No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella (19 page)

He moved his knight again. "Check."

Her only out was to move her king, which meant she
couldn't castle later. It was against the rules for her to castle out
of check. Obviously she was a stickler for rules. She moved her king
a square toward him. She had only two choices.

Again he brought his knight around. "Check."

"Why do I feel this sense of unrelenting
pressure?" she asked. She moved her king out of check. His next
move would involve some finesse. He moved his bishop, removed his
hand, and then quickly tried to slide the piece back to its original
position.

She stopped him. "You took your hand off."

"I meant to—"

"Sorry" she said, "but that's the
rule."

"I don't think you're sorry at all," he
said, smiling ruefully He watched her assess the board. Her eyes
darted from space to space as she played out the consequences of her
next action. He knew what she was thinking. She was asking herself
how she could capitalize on his mistake. Moving his bishop there had
left it vulnerable to her bishop. But if she captured him with her
bishop, he could retaliate with the pawn in front of his king. Then
she could bring out her queen and threaten his king, perhaps shift
the momentum of the game.

She captured his bishop. He groaned for her benefit,
then captured hers. She obviously dicln't understand the principal of
positional sacrifices, either.

"Would you like some more tea?" he asked,
his hand hovering over the stop button on the time clock.

"Stalling for time?" she asked.

"It's your move," he reminded her, stopping
the clock. "This is a friendly game, Claire. Or did you want to
make it more interesting?"

"What did you have in mind? A wager?"

"That would work," he said. "What
shall we put at stake?"

"How about a no-lose proposition?" she
asked, her eyes locking on his. They were very clear, he noticed.

He put his hand on hers, caressing the flesh of her
wrist with his thumb. "How this evening ends," he said, his
voice suddenly throaty "what happens between you and me, won't
be decided by anything but mutual consent. I think we have that
already Don't we, Claire?"

He had her full attention. He could see it in the way
her eyes watched his lips move as he spoke.

"What do you want?" she asked in a husky
voice. She didn't pull her hand away

"If I win, I get to ask you a question that you
must answer. If you win, I'll owe you an answer."

"How do I know that you have any answers that
I'm interested in?"

"Nothing's more dangerous than a biker on speed
with a live grenade, don't you think?" he said.

She looked at him, then back at the board. "Am I
being hustled here?"

"Do you want to concede?" he asked.

Instead of answering him, she brought her queen out.
The pawn he had used to capture her bishop was all that stood between
her queen and his king. He slid his kingside rook to the center of
the board. She responded by moving her queenside rook a square
forward—out of its corner. She restarted the clock.

"When will you be done with my evidence?"
he asked.

"Is that your question?"

"No. It's premature for me to collect on our
bet. I haven't won yet."

"That's right," she said.

He moved his rook across the board, threatening her
queen. If she captured his rook with her queen, then his knight would
take her queen and put her in check.

"Rat," she said.

"Tell you what," he said. "I'm going
to take us off the timer." He turned the clock off; she didn't
object. She pondered her next move for fifteen minutes.

Then a smile spread over her face as she moved her
queen back to stand beside her king. It was a good move, but not good
enough to save her.

He moved his queen one square diagonally His play was
what is known in chess as a quiet move. Quiet moves are played during
an attacking sequence and, although they pose no immediate threat,
will clear the board for a much more aggressive move later. Often
quiet moves are the deadliest of all. She brought her queen out
again, biting her lower lip. He could see that she was feeling
desperate to bring out material, to give herself offensive options.
She closed her mouth again and he found himself studying the moisture
that remained on her lips. Noticing his delay she looked up from the
board. For a moment their eyes locked, then he captured the pawn next
to her king.

"Check."

She couldn't take his bishop without moving into
check from his queen. She moved her king out of harm's way He moved
his bishop.

"Do you want a notepad?" he asked. She
nodded yes.

While she plotted her options, he studied her face.
The line between her eyes deepened and her nostrils flared slightly
She wasn't in check. Yet. But he had rendered her helpless. He was
watching her eyes the moment that realization dawned on her. He also
realized that he had an erection.

"So what's your question?" she finally
asked.

"I'm not ready to ask it yet."

"What happens now?"

He stood and took her hand. "Come on," he
said, pulling her to her feet. " want to show you the rest of
the house."

Later, hours later, her head nestled in the crook of
his arm. As she ran a lazy finger up his breastbone, she said, "That
was a nice touch earlier"

He smoothed back her hair. "Which?"

"You know," she said, "when you
pretended to make a mistake. I'll have to remember that."

"If you want to stop by tomorrow," he said,
"I'll give you what I have on that biker with the grenade."

"Sounds like a very bad man," she said,
teasing his nipple with her teeth.

Blackstone let out an involuntary groan. "Yeah,"
he said, rolling toward her, "he beat up a hooker, but she came
forward."

"Umm," she said, grinding into him, "that
was good of her."

He burrowed his face into her neck and she said
something that he missed. She pushed him away and asked again. "Did
she ID the car he was driving?"

He had to take a second to compose himself; he was
having trouble concentrating. His blood, it seemed, was busy
elsewhere. "Rental, Oregon plates. Mercury Comet, she said."

She put a hand to his mouth. "No more shoptalk,
okay? Tomorrow will take care of itself." Then she pulled him on
top of her. This time he was the one to stop.

"My turn," he said. "Was John Garillo
working for you? Was he a snitch?"

"I think you wasted your question. It sounds
like you figured that one out for yourself."

"Does that mean yes?" he asked. But she
didn't answer, she was too busy doing incredible things with her
lower anatomy He wondered briefly if she was into yoga or some other
exotic discipline. All talk of the job was soon forgotten.

They made love until they were both spent. Afterward,
Claire fell immediately into a deep sleep.

Blackstone listened to her rhythmic breathing.
Somewhere outside, a freight train lumbered down the tracks.
Southbound, he decided, with a full load. He knew all the sounds the
trains made: the whoosh as two passed each other, the screech of
their brakes. Even at a distance of miles he could tell whether they
were approaching or departing. He stared at the stars and catalogued
the day's events, including this most pleasant of endings. He had no
regrets, and judging from her contented smile as she slumbered,
neither did she. Yet something nagged at the edge of his
consciousness, something he'd seen or something he'd heard, but he
was too tired to chase the elusive thread of reasoning. If it was
important, he decided, yawning, whatever it was would come to him
tomorrow.

He shut his eyes and a last image of the room formed
in that netherworld of consciousness between dreams and reality The
lamp by his bed became a queen. His last muddled thought as he
drifted off to sleep was that she had him in check and he'd better do
something about that.
 

17

MUNCH WOKE UP Wednesday morning to the sound of a
phone ringing. It obviously wasn't for her. She rolled over in her
cot and stared at the graffiti covered walls, surprised that she had
slept so well. Throwing off the thin wool blanket, she stood and
walked over to the door of her cell.

"Can I make a phone call?" she asked the
guard.

The guard, a red-headed black woman, looked up from
her newspaper. "Maybe later." The guard went back to her
paper and then looked up again, taking in the sight of Munch in her
grease—stained overalls. "You work at a gas station or
something?"

"A garage in the Valley " At least I did
until yesterday, she thought. Who knew what was going to happen now.

"What kind of stuff you do? Change oil?"

"Tune-ups, brake work, clutches, electrical. You
name it."

"You ever work on Chevys?"

"Chevys are my favorites," Munch said,
moving closer to the bars that separated them. "What kind you
got?"

The guard put down her newspaper. "A '67
Camaro."

"Rally Sport?"

"Super Sport."

"Great car."

"When it's working," she said.

"Have you been having problems?" Munch
asked.

"Yeah, when it gets hot—"

"It won't start," Munch finished her
sentence for her.

The guard scooted her chair over to Munch's cell. "I
put in another battery ignition switch, a starter—"

"That's not the problem," Munch said. "It
doesn't even click when you turn the key right?"

"That's right."

"But then you wait twenty minutes and it starts
right up."

"Yeah, yeah. That's exactly right."

Munch read the woman's nameplate. "I've fixed
that before, Officer Reese," Munch said. "You sure I can't
get to a phone any sooner?"

The guard looked both ways. "I don't know what
you did, honey But I've got orders to isolate you."

"I guess a cigarette is out of the question."

"Sorry" she said. "How did you fix
those other cars?"

"I wired in a second auxiliary solenoid. Bring
me a piece of paper and a pencil," Munch said. "It's easier
to explain if I draw you a schematic. You can take it to your
mechanic and have him fix it."

The guard fetched Munch a yellow legal pad and a
ballpoint pen. She watched as Munch drew a rectangle with two small
posts, which she labeled with plus and minus symbols.

"This is your battery;" Munch explained.
"It puts out twelve volts."

The guard nodded.

"All right," Munch continued. "Your
starter solenoid"—she drew a cylindrical object at the bottom
of the page—"is mounted on top of your starter and requires
eight to ten volts to engage your starter. A solenoid is basically a
gatekeeper. When it gets the message from the ignition switch, it
opens the flow of current between the battery and the starter. You
still with me?"

The woman nodded again, clearly intrigued.

"Is your car an automatic?"

"Yes."

"Allright." Munch drew several more squares
and circles, explaining how each component worked.

"The wiring insulation in the older Chevys tends
to break down and leak current, especially when it gets hot. The
starter solenoid requires an electrical signal of at least eight
volts to operate, but by the time the current gets there it's only
six or seven volts."

"Until it cools off," the guard said,
excited at the revelation.

"Exactly" Munch said, "What I do is
wire a Chrysler solenoid, which only requires five volts to operate,
in series to deliver the needed eight volts to the GM solenoid."
She quickly sketched the second solenoid into her schematic. "Think
your mechanic can handle that?"

"Shoot, I'd rather take it to you, honey"

"If I ever get out of here," Munch said.

The guard reached in her purse and grabbed a
cigarette case. Then she unlocked the door to Munch's cell. "C'mon,"
she said. "You can smoke that in the bathroom."

Munch smiled gratefully "Any chance we'll pass a
phone on the way?"

The guard looked both ways before answering. "
don't think so," she said.

"Hey; you've got a job to do," Munch said.
" can dig it."

The woman looked down the hall again, toward the
phone. Munch knew she was weakening.
 

18

WHEN BLACKSTONE GOT to work Wednesday morning, he was
in a rare good mood. The air was crisp and blown clean by the Santa
Anas. Traffic had moved quickly on his way into the station. The
coffee in the lounge was fresh and hot. By 9:15 he was seated
comfortably at his desk, completely caught up on his paperwork and
ready for the day