Scarlet Woman

Pressing him hadn’t gained her a thing; she might even have lost a few points with him.

Chapter 2

The biggest error he’d ever made. What the devil had come over him? He’d feasted his eyes on her, eaten at her table, wanted her for nearly five years and kept it to himself. Not once had he done anything as stupid as making that phone call. He’d swear that, until yesterday, she hadn’t had an inkling as to how he felt about her. The thing to do was get his mind on something and somebody else. To make himself useful. He put on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, stuck a baseball cap on his head, got into his Mercury Cougar, and headed for Metropolitan Transition Center in Baltimore, a state facility for short-term prison inmates.

As he entered the institution, he met a priest he’d often seen there. “Got three new ones today,” the priest said. “Tough kids. I expect you can do more for them right now than I can.”

Blake didn’t like the sound of that. “Where are they?”

“Up on 9XX3. Jack will send them down.”

“Thanks. As soon as one leaves here, two or three replace him.”

The priest shook his head. “And they’re so young.”

Blake sat on the uncomfortable sofa, drabness facing him from every angle, and waited for the young men. Why would a person risk going back there once he regained his freedom? Yet the prison held dozens of repeat offenders. Finally, the boys arrived, none of them over eighteen.

“I’m Blake. A lot of the guys here take my course in criminal law. Would you like to join?”

“School? Juku, man,” the oldest one said. “Man, that’s like an overdose of Nytol.”

Blake shrugged and pulled his cap farther down on his forehead. “I make it cool, man. One of the brothers learned enough law to get his case reopened. I wouldn’t think he’s any smarter than you.”

“I gotta keep my lines open, man. Otherwise, while I’m in here, my territory’ll go up for grabs.”

The youngest of the three looked at Blake, attentive, but unwilling to cross the leader.

“How long are you in for?” Blake asked the older, talkative one whom he’d sized up as the leader.

“Eighteen months. Why you take up your time coming out here?”

“We brothers have to hang together,” Blake said. “The street’s mean. It can suck every one of us in like quicksand.”

“Man, I ain’t fooled by your jeans and sneakers,” the older one said. “You don’t know nothing ’bout the street, man. It’s a pisser out there.”

Blake had been waiting for that. It always came down to are you really one of us? He rested his left ankle on his right knee, stuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, and leaned back.

“I hustled the streets of Atlanta till I owned them. You name it, I did it—running errands on my bike, shining shoes, selling shoestrings, peddling books, peanuts, even the Holy Bible. I delivered packages, did whatever I could to make a living and keep myself in school.” He had their attention now, and he’d keep it. “Every cop knew me, and I knew every junkie on the street, but I wasn’t their customer.”

“Did you rat on them?”

Blake raised an eyebrow and pasted a look of incredulity on his face. “I’m sitting here talking to you. Right?”

“Cool, man. My name’s Lobo.” The older one held out his hand, palm upward. “Put it right there, man. You’re mega.”

He supposed that was a compliment, so he thanked Lobo.

The others introduced themselves as Phil, who hadn’t said anything previously, and Johnny, who was the youngest of the three. Two potential gang members if he’d ever seen any.

“I’ll be here next Saturday at three o’clock when I teach criminal law. Hope to see you brothers in the class.” He picked up the bag he’d rested on the floor. “Meanwhile, I brought along a few things you might like to share—some chocolates, writing pads and pens, deodorant, soap, aftershave, things like that. See you Saturday.” Rule number one, never overstay your visit.

Lobo extended his hand, and Phil and Johnny did the same. “Chill out, brother,” Lobo said. “You da man.”

Blake let himself grin. Getting their confidence was the first step. Later, he’d try what the correction institution didn’t bother to do—work at correcting them.

When he got outside, it surprised him to see the priest sitting against the hood of his Cougar. “How’d you make out?” the priest asked him.

“I made a dent, but not a very deep one. They’ve been there less than a week and already they’re a little gang.”

“Not very encouraging,” the priest said. “How’d you get into this?”

Blake walked around to the driver’s side of his car. “I’m going to Ellicott City. If you’re headed that way, I’ll give you a lift.”

“I’m going to Baltimore.”

“A couple of years back,” Blake said, as he headed into Baltimore proper, “I had a client, a young Moslem man, who told me he’d managed to turn some of the brothers around, giving up one day each week to teach in the Lawton Prison Program. He impressed me, and I decided to do something similar.”

“I wish I knew how he did it.”

“He had his successes as well as some failures, you know.” He slowed down to avoid colliding with one of Maryland’s road hogs. “By the time we get to these criminals, most are too far gone for help, but I decided to try with the young ones.” He paused for a minute. “I’m not being disrespectful, Father, but it might help if you learned the language of the street and took off that collar. They don’t want to be corrected, so you have to be subtle.”

“Thanks. You don’t play golf by any chance, do you?” the priest asked him.

“You bet. I’m no Tiger Woods, but I occasionally shoot around par.”

“Then maybe we could go out together some Saturdays after your class. My name is Mario Biotti.”

“Blake Hunter. It’ll be a pleasure.”

He dropped the priest off in Baltimore, and headed home. He loved junk food but didn’t allow himself to have it often. Today, however, he pulled into Kentucky Fried Chicken and ordered a bucket of Southern-fried buffalo wings, French fries, buttermilk biscuits, and coleslaw. Walking out with his treasure, he patted his washboard belly, assuring himself that he could occasionally indulge in junk food and keep the trim physique in which he took pride. As he opened the door of his car, he heard his name.

“Mr. Hunter. Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”

Rachel Perkins. Just what he needed. “Hello, Miss Perkins,” he said, remembered his baseball cap, and went through the motion of tipping his hat. “Great day we’re having,” he added, getting into his car as quickly as he could and igniting the engine.

Her obvious disappointment told him he’d escaped an invitation that he wouldn’t have wanted to accept, and a grin crawled over his face as he waved at her and drove out of the parking lot. He’d always enjoyed outfoxing people, and Rachel Perkins was outdone.

At home, he put the food on the kitchen counter, washed his hands, and was preparing to eat when the telephone rang.

“Hi, Callie. What’s up? I was going to call you as soon as I ate.”

“Nothing much. Mama said Papa’s still poorly, but I haven’t been down there since we last talked. He keeps driving himself just as he always did, even though we send him money and he doesn’t have to do it.”

“He’s a hard man, and that extends to himself. Thank God I got out of there when I did.”

“Tell me about it. I have to thank you for insisting I get my General Education Diploma and for sending me to college. No telling what I’d be doing now if you hadn’t.”

“Water under the bridge, Callie. You only needed a chance. Why don’t you come up here for part of your vacation? You haven’t seen my house yet.”