Sweet Anger(23)

Pinkie padded to the front door. He stood only in his socks, one of which had a hole in the big toe. His shirttail had long since been pulled from his waistband. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his lip. He held a glass of Scotch in his hand.

He swung open the door and for a long moment stared at the man on the other side of the threshold. At last he said, “I’ll say this for you. You’ve got guts.”

“May I come in?”

“This isn’t my house.”

“May I come in anyway?”

Pinkie fortified himself with another sip of Scotch, all the time assessing Hunter McKee. Maybe it was the bouquet of yellow roses he was holding. Or maybe it was the unmistakable signs of fatigue ringing his eyes, or the haggardness deepening the vertical laugh lines on either side of his mouth. But for whatever reason, Pinkie experienced a rare twinge of sentimentality. He felt sorry for the poor bastard. He stood aside and permitted Hunter to enter Kari’s living room.

“How is she?” Hunter asked, turning around and cutting through the preliminaries.

“She’s not so hot right now, but she’ll be fine. The doctor instructed her to stay in bed for two weeks at home or it’ll be a month in the hospital.”

Hunter’s hard swallow was visible. “Is she that ill?”

“Exhaustion, both mental and physical fatigue, anemia, hypoglycemia.”

Without invitation Hunter dropped into a chair and remorsefully stared at the floor between his feet. It was a long while before he raised his head and said, “I had no way of knowing about the … illness. I swear I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

This morning Pinkie had wanted to murder the man. Tonight? The hell of it was, he believed McKee. He might be a demon in the courtroom, but he hadn’t deliberately set out to hurt Kari. Still, Pinkie’s first loyalty was to her, and he wasn’t going to let the man off easy. “Drink?”

Hunter paused momentarily before giving Pinkie a lopsided grin. “Please.” Gingerly he laid the bouquet of yellow roses on the coffee table and unbuttoned his sport coat.

Pinkie splashed a double shot of Scotch without ice, water, or soda into a glass and extended it to Hunter. He tossed it down in one swallow. Little did he know how that escalated him in Pinkie’s opinion. The newsman never could abide a man who drank like a gentleman.

“Are you … uh … staying here with her?” Hunter twirled the empty glass in his hand.

Pinkie wasn’t fooled by the seeming indifference behind the question. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the man was jealous. Hell. The man was jealous.

This time he brought the bottle to Hunter, tipped it toward his glass, and poured him another drink. “No, I’m not staying here with her. Bonnie and I came by after work to check on her, bring her some supper.”

“Is Bonnie your wife?” Hunter asked hopefully.

Pinkie sputtered and choked on his drink. “God forbid. She works down at WBTV; hangs out with us sometimes. Kari likes and trusts her. She’s with her now, helping her get ready for the night.”

“I see.” He was distinctly uncomfortable. All afternoon he had weighed the decision whether he should come to see her or not. He’d finally talked himself into it, but he wasn’t certain it was the proper thing to do. He had caused her collapse. But even if he were innocent of that, what had happened after she fainted was definitely his fault and she wasn’t going to miraculously forget it.

And her friend or watchdog or whatever the hell this Pinkie Lewis was to her was scrutinizing him like a bug under a bell jar. He felt like a kid on his first date who was having to meet the girl’s father alone in the formal parlor.

Feeling a need to justify himself, he said, “How could I have known about her baby?” The thought of her losing her child made him sick to his stomach. “Why didn’t she call and tell me she couldn’t come to court? I would have understood and excused her from testifying.”

“Would you?”

“Look, Mr. Lewis, I know what you must think of me, but—”

“Call me Pinkie. I can’t stand that Mr. Lewis crap.”

Behind his eyeglasses, Hunter blinked. He liked this man’s honest and abrupt approach. One never had to guess where one stood with him. “All right, Pinkie. You’re obviously very close to Kari … to Ms. Stewart.”

“Very.”

“So, tell me, why wasn’t I informed that she was ill? Why did she force me to put her on that witness stand?”

Pinkie sighed. “We tried. Bonnie and I offered to call you and explain the circumstances.” He pointed toward the hallway that led to the bedroom. “That girl is as stubborn as a mule. She must think she’s Superwoman. She wouldn’t hear of having herself excused.”