Big Reg was twice divorced, separated from his third wife, and had two other women with him today. Both women wore navel-revealing tube tops, and neither had the figure for it. The tube tops appeared so tight they squeezed all flesh south, giving both women a gourdlike shape.
“You.” Hester pointed at the tube top on the right.
“Me?”
Somehow, despite the word being one syllable, she had managed to crack gum mid-word.
“Yes. Step forward. What are you doing here?”
“Huh?”
“Why are you here with Mr. Pepe?”
“Huh?”
Waco, her hilarious bailiff, started singing, “If I only had a brain . . .” from The Wizard of Oz. Hester shot him a look. “Timely reference, Waco.”
Waco went silent.
The tube top on the left stepped forward. “If it pleases the court, Your Honor, we’re here as friends of Big Reg.”
Hester glanced at Big Reg. “Friends?”
Big Reg arched an eyebrow as if to say, Right, sure, friends.
Hester leaned forward. “I’m going to give both of you ladies some advice. If this man here works hard to educate and better himself, he may one day rise to the level of total loser.”
Big Reg said, “Hey, Judge!”
“Quiet, Mr. Pepe.” She kept her eyes on both girls. “I don’t know what your deal is, ladies, but this I do know: This isn’t the way to get revenge on Daddy. Do you two know what a skank is?”
Both girls looked confused.
“Let me help you,” Hester said. “You two are skanks.”
Miley Badonis shouted, “Tell them, Judge!”
Hester cut her eyes toward the voice. “Ms. Badonis, do you know anything about throwing stones and glass houses?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then shut up and listen.” Hester turned back to the tube tops. “Do you two know the definition of a skank?”
“It’s like a slut,” the tube top on the left said.
“Yes. And no. A slut is a promiscuous girl. A skank, which in my mind is far worse, is any girl who would touch a man like Reginald Pepe. In short, Ms. Badonis is proudly on her way to not being a skank. Both of you have the same opportunity. I’m begging you to take it.”
They wouldn’t. Hester had seen it all before. She turned to the defendant.
“Mr. Pepe?”
“Yeah, Judge?”
“I would tell you what my grandmother used to say to me: You can’t ride two horses with one behind—”
“You can if you do it right, Judge, heh heh heh.”
Oh, man.
“I would tell you,” Hester continued, “but you’re beyond hope. I would call you pond scum, Mr. Pepe, but really, is that fair to scum? Scum really doesn’t hurt anybody while you, being a miserable excuse for a human being, will leave nothing but a lifetime of waste and destruction in your path. Oh, and skanks.”
“Hey,” Big Reg said, spreading his hands and smiling, “you’re hurting my feelings.”
Yep, Hester thought. A man’s world. She turned back to the plaintiff. “Unfortunately, Ms. Badonis, there is no crime in being a miserable excuse for a human being. You gave him the money. There is no evidence it was a loan. If the roles were reversed—if you were a butt-ugly man who gave money to a somewhat attractive albeit naïve younger woman—this wouldn’t even be a case. In short, I find for the defendant. And I find him disgusting. Court adjourned.”
Big Reg whooped with delight. “Hey, Judge, if you’re not busy—”
The theme music started up again, but Hester wasn’t paying attention to that. Her cell phone rang. When she saw the incoming number, she hurried offstage and picked it up.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I’m just pulling up to my house,” Ed Grayson said. “And from the looks of it, I’m about to get arrested.”
“You went where I suggested?” Hester asked.
“I did.”
“Okay, good. Invoke your right to counsel and shut up. I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 8
WENDY WAS SURPRISED to see Pops’s Harley-Davidson in her driveway. Exhausted from the long questioning—not to mention confronting her husband’s killer earlier in the day and watching a man being murdered—she trudged past Pops’s old Hog blanketed in fading decals: the American flag, the NRA member, the VFW logo. A small smile came to her face.
She opened the front door. “Pops?”
He lumbered out of the kitchen. “No beer in the fridge,” he said.
“No one here drinks beer.”
“Yeah, but you never know who might visit.”
She smiled at him . . . what do you call the father of your late husband? . . . her former father-in-law. “Truer words.”
Pops crossed the room and hugged her deep and hard. The faint smells of leather and road and cigarettes and, yep, beer wafted up. Her father-in-law—screw the “former”—had that hairy, big-bear, Vietnam-vet thing going. He was a big man, probably two-sixty, wheezed when he breathed, had a gray handlebar mustache stained yellow from tobacco.
“Heard you lost your job,” he said.
“How?”
Pops shrugged. Wendy thought about it. Only one answer: Charlie.
“Is that why you’re here?” she asked.
“Just passing through and needed a place to crash. Where’s my grandson?”
“At a friend’s house. He should be home any minute.”
Pops studied her. “You look like the fifth ring of hell.”
“Sweet talker.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
She did. Pops mixed them up a couple of cocktails. They sat on the couch, and as she told him about the shooting, Wendy realized, hard as it was to admit, how much she missed having a man around.
“A murdered baby raper,” Pops said. “Wow, I’ll be mourning for weeks.”
“That’s a little cavalier, don’t you think?”
Pops shrugged. “You cross certain lines, you can’t go back. By the way, you dating at all?”
“Nice segue.”
“Don’t duck the question.”
“No, I’m not dating.”
Pops shook his head.
“What?”
“Humans need sex.”
“I’ll write that down.”
“I’m serious. You still got it all going on, girl. Get out there and get some.”
“I thought you right-wing NRA guys were against premarital sex.”