Anybody standing there, Clement would have bet him the three rounds had done the job. Except he saw the girl, for just a second, sitting in a Frank Murphy courtroom fingering her chains. Better to take an extra twenty seconds to be sure than do twenty years in Jackson. Clement went to have a look. He saw starlight shining in her eyes and thought, That wasn’t a bad looking girl. You know it?
Walking back to his car Clement realized something else and said to himself, You dumb shit. Now you can’t go to the man’s house.
“I THINK YOU’RE AFRAID OF WOMEN,” the girl from the News said. “I think that’s the root of the problem.”
Raymond Cruz wasn’t sure whose problem she was referring to, if it was supposed to be his problem or hers.
She said, “Do you think women are devious?”
“You mean women reporters?”
“Women in general.”
Sitting in Carl’s Chop House surrounded by an expanse of empty white tablecloths, their waitress off somewhere, Raymond Cruz wondered if it was worth the free drinks and dinner or the effort required to give thoughtful answers.
“No,” he said.
“You don’t feel intimidated by women?”
“No, I’ve always liked women.”
“At certain times,” the girl from the News said. “Otherwise, I’d say you’re indifferent to women. They don’t fit into your male world.”
Wherever she was going the girl writer with the degree from Michigan and four years with The Detroit News seemed to be getting there. It was ten past one in the morning. Her face glistened, her wine glass was smudged with prints and lipstick. The edge remained in her tone and she no longer listened to answers. Raymond Cruz was tired. He forgot what he was going to say next-and was rescued by their waitress, smiling through sequined glasses.