Shakespeares Champion Page 0,32

man who'd come down the apartment building stairs the day Marie died, Howell's mysterious friend.

He was as duded up as I was. He was wearing a suit with a vest, a navy-blue pinstripe. Instead of Nikes, he was shod in gleaming wing tips. His shirt was white and his tie was a conservative navy, green, and gold stripe. The black ponytail and the puckered scar contrasted oddly with the banker's costume.

As I located him, he turned his head to look at me. Our eyes met. I looked forward again. What was he doing here? Was he some long-lost army buddy of Howell's? Was he Howell's bodyguard? Why would Howell Winthrop need a bodyguard?

When the interminable service was over, I left the church as quickly as I could. I refused to look around me. I climbed back into my car and went home to change and go to work. Even for Marie, I wasn't going out to the cemetery.

When I went in to Body Time the next morning, Darcy Orchard greeted me with, "Is is true you're working for a nigger?"

"What?" I realized I hadn't heard that word in years. I hadn't missed it.

"You working for that gal rented the house on Sycamore?"

"Yes."

"She's gotta be half black, Lily."

"OK."

"What's she doing here in Shakespeare, she told you?"

"No."

"Lily, it's not my business, but it don't look right, a white woman cleaning for a black."

"You're right. It's none of your business."

"I'll say this for you, Lily," Darcy said slowly. "You know how to keep your mouth shut."

I turned to stare at Darcy. I'd been doing lat pull-downs, and I didn't rise, just swiveled on the narrow seat. I looked at him thoroughly, from magnificent physique to acne-marked cheeks, and I looked beyond him at his shadow, Jim Box, a darker, leaner version of Darcy.

"Yes," I said finally. "I do."

I wondered what Darcy's reaction would be if I told him that the last time I'd cleaned at Mookie Preston's house, I'd found a rifle under her bed, along with a bundle of targets. Nearly every target was neatly drilled through the middle.

The next day I stayed at Body Time longer than I usually do. I keep Wednesday mornings open for cleaning emergencies, and the only thing I had scheduled was my semiannual turnout of Beanie Winthrop's walk-in closet.

Bobo was working that morning, and once again he seemed depressed. Jim and Darcy were attacking triceps work with determination. They both gave me curt hellos before diving back into their schedule. I nodded back as I stretched.

Jerri Sizemore fluttered her fingers at me. I decided it must be the effect of my new outfit. I'd unbent enough to buy a pair of calf-length blue spandex workout pants and matching sports bra, but I'd mitigated the bare effect by pulling on an old cutoff T-shirt.

I finished my regular routine and decided to try some chin-ups, just to see if I could. I'd turned to face the wall instead of the room, because the T-shirt came up when I raised my arms, exposing a stretch of scarred ribs. I'd pulled over a stool to help me grip the high bar initially, but after that I'd shoved it away with a dangling foot so I wouldn't be tempted to cheat.

The first chin-up went fairly well, and the second and third. I watched myself in the mirror on the wall, noticing with irritation that the T-shirt certainly did expose a lot of skin. I should never have listened to Bobo's flattery.

By the fourth rep, I wouldn't have cared if the shirt fell off, I was in so much pain. But I'd promised myself I'd do at least seven. I shut my eyes to concentrate. I whined out loud when I'd achieved the fifth, and dangled from the bar, despairing of finishing my set. I was taken by surprise when big hands gripped me at the hipbones and pushed up, providing just enough boost to enable me to finish the sixth chin-up. I lowered myself, growled, "One more," and began to pull up again. The hands gave a trifle more boost, enabling me to accomplish the seventh.

"Done," I said wearily. "Thanks, Bobo." The big hands began lowering me to the stool he'd shoved back into position.

"You're welcome," said a voice that wasn't Bobo's. After a moment, his hands fell away, leaving an impression of heat on my stomach and hips.

I pivoted on the stool. My spotter had been the black-haired man. He was wearing a chopped-off gray sweatshirt and red sweatpants. He