Key Witness Read Online Free PDF Page A

cruising by in his Mercedes doesn’t hit on you for a quickie.”
    “What model Mercedes?” Paula had answered, deadpan.
    Paula was proud of her flowering tush; men followed behinds like hers. Right into her bed, she hoped—but only if he was the right man.
    The trouble was, as they all knew from experience, you couldn’t know if he was the right man or not until long after that, and by then, when you found out he wasn’t, it was too late.
    Just then a man approached their table. He looked them over, then leaned down to Violet, whose dress, moist with sweat, was clinging to her voluptuous figure. “Can I have this dance?” he asked politely.
    Startled, she looked up at him. He was rail thin, looking like someone whose forever-heroes were James Dean and Jerry Lee Lewis: hair greased in a fifties-style pompadour, sideburns halfway down his cheeks, short-sleeved western shirt, jeans, cowboy boots. Interesting-looking in a way, like a scorpion is interesting: deadly—you don’t get near someone like this.
    “Thanks, but I’m taking a break,” she told him, politely but distantly.
    “You sure?” There was a cockiness in his voice. He was devouring her body with his eyes. She was used to that.
    Firmly: “Yes, I’m sure.”
    He took a step back, as if the rebuff had been unexpected. Then he smiled at her. His teeth were long and canine, like a wild dog’s.
    “Maybe later,” he said, his voice holding out hope, while at the same time mocking her.
    She looked away. This man had no attraction for her.
    His smile faded. He stood there, hovering over her one more moment to be sure, then walked away and was swallowed up in the crowd.
    “You blew it, girl,” Paula teased her.
    “Yeah, my dumb luck,” Violet answered.
    “That guy was creepy,” Peggy said.
    Violet nodded her agreement. Being held by a man like that, even for three minutes out on a dance floor, was not in her plans.
    The song ended with a crescendo of drum brush. “We’re gonna take a break!” the singer announced over the cacophony of voices. “Won’t be long, so don’t y’all be leaving, hear?” A flourish of drumroll. “We shall return!”
    Violet felt a sudden moistness between her legs. “Damn!”
    “What is it?” Peggy asked.
    “I’m getting my period. Son of a gun!”
    Peggy and Paula moaned in sympathetic unison.
    “I don’t have anything on me,” Peggy said, rummaging in her purse.
    “Me, neither,” Paula echoed. “They’ve got a dispenser in the ladies’ room.”
    “I’ve got my own tampons in the trunk of my car,” Violet said. “I’ll be right back.”
    She checked her dress as she walked toward the exit. The flow had just started—the dancing had brought it on prematurely; She could feel that her underpants were wet, but it hadn’t soaked through to the dress, thank God. She could put in a tampon in the ladies’ room, discard her panties, and everything would be fine. The heaviness of her flow wouldn’t start until tomorrow.
    As she approached her car, which was parked at the far edge of the lot, she saw a man standing near it, looking in the side window as if he was checking to see whether or not it was locked. A young man, tall. Black. He had a strong, athletic, sexy body, and he was handsome, almost beautiful. He looked to be a teenager, she could tell that from a distance, but definitely a man—the kind of young inner-city man, particularly minority men, who are men by the time they’re twelve.
    He wasn’t aware that she was approaching. He took a step toward her car.
    “Hey!” she called out. “That’s my car. What are you doing?”
    He turned and looked at her, his face devoid of intention.
    She ran toward the car. Be careful, she thought, he could be dangerous—but she wasn’t about to watch some street punk break into her car.
    “Get away from there!” she yelled at him.
    He stepped back.
    Eyes stared into eyes. His were dead eyes, eyes that masked feeling. She felt a shiver as he looked