DANCING WITH THE ICE LADY. Ken Salter

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      I WORK AS A PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR FOR NATE GREEN, A Berkeley divorce attorney and local legend. I do skip-tracing on deadbeat hubbies who fly the coop to establish new, secret lives elsewhere. I also root out hidden assets socked away by hubbies who let their faithful wives support them while they obtain their M.B.A.s or Ph.D.s at U.C., Berkeley, then woo a younger, childless mate on campus; all this in order to dump their unsuspecting wives as they set off merrily on their new careers with a new and often younger woman on their arm.

      I was stumped while mulling over a complicated case involving one of Nate’s “Berkeley Girls,” as he refers to his women clients, when the intercom on my phone buzzed abruptly. “Mr. Green wants to see you in his office, pronto,” rasped Saundra. Her strident tone caught me off guard. She’s usually friendly and laid back with me. She’s a very attractive black woman with an hourglass figure, winning smile and a down-home way about her that’s non-threatening to Nate’s predominately white, university-affiliated clients. She’s a pro at establishing rapport with women who are angry and disillusioned to have been summarily used and abandoned by a cheating spouse.

      Saundra will usually clue me in to what’s up with the boss. Not today. Something unusual was happening and I’d have to play it by ear. I tried to ease out of my office to avoid Marcie, Nate’s personal secretary and confidante, whose office faces mine on the hallway leading to Nate’s office upstairs. Our offices are in an old Victorian house near the campus which he’d converted into law offices years ago. Marcie’s door was wide open and she threw me a nasty look as I tried to sneak past.

      I was apprehensive and curious but knew better than to poke my nose into it with either woman. Marcie’s body language and Saundra’s tone of voice signaled they were on the warpath together about something that involved me. Best stay out of their way. They’d been with Nate for years and I’m low man on the totem pole. They ran the show and let me know it.

      I bounded up the stairs two at a time and knocked on Nate’s closed door. Nate grunted, “Come in.”

      I eased the door open and stopped cold in my tracks, stunned to see an alluringly dressed, provocatively beautiful black woman seated crossways in front of Nate’s desk. The woman looked me up and down and threw me a wry smile. Nate seemed to take pleasure in my moment of confusion before motioning me to a seat opposite the woman and continuing his stock recitation outlining the terms of his standard fee agreement.

      It was not uncommon for Nate to summon me at this stage of his initial meeting with a client, especially if my services as an investigator will be required. It was unusual for him not to introduce me to a new client; today, he interrupted his fee pitch only briefly to wave in my direction and say, “My investigative assistant, Mr. Bean.”

      The woman graciously turned to me and said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bean. I’m Gloria Simmons.” She locked her expressive, lustrous dark-brown eyes on mine long enough to send a mind-numbing shiver up my spine. Ping! In submarine warfare games, I was dead. She flashed me a bemused smile before turning her attention back to Nate who’d lost his concentration at the interruption.

      Nate resumed his fee spiel designed to soften a client for the hardest part of the initial interview—paying a hefty retainer and signing a fee agreement. Normally, he was smooth at this part of the game. Not today. His hand trembled and his voice croaked like a frog. He was at the point where he makes his pitch for his standard, twenty-five hundred dollar retainer when Mrs. Simmons broke in on his rambling speech. “Do you think five thousand would be enough to get you started on the investigation of my husband’s assets and the troubling doings at his mortuary that I spoke of earlier?”

      The interruption left Nate open-mouthed with surprise. We both watched with bated breath as she leaned down from her chair to pick up a large Gucci shoulder bag resting on the carpet. She pulled out a thick manila envelope and tendered it to Nate. I felt my mouth go dry and suddenly realized I was staring brazenly at Mrs. Simmons. I was transfixed by the sight of her delectable, enticing curves straining against the flimsy fastenings of her breezy summer frock. Her flawless skin was silky smooth, the texture of soft, creamy caramel. She reminded me of photos I’ve seen of the tall, African model, Imam, the girlfriend of the singer, David Bowie.

      Nate had to stretch awkwardly across his desk to grasp the manila envelope. As Mrs. Simmons resumed her seat, she tugged down the hem of her skimpy dress which had ridden up to the middle of her thighs. My heart skipped a beat as she sat down and crossed her legs. I noticed Nate’s eyes were also transfixed by the rise and fall of her hemline instead of opening the envelope.

      “Why don’t you have Mr. Bean count the money while you fill him in on what needs doing. Just put the receipt for the funds in my file for now,” she said, while flashing an exquisite smile my way. I was ready to melt. Fortunately for me, she shifted her attention back to Nate who struggled to get out of his chair to hand me the envelope.

      Nate has never been overly graceful; now he looked all thumbs and elbows as he twisted awkwardly to hand me the envelope. I barely managed to intercept the packet СКАЧАТЬ