J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

I crossed to the edge of the balcony, swung my right leg over, secured my foot between the pales, swung the other leg over. I reached for the railing on the next balcony, crossing the distance just as the light in Wendell’s room came on. I was acutely aware of the adrenaline that had juiced my pulse rate up into training range, but at least I was safe on the adjacent balcony.

Except for the guy standing out there smoking a cigarette.

I don’t know which of us was more surprised. He was, no doubt, because I knew what I was doing there and he did not. I had an additional advantage in that fear had accelerated all my senses, giving me an exaggerated awareness of his persona. The truth about this man began to flash through the air at me like the subliminal messages suddenly made visible in a sports training film.

The man was white.

The man was in his sixties and balding. What hair he had was silver and combed straight back from his face.

He wore glasses with the kind of dark frames that looked like they’d house hearing aids in the stems.

The man smelled of alcohol, fumes pouring from his body in nearly radiant waves.

He had blood pressure high enough to make his flushed face glow, and his pug nose had a ruby cast that gave him the kindly look of a K mart Santa Claus.

He was shorter than I and therefore didn’t seem that threatening. In fact, he had a puzzled air about him that made me want to reach out and pat him on the head.

I realized I’d seen the guy twice in my constant cruising of the hotel in search of Wendell and his lady friend. Both times I’d spotted him in the bar—once alone, his elbow propped up, his cigarette ember weaving as he orchestrated his own lengthy monologue, once in a party of bawdy guys his age, overweight, out of shape, smoking cigars, and telling the kinds of jokes that inspired sudden martini-generated guffaws.

I had a decision to make.

I slowed myself to a leisurely pace. I reached over and lifted his glasses gingerly from his face, folding the stems so I could tuck them into my shirt pocket. “Hey, stud. How are you? You’re lookin’ good tonight.”

His hands came up in a helpless gesture of protest. I unbuttoned my right sleeve, while I gave him a look of lingering assessment.

“Who are you?” he asked.

I smiled, blinking lazily as I unbuttoned my left sleeve. “Surprise, surprise. Where have you been all this time? I been lookin’ for you since six o’clock tonight.”

“Do I know you?”

“Well, I’m sure you will, Jack. We’re going to have us a good old time tonight.”

He shook his head. “I think you’ve made a mistake. My name’s not Jack.”

“I call everybody Jack,” I said as I unbuttoned my blouse. I let the flaps hang open, revealing tantalizing glimpses of my maidenly flesh. Happily, I was wearing the one bra not held together with safety pins. In that light, how could he tell if it was faintly gray from the wash?

“Can I have my glasses? I don’t see very well without them.”

“You don’t? Well, now that’s too bad. What’s the deal here …you nearsighted, farsighted, astigmatism, what?”

“‘Stigmatism,” he said apologetically. “I’m kind of nearsighted, too, and this one eye is lazy.” As if to demonstrate, the gaze in his one eye drifted outward, following the flight path of an unseen bug.

“Well, don’t you worry none. I’ll stay real close so you can see me good. You ready to party?”

“Party?” The one eye drifted back.

“The boys sent me up. Those fellows you hang out with. Said today’s your birthday and everybody pitched in to buy you a present. I’m it. You’re a Cancer, is that right?”

His frown was slow and his smile flickered on and off. He couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening, but he didn’t want to be unkind. He also didn’t want to make a fool of himself, just in case this was a joke. “It’s not my birthday today.”

Lights were being flipped on in the room next door, and I could hear the woman’s voice rise in anger and distress.

“Now it is,” I said. I pulled out my shirttail and peeled my blouse off like a stripper. He hadn’t taken a puff of his cigarette since I arrived. I took the lighted cigarette from his hand and tossed it over the railing, and then I moved closer, squeezing his mouth into a pout like I intended to kiss him. “You got something better to do?”

He laughed uneasily. “I guess not,” he said in a little puff of cigarette breath. Yum yum.

I kissed him right on the puss, using some slurpy lip-and-tongue stuff I’d seen in the movies. It didn’t seem any sexier when other people did it.