MIAMI ICED by Susan Sussman

Author:Susan Sussman [Sussman, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Arthur David Publishing
Published: 2014-09-02T23:00:00+00:00

21

Three other courtrooms are emptying out, people crowding the courtyard. Where are you? I shield my eyes against the blinding sunlight, squinting out over the sea of heads -- Where are you? – pushing through, trying to catch a glimpse of Parker.

Did I tell him I was coming to court? Think. I rerun our conversations. Boats. Propellers. The price of coal in Newcastle. No. I’m positive I never mentioned sitting in on a murder trial with characters out of Fellini central casting. So, if I didn’t tell him -- my stomach dances with the creepy-crawlies -- it means he’s following me.

I finish circling. He’s not here. He could be in the men’s room, could be gone. I push through a stand of droopy-pant teens toward the half-wall overlooking Broward Boulevard. Is Parker checking up on me? Finding out where I go, what I do? I shiver despite the 95-degree swelter. Does he think we’re in some sort of relationship? Is he a control freak? Stalker? The grapefruit slices I ate for breakfast shoot acid up my throat.

I lean out over the ledge, don’t see Parker walking along Broward. Across the street, the usual Library park characters stretch out on the grass, no one up and about in this blanket of heat. Wait. There. At the south end of the park. There’s Parker, striding toward the four-story city garage.

This is bad. This is really bad. Today was the first time I ever parked there. He must have followed me. Did Parker somehow slip those notes under my door, try to warn me away from this trial? Why is he rushing on ahead? My mind shuffles crazy ideas. Is he going to do something to my car? Bug it? Cut the gas line? Blow it up? But these thoughts are no crazier than Parker showing up in my courtroom. He disappears inside the garage. I have to stop him from doing whatever he’s about to do to my car.

I weave through the courtyard crowd. A wall of withdrawal-crazed smokers clutch packs of cigarettes, waiting to storm the elevators. I opt for the stairs, racing down to the street, dodging cars across Broward, hitting the park running. Mistake. Women of a certain age are not designed to run on full bladders. I stop, cursing Mother Nature’s warped humor, shifting to a rapid walk all the way to the garage.

I’m parked on the second level and take the stairs two at a time, gasping for air at the top. Bitsy’s right, I need to work out. My OBGYN is also right, I must do my Kegel exercises. Tomorrow. I’ll start it all tomorrow.

The chest-high garage walls let in outside light. My car sits quietly in its spot half-way up the ramp. I listen, shuddering at the eerie stillness -- no footsteps echoing, no motors humming. This isn’t nearly as scary as Chicago garages, completely enclosed concrete tombs dank and dark, but it’s nervous-making all the same. I tiptoe to the car, bracing for the unexpected like Inspector Clouseau alert for Cato.

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