A Loaf of Bread, A Jug of Wine, and...Ow?

Sam is relaxed, attentive and cheerful, His voice is pitched in a register that settles directly in the pit of Beth's stomach. He wears comfortable jeans, a black sportcoat and a very snug polo shirt. Beth feels fragile and feminine, she is overwhelmed by his size and masculinity. She also feels safe and protected, which is a switch from the way she feels when deep in the clutches of the tye-dyed one.

Sam:  It's nice to spend time with you and have nothing else going on.
What would you like to drink.

Nothing else going on!  Hah!  Beth fights to keep her guard up.

Beth:  Whatever you're having is fine, Sam.

Bill would hoot at that.  Of course, Beth would have demanded that he
spare her the cheap beer and rotgut tequila in favor of something non-
poisonous.  Sam turns to the waiter.

Sam:  Can I see the wine list?...What would you suggest?

The waiter spouts a lot of wine-snob twaddle, finally coming down to a
slightly sweet white which he claims will go well with both the appetizer
and salad.  Sam nods his assent and the waiter bustles away.  His gait is
quick and prissy.  Beth is ready to swear a familiar voice hisses the
words 'damn fudgepacker' from somewhere beyond the dense greenery enclosing
the table she shares with Sam, but she shakes the feeling off.  She needs
everything she has for Sam, she can't deal with Billy, too.  If it is
Billy.

Sam:  How've you been?

Beth:  Good.  How about you?

Awkward.  Stilted.  Premeditated.

Sam:  Seen Strannix lately?

There it is, she thinks.

Beth:  No, I haven't.  He's a hard one to keep track of sometimes.

Sam:  I guess he might be.  Just as well.  He won't be barging in on us or
setting off stinkbombs.

Beth hears the voice again.  'Watch me,' it says.  She grows more
concerned.  Meantime, Sam takes her hand in his big paw.

Sam:  Think he might just be laying low at home?

Beth:  Not really.  He spends a lot of time on the road.

Sam:  Oh?  Where's he go?

Sam turns Beth's hand palm up and with the other forefinger traces
the lines he finds there.  Beth stamps fiercely on her own instep.  Dammit,
she tells herself, you're a grown woman.  You are not some fool teenybopper
and this is not Leonardo-effing-DiCaprio.  Get a grip, Beth.

Beth:  He has...business interests.

Not much of a grip there, girl.  Sam looks up from his perusal of her
hand.  He smiles.  Beth's innards do a slow roll.  She gives her instep
another shot.

Sam:  Come on, Darlin'.  It's me, Sam.  Tell me the truth and lets get this
bullshit out of the way.  I just want to concentrate on you.

There was nothing the least bit harsh or demanding about Sam's voice.
It is as though it upsets him greatly to even have to mention Billy at a
time like this.  He covers her hand, effectively cradling it between both 
of his.  Her hand feels incredibly tiny.  She is defenseless.  She knows
it.

Sam:  Is Billy around, Honey?

Beth swallows convulsively.  She is lost, gazing into his depthless
brown eyes.

Beth:  I don't know, Sam.  He doesn't tell me when he's coming or going.

That, she thinks, is true enough.  She wasn't caught during either one
of the cautious sweeps she'd made through Billy's house.  She feels safe
enough with this statement.

Sam:  Do you know what he does when he disappears, Baby?  I think you do.
Tell me...

Sam uncovers her hand, picks it up and lays it briefly against his
rough cheek.  Beth's inner child is a fool teenybopper at this point, and
the fool is rapidly reaching critical mass.  Sam turns his face into her
palm.  The waiter arrives with the wine and Sam releases her, giving 
Beth a chance to compose herself and anaesthetize the inner child.  Sam
attends to the ritual of approving the wine, instructs the waiter to bring
whichever of the evening's appetizers is most recommended, and returns
the full force of his attention to Beth.  He lifts his glass and she
follows suit.  She understands now how the mouse feels before the snake, or
the deer caught in the glare of the headlights.  She knows she should run
for her life, but she can't.  She is riveted to the spot.

Sam:  To many evenings like this.

Beth is wordless.  She touches his glass lightly with her own as that
irritatingly familiar voice behind her sounds off again, saying 'bullshit'
and then snorting derisively.

Sam:  Did I tell you how pretty you look tonight?

Beth hears a thump and a rattle of glassware behind her, as though a
skull has bounced off a table.

Beth:  Thank you, Sam.

Sam:  Bet Bill doesn't say things like that, does he?

Beth:  No, not usually.  Billy doesn't notice a woman unless she's wearing
spandex and her hair needs an area code of its own.  If I dress up, he just
asks me where the costume party is, so he can crash it.

The foliage behind her rustles ominously and the voice says 'that's a
damn lie.'  Beth knows she should know this voice, but she is caught up in
Sam.

Sam:  Dumb shit doesn't know what's in front of him.  Wouldn't know a good
thing if it cracked him in the jewels.

Beth:  Sam, please.

Sam:  Don't tell me you're shy.

Another salvo from behind the ferns.  'Her?  Shy?  My ass!'  The
appetizers arrive.  They are served, and the conversation dies as they
begin to eat.  Beth begins to settle herself.  She will make it through
this, she vows...as long as Sam looks away from her once in a while.

Sam:  You seen Deb?

Very casual, off-hand, gentle.  Deliberate as hell.  Beth hears the
bell for round two ring.  The voice pipes up with 'yeah, pipsqueak, where
is the little shitbird?'  Pipsqueak!  Now Beth is horrified.  Billy!  
What's he doing in Chez Suzette?  How did he know?  What will he do if she
slips up?  She knows she's bound to slip, she can feel her brain beginning
to lock up.

Beth:  Can't say I have.  After you marched her out I don't know where she
ended up.

Again, true enough.  Beth remembers handing Deb's things through a crack
in her door.  She knows it was the Irish Setter who took them away, but she
has no idea what he did with them or even where he's disappeared to.

Sam:  Need to talk to that young woman.  You hear from her you'll tell me
won't you, Darlin'?

Beth's head seems to be attached to strings.  She nods at Sam.  Yes, 
Sam.  Of course, Sam.  What was that again, Sam?  How high and what color, 
Sam?  The voice of...not reason or sanity, but something similar...again,
'the hell with him, you tell me.'

Beth:  I don't know anything, Sam.

Sam:  Don't be modest, Honey.  I'm sure those pretty eyes see plenty.

Beth:  I see what I'm allowed to see, Sam.

The appetizer is whisked away, to be replaced by salad.  Sam refreshes
Beth's wine.  She needs to be careful and go easy on the happy water.

Sam:  Can you keep your eyes open for me, Baby?

Beth:  Sure, Sam.

The voice is soft as a twilight breeze.  Beth knows herself to be on
very shaky ground here.  She works over her instep again.  She hears the
voice say 'just so you keep that trap shut, baby.'  There is a different
quality to Billy's use of the term 'baby.'  It helps her steel herself.

Sam:  Tell me what you see.

Beth:  It's not fair to ask me to do that, Sam.  You said you didn't want 
to talk about Billy and ruin the evening, but you haven't talked about 
anything else.

Sam reaches for her hand again, leans toward her, overwhelms her a
second time with the sheer force of his presence.

Sam:  Sorry, honey.  I guess you can take the Marshal away from the case
but you can't take the case away from the Marshal.  I'm just an old warhorse
at heart.  Forgive me?

Beth:  Yes.

Her voice is faint.  The voice behind her is, too, but only so Sam won't
hear, 'you got the old horse part right, Dawg.'

Sam:  Let's talk about something else.

The waiter appears with menus - it seems the appetizer and salad are
pretty standard, while you have your choice for the main course.  Beth's
menu has no prices.  Sam leans over hers with her, showing absolutely no
concern for cost, and they choose what they will order.  Sam stays put
after the waiter leaves.

Sam:  The basement, Baby.  What's down there?

Beth is limp as a wet rag.  Her eyes feel huge in her face as she turns
them up to Sam.  For an endless minute, Sam leans his cheek lightly against
her hair.  She decides it's possible for her to die content.

Sam:  Tell me...tell your boy what's down there, now.

Beth:  Nothing, Sam.  He moved it all out.

Mistake number one, and they haven't even ordered the main course.  The
palm fronds shake furiously.  Beth is oblivious.  Sam says something to the
waiter.  He might just as well be speaking Swahili and ordering her fried
chunks of bowling pin.  Beth doesn't know and Beth doesn't care.  Sam's
lips brush her temple.

Sam:  Where'd he move it, Honey?

A breadroll comes through the fronds, high and hard, and bounces off the
back of Beth's head with an audible thud.  She jerks guiltily.

Beth:  Sam...I don't...I can't...

Sam is now close alongside her.  The palm fronds are now on the verge of 
rattling themselves to pieces.  Sam's arm is stretched along the back of
her chair and he runs his hand lightly up and down her upper arm.  The
fingers trace her jawline, linger in the short, soft hairs at the back of 
her neck.  Her heart has migrated northward, and now beats thickly in her
throat.

Sam:  Come on, Baby, let it all out.  You'll feel better.  Trust me?

Beth:  I'm not...he...Tommy Lee...

A hand shoots through the vegetation, grabs a handful of Beth's hip,
and twists.  Beth jumps again and yells, turning to reach through the
fronds and thump hell out of Billy's head.  But when Sam sweeps the thick
leaves aside the table is empty save for a thoroughly dissected breadroll.
Sam races through the kitchen, out and around the building, but Billy is
gone.  Sam rejoins her, redoubles his efforts to charm her, but Beth's
evening has changed.  And though her enjoyment of Sam becomes...intense,
in the back of her mind she wonders what Billy's up to.

TO BE CONTINUED...