Read Warshawski 09 - Hard Time for Free Online

invitation in the hopes of holding Lacey to a boy–girl romance, but Officer Mooney, on loan from Chicago’s finest, muscled him outside before he could make a full–scale scene. Lacey had no comment, but Alex Fisher says the star is troubled by the misunderstanding. Other hangers–on, like Chicago investigator V. I. Warshawski, who used to be an item with Ryerson, probably were hoping for crumbs to drop from one of the richest tables to be set in town for years.
    That last sentence jolted me out of my chair so fast that Peppy barked a warning. Damned scrawny bitch with her fifty face–lifts, annoyed because I’d tripped on her Chanel trousers. Me, hoping for crumbs from a Hollywood table? And still pining for Murray? I didn’t know which suggestion offended me more.
    It’s true Murray and I once had a fling, but that was history so ancient there weren’t even any archaeological remains to look through. Far from pining over him, I’d realized after a few weeks that going to bed with someone that competitive had been a colossal mistake. Who the hell had even cared enough to tell Regine Mauger? Murray, out of spite toward me for not being enthusiastic enough about his debut? “Took to the camera like fleas to a dog,” I said savagely.
    The story reminded me that Alexandra Fisher said she’d gone to law school with me. While Mr. Contreras continued his slow study of the ads, I went to the hall closet and pulled out the trunk where I keep bits and pieces of my past. On top, wrapped in cotton sheeting, was my mother’s concert gown. I couldn’t resist taking a moment to pull back the sheet and finger the silver lace panels, the soft black silk. The fabric brought her to me as intensely as if she were in the next room. She wanted me to be independent, my mother, not to make the compromises she did for safety, but holding her gown I longed to have her with me, guarding me against the great and little blows the world inflicts.
    I resolutely put the dress to one side and rummaged through the trunk until I found my law–school class directory. We’d had a Michael Fisher and a Claud, but no Alexandra. I was snapping the booklet shut when I saw the name above Claud’s: Sandra Fishbein.
    The photograph showed a petulant, wide–mouthed face with a mop of wild curls a good six inches thick. She’d been number two in our class and what the faculty called a rabble–rouser. I remembered her chewing me out for not joining her proposed sit–in over women’s bathrooms at the law school.
    You’re a blue–collar girl,
she harangued me with a speech she’d used before,
you should know better than to let the establishment stand on your face.
I remembered the scene vividly—she came from the kind of family where children got European travel as high–school graduation presents. For some reason the fact that I was a blue–collar girl, maybe the only one in my class, made her feel she needed my support or approval or respect, I was never sure which.
    It’s your establishment, and your face,
I’d replied on that occasion, which only wound her up tighter.
If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem,
she’d snapped. Oh, all that old–time rhetoric. She’d applauded my going to the public defender, while she went off to clerk for a judge on the tony Sixth Circuit.
    Well, well. Girl radical had gone to Hollywood, cut her halo of wild hair close to her head, changed her name—and conducted surgery on her politics. No wonder she’d given me that challenging stare last night.
    I put away the directory. Emphysema had forced my father onto long–term disability when I was in law school. His illness affected everything about me then, from my decision to marry in the hopes I’d produce a grandchild for him before he died to my lack of interest in campus politics. I’d taken the public defender’s job so I could stay in Chicago and be with him. He died two years later. My marriage hadn’t survived much