DANCING WITH THE ICE LADY. Ken Salter

a good idea to date clients. Things tend to get sticky real fast. Instead of cancelling, I rationalized that it would be good for both of us to get our minds off recent troubles.

      My plan for our evening was simple: enjoy a nice relaxed dinner so we could get to know each other better, then head off to a club in Emeryville where we could dance our asses off and burn off our dinner. I planned to take Sharon back to her apartment, share a friendly kiss at her door and get to bed at a reasonable hour to be ready for a hectic day tomorrow. I had thought of everything for a nice, uncomplicated evening except for what Sharon Miller wanted.

      She greeted me with a big, freckled smile. She was dressed in a sexy, form-fitting, green satin cocktail dress with a scoop-neck bodice and a hem that stopped four inches above her knees. I’d only seen her in jeans and long-sleeved shirts and had no idea until now how physically attractive she was. She’d tamed her mop of carrot-red hair with gold barrettes and wore matching hoop earrings. She let me know she could change her high heels for dancing shoes she’d stuffed in her oversize bag once we got to the club. The lady was dressed to party.

      I took her to dinner at a local, mellow seafood restaurant on the Berkeley Marina that caters to a mixed-race crowd. I was reluctant to take her to one of the soul food restaurants I prefer because it could be tricky on a first date with a white lady. Sharon had spent most of her life in a small, conservative, white farming community in the Central Valley. I wasn’t sure how comfortable she’d be if we dined on unfamiliar food in a restaurant where she’d probably be the only white person. Once I saw how she’d dressed, there was no way I’d take her to her to dine in a black restaurant.

      She might cause a riot.

      Sharon took my mind of Gloria Simmons right away. She was real excited to be out on a date after all she’d been through. She was real easy to talk to and we really enjoyed each other’s company.

      We lingered over our meal to the annoyance of our waiter. Before either of us realized it, we’d sipped through two bottles of Charles Mondavi Chardonnay wine. Sharon’s deep hazel eyes kept changing color from brownish to greenish hues as they reflected complex emotions. We talked comfortably about our very different lives growing up. Sharon told me about getting pregnant and dropping out of college to support her husband and the kid. He’d been her high school sweetheart and she’d never slept with anyone before or after she’d married him. She felt betrayed by him; he’d dumped her after ten years so he could start his career with a younger woman.

      By the time I paid the bill as the restaurant was closing, we were both a little drunk and in a festive mood. As we made our way to my 1968 Chevy Impala, she slipped her hand in mine and squeezed and I did the same.

      Before I could engage the ignition, Sharon was all over me. I’m not used to women I date making the moves, but there was no guile on her part. Her husband hadn’t touched her in nine months and she was hungry for a man’s touch.

      She kissed me with fervor and we explored and probed with our tongues. I slid the palm of my hand slowly across the soft satin fabric molding her breasts. She shivered. Her nipples hardened and stretched to meet my fingertips through her dress as my fingers softly traced their outline through the fabric.

      She moaned softly as I moved my fingers slowly inside the bodice of her dress and under her pushup bra. I carefully slipped the dress straps over her shoulders and released her breasts from their restraint. Her moans grew more urgent when I let my fingers move tenderly down her torso to explore her soft but mature body molding her dress. When I reached her thighs, I increased the pressure and moved slowly back up to her breasts. As I reached the swell of her breasts, she arched her back to meet my hand. Her body trembled with anticipation as I gently tugged her erect nipples one by one.

      She moaned deeply as she helped me unfasten her bra and slip her dress down to her waist. Sharon’s nipples were superb. They were the most erotic and sensitive I’ve ever touched. They were hard, thick and nearly an inch long when fully erect. I couldn’t get enough of either one. They were so responsive that when I stroked one, Sharon guided my hand to her other nipple. Playing doctor as a kid with my female cousins hadn’t prepared me adequately for the joys Sharon provided.

      We both got pretty steamed up. It had been a long time since I made love in the back seat of an automobile, but that’s what we did. We were a couple of happy campers. What a jerk she married not to appreciate how exciting his wife could be once she was turned on. He had an uncut diamond in the rough in his bed for ten years and didn’t know it for diddly. Sharon wasted ten years of her life and her college years with a dumb clown who couldn’t appreciate her intelligence, kind heart, openness and simmering sexuality. She was so grateful for some good loving that she was crying tears of joy when I finally dropped her back at her apartment in the wee hours of the morning.

      I’d flubbed my chance to get a fresh start in the morning, but who cared other than perhaps Nate. Sharon’s celebration was a once in a lifetime event for us both.

      Chapter 5

      I WOKE UP WITH A HEADACHE AND MILD HANGOVER. NOT the ideal way to start the day, but the memory of last night’s frolic in the back seat of my Impala was worth the price and more. After showering and loading up on strong coffee, toasted bagels slathered with butter and heaped with jam, I sat down to read the mortuary’s active litigation file.

      The complaint alleged negligent handling of a corpse. It claimed the Simmons Family Mortuary failed in a timely way to ship the body of a fifty-six year-old man named Johnnie Carpenter to Atlanta, Georgia where his relatives awaited its arrival for burial; they’d shipped it to Las Vegas, Nevada instead.

      Mr. Carpenter’s wife and daughter claimed the body had been shipped to the Lone Pine Mortuary in Las Vegas where it had been “improperly and negligently maintained so as to accelerate the decomposition of Mr. Carpenter’s remains.” They further alleged that the six-day delay to send their loved one to Atlanta, with no embalming, deprived the plaintiffs and their relatives the opportunity to bury the decedent in an open casket and delayed the funeral and burial. They contended that the sight and smell of their loved one in such a deplorable condition caused them “extreme emotional grief that should be compensated in an amount in excess of Twenty-Five Thousand Dollars.”

      The mortuary answered the complaint by denying “each and every allegation.” The mortuary was represented by the local Oakland law firm of Bronson and Bronson, a father and son team. Willard Bronson had served as Judge of the Superior Court, but had to resign his judgeship and return to private practice. There had been allegations of sweetheart investment deals with litigants and unprofessional leaks of information, He’d been pressured by members of the local bar to resign quietly and let the dirty business molder under the rug. It was either that or a grand jury investigation and complaint to the state bar association which could result in disbarment. Judge Bronson had served his stint on the bench long enough to solidify his social standing with the movers and shakers in the African-American community and pave the way for him and his son to mount a very lucrative law practice.

      Royce Bronson was a suave ladies’ man and cool cat who frequented the local late night club scene. He was the type of attorney I thought Gloria Simmons would choose to handle her business. I’d seen Royce on many occasions around the courthouse. He was tall, dark and handsome and knew it.

      I made a note to check out both Bronsons with my legal contacts. To my knowledge, Nate had never had any dealings with either the father or son. I hoped to get some feedback on whether the complaint against the mortuary was merely a nuisance suit designed to get a quick insurance settlement or really had some merit that warranted compensation.

      The complaint had been filed by a big-name San Francisco law firm. They wouldn’t give me the time of day. But if Jeff Banes could track the adjuster handling the claim, I might get an inside look at the claim records through Jeff’s good offices. Insurance pros will share info on a tit-for-tat basis.

      It was time to visit the mortuary. As I weaved through the afternoon traffic, I pondered whether Oakland would