1997 The Best American Mystery by Robert B Parker Otto Penzler

Author:Robert B Parker, Otto Penzler [Robert B Parker, Otto Penzler]
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

ELMORE LEONARD

Karen Makes Out

FROM Murder for Love

They danced until Karen said she had to be up early tomorrow. No argument, he walked with her through the crowd outside Monaco, then along Ocean Drive in the dark to her car. He said, “Lady, you wore me out.” He was in his forties, weathered but young-acting, natural, didn’t come on with any singles-bar bullshit buying her a drink, or comment when she said thank you, she’d have Jim Beam on the rocks. They had cooled off by the time they reached her Honda and he took her hand and gave her a peck on the cheek saying he hoped to see her again. In no hurry to make something happen. That was fine with Karen. He said “Ciao,” and walked off.

Two nights later they left Monaco, came out of that pounding sound to a sidewalk café and drinks and he became Carl Tillman, skipper of a charter deep-sea fishing boat out of American Marina, Bahia Mar. He was single, married seven years and divorced, no children; he lived in a ground-floor two-bedroom apartment in North Miami—one of the bedrooms full of fishing gear he didn’t know where else to store. Carl said his boat was out of the water, getting ready to move it to Haulover Dock, closer to where he lived.

Karen liked his weathered, kind of shaggy look, the crow’s-feet when he smiled. She liked his soft brown eyes that looked right at her talking about making his living on the ocean, about hurricanes, the trendy scene here on South Beach, movies. He went to the movies every week and told Karen—raising his eyebrows in a vague, kind of stoned way—his favorite actor was Jack Nicholson. Karen asked him if that was his Nicholson impression or was he doing Christian Slater doing Nicholson? Me told her she had a keen eve; but couldn’t understand why she thought Dennis Quaid was a hunk. That was okay.

He said. “You’re a social worker.”

Karen said, “A social worker—”

“A teacher.”

“What kind of teacher?”

“You teach Psychology. College level.”

She shook her head.

“English Lit.”

“I’m not a teacher.”

“Then why’d you ask what kind I thought you were?”

She said, “You want me to tell you what I do?”

“You’re a lawyer. Wait. The Honda—you’re a public defender.” Karen shook her head and he said, “Don’t tell me. I want to guess, even if it takes a while.” He said, “If that’s okay with you.”

Fine. Some guys, she’d tell them what she did and they were turned off by it. Or they’d act surprised and then self-conscious and start asking dumb questions. “But how can a girl do that?” Assholes.

That night in the bathroom brushing her teeth Karen stared at her reflection. She liked to look at herself in mirrors: touch her short blond hair, check out her fanny in profile, long legs in a straight skirt above her knees, Karen still a size six approaching thirty. She didn’t think she looked like a social worker or a schoolteacher, even college level. A lawyer maybe, but not a public defender.

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