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Authors: David Bishop
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California, she would face either the death penalty or life imprisonment without a possibility of parole.
Clarice jerked her hand up to swipe at a running tear. Then let her hand freefall onto her lap. Her face looked whiter than I had ever seen it, probably due to the shower and no makeup. Still, the woman was lovely. The jailhouse orange jumpsuit brought the emerald out of her bluish-green eyes. Her naturally creamy skin made me wonder why she ever bothered with makeup. Even her lips had a natural hot-pink hue. Her tongue had to enjoy keeping them moist.
She brought the phone back up to her ear.
“Asta’s a strange name for a dog.” I said, hoping to pull her out of her funk.
Her unpainted lips thinned and trembled. “How is my baby? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Slept on the foot of my bed just like you said she would. We’re getting along swell. I got the food and snacks you told me about. No problem. Where’d you come up with the name Asta?”
Clarice’s head and shoulders swiveled to her left as a heavyset Hispanic inmate moved toward her, then quickly spun to the right to confirm the big woman had continued on by. Caught up in her jailhouse vigilance, I also watched the large woman until she sat in a chair two cubicles beyond Clarice.
“Tally bought Asta for me,” Clarice said, returning from the distraction. “He named her after a dog owned by some guy named Nick Charles. I told him this Charles must be one of his friends I never met. Tally just smiled. He likes his private jokes. Then he said something about my being too young to understand.”
“I don’t think the police are going to be looking too hard for anyone else to pin this on.” It was a hard message, but one she needed to hear. She took it without reaction.
“After we met,” she said, as if she had not heard my harsh message, “I researched you in the online archives. You don’t know it, but I’m hot searching stuff on the Internet.” She moved the phone to her other hand, the aluminum wrapped cord draping across her mouth like surreal braces. “I read all I could find about your career as a cop.”
“Then you know I went to prison and why.”
“I know, and I agree with the majority of the people in the poll. I’m glad you shot the bastard. He deserved it.”
“I appreciate that. In any event, I doubt I would have lasted much longer as a cop.”
“Why?”
“The easy answer is the department thought I had too much Mike Hammer in me, while I thought the department had too much Casper Milquetoast. In my novels, I define and dole out justice the way it feels right to me. My readers must agree that justice isn’t always best found in a courtroom. They keep buying my books.”
“So your departmental papers show, terminated: too much Mike Hammer?”
“Well, they glossed it over as insubordination. I never have been any good at letting someone play smart when they’re talking stupid, just because they’re the boss.”
Clarice moved in her chair, my gaze moved with her. She said, “One of the articles mentioned you’re also a private detective.”
“True. After my pardon they couldn’t deny me a PI’s license. Investigative work was my profession, but the law wouldn’t allow me a permit to carry a weapon. I’m not sure why I got the private license. Maybe I thought it would add to my mystique as a crime novelist.”
“Maybe because it lets you feel in some way you’re still a detective.” She grinned for the first time since I arrived. “The job that made you happier than being a novelist.”
When they were being nice, the biddies in our building referred to Clarice as the airhead on the fourth floor, but my instincts told me Clarice was Phi Beta Kappa in street savvy.
“Me thinks the lady has brains as well as beauty.”
“My mother was a lady. I think of myself as a woman. There is a difference you know?”
“No. I didn’t know. As a writer, I’m naturally curious.”
“When a lady
Clarice jerked her hand up to swipe at a running tear. Then let her hand freefall onto her lap. Her face looked whiter than I had ever seen it, probably due to the shower and no makeup. Still, the woman was lovely. The jailhouse orange jumpsuit brought the emerald out of her bluish-green eyes. Her naturally creamy skin made me wonder why she ever bothered with makeup. Even her lips had a natural hot-pink hue. Her tongue had to enjoy keeping them moist.
She brought the phone back up to her ear.
“Asta’s a strange name for a dog.” I said, hoping to pull her out of her funk.
Her unpainted lips thinned and trembled. “How is my baby? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Slept on the foot of my bed just like you said she would. We’re getting along swell. I got the food and snacks you told me about. No problem. Where’d you come up with the name Asta?”
Clarice’s head and shoulders swiveled to her left as a heavyset Hispanic inmate moved toward her, then quickly spun to the right to confirm the big woman had continued on by. Caught up in her jailhouse vigilance, I also watched the large woman until she sat in a chair two cubicles beyond Clarice.
“Tally bought Asta for me,” Clarice said, returning from the distraction. “He named her after a dog owned by some guy named Nick Charles. I told him this Charles must be one of his friends I never met. Tally just smiled. He likes his private jokes. Then he said something about my being too young to understand.”
“I don’t think the police are going to be looking too hard for anyone else to pin this on.” It was a hard message, but one she needed to hear. She took it without reaction.
“After we met,” she said, as if she had not heard my harsh message, “I researched you in the online archives. You don’t know it, but I’m hot searching stuff on the Internet.” She moved the phone to her other hand, the aluminum wrapped cord draping across her mouth like surreal braces. “I read all I could find about your career as a cop.”
“Then you know I went to prison and why.”
“I know, and I agree with the majority of the people in the poll. I’m glad you shot the bastard. He deserved it.”
“I appreciate that. In any event, I doubt I would have lasted much longer as a cop.”
“Why?”
“The easy answer is the department thought I had too much Mike Hammer in me, while I thought the department had too much Casper Milquetoast. In my novels, I define and dole out justice the way it feels right to me. My readers must agree that justice isn’t always best found in a courtroom. They keep buying my books.”
“So your departmental papers show, terminated: too much Mike Hammer?”
“Well, they glossed it over as insubordination. I never have been any good at letting someone play smart when they’re talking stupid, just because they’re the boss.”
Clarice moved in her chair, my gaze moved with her. She said, “One of the articles mentioned you’re also a private detective.”
“True. After my pardon they couldn’t deny me a PI’s license. Investigative work was my profession, but the law wouldn’t allow me a permit to carry a weapon. I’m not sure why I got the private license. Maybe I thought it would add to my mystique as a crime novelist.”
“Maybe because it lets you feel in some way you’re still a detective.” She grinned for the first time since I arrived. “The job that made you happier than being a novelist.”
When they were being nice, the biddies in our building referred to Clarice as the airhead on the fourth floor, but my instincts told me Clarice was Phi Beta Kappa in street savvy.
“Me thinks the lady has brains as well as beauty.”
“My mother was a lady. I think of myself as a woman. There is a difference you know?”
“No. I didn’t know. As a writer, I’m naturally curious.”
“When a lady
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