A Farewell to Legs: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,4
a hand grab my upper arm, and turned.
Mark Friedman, looking every bit his age at 43, was smiling, tall, trim, and healthy-looking. I fought the urge the choke him.
“Hey, Tucker!” he yelled. “I saw you come in with the Goddess. How’d you manage that?”
“It’s nice to see you, too, Mark,” I attempted. “Are the other guys here?”
“I saw Wharton earlier,” he said. “He’s trying to get everybody to vote for him for something. But what about the Goddess? You banging her?”
“I’m married to a goddess,” I told him, “and it’s not Stephanie Jacobs. Before the parking lot five minutes ago, I hadn’t seen her in twenty years.”
“Could have fooled me, the way she was hanging onto your arm,” he said, doing his best to leer but coming up with a lopsided grin instead. Friedman could never really transcend his original image, that of a cute little boy. But he was constantly trying.
After showing off pictures of our respective children (they throw you out of the Father’s Union if you’re caught not carrying), Friedman and I caught up on professional accomplishments. His took longer than mine. He owned three carpet stores. I made a mental note to change professions.
We headed for the bar, where I got a Diet Coke (they never listen when you tell them to forget the lemon) and Friedman opted for a Chivas Regal with water on the side. I knew what I had paid for the Diet Coke, so, if Friedman could afford a Chivas at the cash bar, I figured there must be money in selling carpet in Central New Jersey.
The problem was, we weren’t making eye contact very much. And when we did, it was that kind of tentative, accidental eye contact that’s really just a way of finding out if the other guy is looking at you, or if he’s just checking out some woman he went on a date with 27 years ago.
“Where’d you say you saw Wharton?” I asked.
He looked relieved, pointed, and we walked across the room more or less together, waving at people we thought we recognized and avoiding the glances of people we were certain we recognized.
Halfway there, Stephanie grabbed my arm again. I thought Friedman was going to have a hemorrhage right then, and he found himself caught in one of those awkward situations where you don’t know if you should continue on the path you’ve begun or stop to ogle a woman’s cleavage. He was clearly leaning toward the latter, but I pushed him in Wharton’s direction and stayed to talk to Stephanie.
“You didn’t show me pictures of your children,” she said. “You have some, don’t you?”
“Two,” I admitted, reaching for the evidence. “Ethan is twelve, and Leah’s eight.”
She made the usual noises you make when you see someone else’s children. “So what do you do when you’re not solving murders?” she asked.
“I freelance.” Stephanie gave me the same confused look everybody gives me when I say that, and yet I persist. “Writing. Magazines and newspapers.” I actually pulled a business card out of my wallet and gave it to her.
“No kidding. My husband knows a lot of editors. Maybe he can help you get. . .”
Mahoney loomed up behind her. “Do you remember me yet?” he asked Stephanie. Clearly, the man was trying way too hard.
“I do. You drove me home once in the rain, didn’t you?” Damn, she was good. Mahoney’s grin got so wide I was afraid it would meet at the back of his head and his brain would fall out. While they were reliving this fascinating episode in their lives, I followed Friedman from the bar (where he’d replenished his Chivas) toward our resident politician.
Greg Wharton, New Jersey state assemblyman (and osteopath), brushed the forelock out of his eyes as we approached. Wharton was a little heavier than I remembered him, but then, I was a little heavier than I remembered me, too. His suit was nicely enough tailored that it was hard to tell exactly how much heavier he was than his early-30’s self, the last version of Wharton I had seen.
He smiled when he saw Friedman and me approaching, but as with all politicians or would-be politicians, it was hard to know if he meant it. I guess it doesn’t really matter. Wharton shook my hand heartily, as if he were campaigning outside a Stop & Shop and had just asked for my support.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Stephanie Jacobs talking to Mahoney, but she was