Practice to Deceive by David Housewright Page A

said.
    “That’s funny. I go to the Y a lot, but I’ve never seen you there,” Freddie replied, grinning.
    “Different branches, perhaps,” said Sara, smiling even more brightly in return.
    “Perhaps.”
    I cleared my throat, and they both turned to me.
    “Now Taylor, here, he’s into martial arts; can break a man’s back forty different ways,” Freddie said. “Ain’t that right, Taylor?”
    “Forty-one.”
    “Yeah, but who’s countin’?” Freddie asked, eyeing the remains on my plate. “You gonna eat those fries?” Freddie shoved a handful into his mouth and continued flirting with Sara while he chewed. Smooth, man, smooth.
    The waitress arrived, bused the plates, and asked if we wanted coffee. Sara said she did.
    “Cream or sugar?” the waitress asked.
    “I like my coffee the way I like my men: strong and black.”
    Freddie smiled broadly and said real low, “Ooooh, mama.”
    “All right, that’s enough,” I announced. “Cut it out, the both of you.”
    Sara chuckled, pushed away from the table, and excused herself. I watched as she made her way to the ladies’ room. So did Freddie.
    “Very nice,” he whistled low.
    “Go away, Freddie,” I told him. He ignored my suggestion.
    “You humpin’ her, man?” he asked.
    “Excuse me?!”
    “Oh, sorry, don’t want to hurt your delicate sensibilities.” Freddie smiled again. There was ketchup on his lip. “Are you and the lady having relations? Hmmm?”
    “Strictly business, Freddie.”
    “You ain’t lookin’ for her husband, are you?”
    “No.”
    “And you ain’t slippin’ it to her, right?”
    “Freddie!”
    “So there’s no reason why I can’t make a play.” Freddie pulled the lapels of his jacket. “I like white women,” he said.
    I didn’t say anything.
    “You got a problem with that, Taylor? You got a problem with a black man and a white woman bein’ together? I never pegged you for no bigot.”
    “A couple months ago you whipped my head with a pistol and left me for dead in an alley,” I reminded him.
    “So? Couple days later you shoved a Colt Commander into my mouth—my own gun, man—and threatened to blow my fuckin’ head off. I don’t take it personal, why should you?”
    “Freddie …”
    “What?” he asked as Sara made her way back to the table.
    “Help yourself.”
    Sara did not sit when she returned. Instead, she announced she had to return to her office.
    “Is it downtown?” Freddie asked.
    “In the warehouse district,” Sara replied.
    “Not the best part of the city,” said Freddie. “I should walk with you, keep you safe.”
    “I’d like that,” Sara agreed, then looked at me.
    I shook my head. “You live dangerously,” I told her.
    She smiled. “What’s a little danger?”
    A CCORDING TO MY research, despite his apparent wealth, Levering Field had never donated so much as a nickel to any charitable or nonprofit organization: no United Way, no American Cancer Association, no Save the Whales. I helped him make up for it, pledging a total of fifty thousand dollars to a wide array of groups, everyone from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting to the American Nazi Party. They could send a pledge envelope or a representative to pick up the check, it was all the same to me, and of course they could use Field’s name in their newsletters.
    I was contemplating further mischief when I heard a no-nonsense rapping on my office door.
    “Who is it,” I sang out sweetly in a high falsetto.
    “Monica Adler,” a voice shot back.
    “Are you armed?”
    “What?”
    “Nothing. Come in.”
    Monica Adler pushed the door open and stood there like a gunslinger about to make a play. She regarded me carefully for a moment from the doorframe, then marched to my desk, tossing a piece of paper on the blotter before she came to a stop.
    “What’s this?” I asked, without touching the paper.
    “It is a temporary restraining order issued by the Ramsey County Court. You are forbidden to contact Mr.