with Dean at noon. Then court at two and a meeting with those Exxon reps at three-thirty. Are they really going to tear down McAllen‘s Hardware?”
“Not if the town council and I can help it. Last thing we need is a gas station three blocks away from the Royal Bank of Canada. Those DeFuria files ready?”
“I just have to print out this last one.”
“Well, bring ‘em on in when you’re done along with a cup of mud and we’ll get to it. Thanks, Betty.”
Betty had this sort of funny tic, this habit. Whenever she turned back to her computer from talking to him or somebody else, as she did now, she took a deep breath as though about to take an underwater plunge. Which had the effect of plumping out those more-than-sufficient breasts against whatever she was wearing.
He’d considered what those breasts would be like without whatever she was wearing more than once. But he was a lawyer after all and she a paralegal and they both knew all about harassment suits and the workplace. He was pretty sure Betty had a crush on him. But still.
Maybe someday he’d find reason to fire her. But gently. It would have to be something that would sit well with her. Maybe some big client would bitterly complain. And then what could a guy do? My god, sorry Betty, but you know these big-money boys. They always get their way.
She was pretty good at her job, though. Be a shame to lose her. But you never could tell.
~ * ~
Peg watched her class do stretches on the field. The bleachers were hard on your butt but it was better than being out there.
Mrs. Jennings’ whistle shrilled. So loud that Dee Dee Hardcoff covered her ears. Peg hated that damn whistle — all of them did. The girls filed in across the track. Her teacher wore the high school colors. Green shorts, white blouse. She had no breasts at all to speak of and short stocky legs and walked like a man. Peggy wondered if she was gay. She was married but that didn’t mean a lot these days.
“Okay, eight laps, ladies.”
There went the whistle again. The girls seemed to heave a collective sigh and started in to trot. Mrs. Jennings saw her sitting there and walked over.
“Peg? Not feeling well again today?”
Well obviously, she wanted to say. She didn’t like the woman’s tone of voice at all. It was just this bit shy of sarcastic, just this bit shy of accusatory. But teachers didn’t have to give a shit about their tone of voice, did they.
“No. Not too well.”
“See your pass?”
She dug into her backpack for the note from the nurse’s office. Handed it over.
The woman seemed to study it forever — as though looking for flaws. Could the bitch even read? Did gym teachers have to pass basic English? She handed back the note and nodded and walked back to the field without a word.
Well that was nice, she thought, and fuck you very much.
~ * ~
Back behind the ticket booth Genevieve Raton was sharing Marlboros with Bill Fulmer. Fulmer taught shop. He was in his forties, married,