Chapter 2

"I will not!" She was standing in front of me, her feet spread and her hands on her hips again. But this time there wasn't hunger in her glance — her eyes were blazing.

Angrily she said. "Explain what you meant by that last remark!"

And so I did. Very quickly and without-demotion I told her that I intended to make it on my own. I didn't want her or any other woman to tell me how to do it.

Of course, after that there were more words, many of them spoken heatedly and cruel. And that's the way her visit ended. When Suzy stomped out the door she was no longer my girl.

While I was toweling dry after my shower I heard the phone ringing. I didn't answer it. I was positive it was Suzy, calling either to get in her last stinging retort, or to apologize.

It rang again about ten minutes later. I tried to drown 'out the sound by flinging a handful of ice cubes into a glass. But while I was standing at the window, sipping scotch and staring out at the rain swept world, the phone rang again. Suddenly I realized that it couldn't be Suzy calling. Her plane had taken off a half hour ago. I scooped up the phone.

"Attorney Ice?" a woman's voice asked.

"It is."

"This is Sarah Leighton. We've never met but I need your help immediately."

"Of course," I said. "Would you like to make an appointment?"

"Can you come to my apartment right away?"

While she paused, waiting for my answer, I could hear the sound of music playing softly in the background.

"Yes."

"Oh, thank you." I caught the quick sigh of relief. "You'll understand why I'm making the request when you arrive. Here's my address."

It was on Melrose Avenue, out in West Los Angeles, Apartment Seven. I scribbled in onto a pad and promised her I'd be there in about forty minutes.

It was almost an hour later when I pulled up at the curb near her apartment house. There had been an auto accident at the intersection of Melrose and La Cienega; and with the downpour and the evening traffic, it had been a mess getting through.

With my hands in my trench coat to keep it wrapped around my legs, I ducked my head and ran from my car up to the apartment house entrance. It had about two dozen units but it was a new building, and it had a lot of class. Apartment Seven was on the second floor, up the stairway, outside entrance.

The sound of music inside was audible as I punched the door bell and waited. I stood close to the door so that I was sheltered by the eaves. Then the door opened.

She was a strawberry blonde with green eyes and she was wearing a pale yellow minishift. Her arms were bare, her feet and legs were bare. And with the lamp on one of the end tables directly behind her, I could tell that the rest of her was bare too underneath the shift.

"Thank goodness you've arrived," she said.

"Please come in."

As I stepped inside I saw her stick her head out the doorway and glance about. Then she closed the door and locked it with the chain.

"May I take your coat?"

I peeled if off and handed it to her and she took it over to a closet and hung it inside. "Would you like a drink?"

"Scotch, if you have it."

"You're in luck, Mr. Ice." She threw me a dazzling smile. "Would you like to help?"

I followed her down the short hallway, enjoying the quick movements of her legs. They were pretty good. Almost as good as Suzy's. And then I remembered our fight, and decided her legs were better than Suzy's.

As I passed an open doorway I saw that it was a bedroom. There were a couple of bags sitting on the floor, half packed, and stack of clothing was on the bed. Apparently the rain was drying everyone out of Los Angeles.

And then we were in a kitchen. It was rather disorderly. With lots of soiled dishes in the sink. "Isn't this a mess?" she asked, as she brought out the ice tray.

"I don't mind," I said, not wanting to agree with her and perhaps blow the first client I ever had. Obviously it was going to be a divorce action.

She dropped the ice tray onto the sideboard and then her right hand moved an unruly strand of hair away from the side of her face. "So am I," she said. The palms of her hands slid down the front of her, pressing the shift against her. "I'm a terrible mess."

She was trying to convince herself that the shift was soiled. It wasn't really. I couldn't see any spots except the two little spots where her nipples were digging into the cloth.

I had to get my glance and mind off her immediately. I picked up the ice tray and broke the cubes loose. "You are Sarah Leighton, aren't you?"

"Darling!" she squealed, "how rude of me. Yes I am. May I call you Lincoln? Please call me Sarah." As she handed me two glasses she smiled up at me. "After all, we're going to become very informal before the night's over."

She was standing close to me and as I looked down at her I saw that the neck of her shift had dipped forward a bit. Without any effort on my part I was staring down at her jutting pink breasts. They were set wide apart and the valley was prominent. That gave me an unobstructed view right down the pink and bare front of her.

"Oh fine," I said, and then I concentrated on getting the ice cubes into the glasses. How in the hell would I be able to handle a client like this in court?

But it wasn't that at all. She gave it to me quickly while I was making the drinks.

Sarah Leighton was convinced that someone was trying to kill her. A couple of nights ago, while going across the street to pick up some things at a drugstore, a speeding car had almost picked her off in the crosswalk. Last night, as she was walking in a small part nearby, someone had shot at her. The bullet had barely missed her, striking a tree.

Sarah was an actress and tomorrow morning she was leaving for Europe where she was going to do a couple of segments in a TV series. She wanted me to stay with her that night and protect her from whomever was trying to kill her. I handed her one of the scotches, staring at her.

She'd mentioned nothing about wanting legal advice.

"Oh, thank you," she said. "Come into the front room where we can sit down and relax."

We sat down but I couldn't relax. I took the easy chair and she curled up on the couch. Somehow the hem of her shift had slid up her thighs and somehow those thighs fidgeted around a lot to give an occasional and fleeting glimpse of the Y. First from the top, and now from the bottom I'd had unobstructed views.

I liked it. And yet I didn't. Something didn't make sense — even though I wanted to think that the sight of me had brought it all on. We all dream at times!

"Sidney Griffin, the producer, suggested I call you, Lincoln. You won't recall, but I saw you on the set—the time you were doing a job for Sid."

So that was it. Almost a year ago I'd done a job for Sid. His wife was being unfaithful and he wanted proof so that he could divorce her. At the time I'd been a private eye. Working just enough to pay for beans and board while I was studying for my law degree. I'd gotten the pro for Sid and he was very grateful. He'd promised to flood me with clients.

"I've got five hundred saved up," Sarah was saying now. "I know it isn't much but I'd it if you'd take it for the night's work." She moved aside the big ash tray. There were five one hundred dollar bills underneath. "Help yourself."

I was ready to turn her down because the moment I'd passed the Bar I'd promised myself that my private-eye days were no more. Never again. Stuff like that.

But at that time, while I was making the solemn promise to myself, the setting hadn't been the same. First of all there hadn't been a Sarah nearby. Secondly, she hadn't been sitting across the coffee table from me. And thirdly, she hadn't been leaning forward, her hand outstretched and shoving the bills towards me.