Free Bannerman's Law by John R. Maxim Page A

had always been a loner. They'd assigned him a job as a bartender at Mario's so he could get used to being around people. It had seemed like a good idea; he made a lot of friends. But the n he had to be taught that just because you make friends, and you find out that your new friends have enemies, like divorce lawyers and such, who are treating them badly, you don't go out and solve their problems for them. Billy had solved eleven problems before Molly began to notice that the local suicide and accidental death rates were climbing well out of proportion to the population.
    Car l a hadn't done anything like that. But, once, she caught a young thief trying to steal her car radio and she did things to him that Dracula wouldn't do. Left his screwdriver sticking out his colon. Paul had to explain to her that, while he did not object in principle to the defense of her property, he was concerned that such total devastation of a burly male by a very small woman might attract undue attention.
    And then, last year, there was that mission to Spain. To Marbella. Carla had done her job. Neutralizing a team of shooters who had ambushed Elena Brugg' s car and killed Doc Russo. No arguing that. But the way she'd done it, carving up that Englishman, taking her time, had even made Billy McHugh wince. Not that anyone should have been surprised. She and Doc Russo had been close. But afterward, she had withdrawn from the rest of them more than ever. And they, in turn, avoided her as if she were a live grenade. It was months, after Marbella, before any of them asked her to dinner, or to play bridge, or take in a movie. Even Paul thought it best to give her time, leave her alone. And that was wrong. It wasn't what she needed at all.
    ”I trust you ,” Molly said, pulling into the driveway of the hotel's main building. She took Carla's hand. “ And I care about you. I know that's not everything you want to hear but . . .”
    “ Never mind ,” Ca rl a shook her had. “ It's okay .”
    Molly tried again. “ Maybe we're overdue for a talk .”
    “ About what ?”
    ”I don't know. Things. Nothing serious. Isn't that how people get to know each other ?”
    ” I guess .”
    “ We'll order up some wine. We'll talk until we fall asleep .”
    No answer.
    Molly tugged at her. “ Want to try something? Let's pretend we're fourteen again. At a paja m a party .”
    Carla rolled her eyes. “ Give me a break .”
    “ We'll call out for a pizza. Or some Roy Rogers chicken .”
    Carla chewed her lip. “ Could we . . .”
    “ Whatever you'd like. What ?”
    “ Could we ... stay in the same room ?” Carla's voice became small. “ Just for tonight. I 'l l take the floor if you want .”
    Molly squeezed her hand. Then, the doorman ap proaching, Carla withdrew it. A little schmoozing was one thing, she thought. Looking like a couple of dikes to this putz was another.
     
    That same evening, Monday, marked the passage of twelve long weeks since Barbara Weinberg came to Sur La Mer as Bonnie St r eicher. And one week since the night when Nellie Dameon spoke to her.
    The three months had been a time of study, of surgical procedures on her face and body, and of boredom. For several hours each day, she and Axel . . . Alan . . . attended classes, listened to tapes, watched films, learned to be Jewish.
    Soon, during the fourth month if all went well, they would emerge as Barbara and Alan Weinberg. Their features, their patterns of speech, would be vaguely Jewish. There had also been a two -w eek attempt to alter Alan's accent, make it a bit less German, more continental, like he r own. But he had lapsed almost immediately. The ac cent was not terribly pronounced in any case.
    They would not be religious Jews.
    To be religious, to be active in their faith, might have required additional months of training. It would be enough that they could pass as people who had lived their lives on the edge of Jewish culture and tradition.
    It was Ca r leton Dunville, the