Due Justice

Chapter 6

Polite cheers greeted Grover’s comments, too.

An uncomfortable battle was joined. The atmosphere hung now with hostility. I searched for George and spied him across the wide ballroom, willing him to look my way until he did.

Warwick punched below the belt in reply. “I suppose you’re handling those seven-hundred lawsuits pro bono?”

George assessed the situation at once; reached us in half a second; spirited Grover and his date away.

Crisis averted.

Red meat off the table; the swarm dispersed like magic.

Now what?

What I wanted to do was find Carly. Not an option. George would kill me if I left now. The second best option could be here in the room if Dr. Morgan had checked in. How to find out without making a fool of myself was the next issue. Maybe the solution was to ask a fool?

Tampa’s not Savannah, but it’s a southern town and we have our share of eccentric characters, many of whom were present and accounted for.

The medical community was prominently represented tonight. AIDS was their issue, after all. Several Tampa physicians and their spouses were in attendance. I saw Dr. Marilee Aymes, for many years the area’s leading cardiologist and still the only woman cardiologist in town, standing alone near the entrance. A few moments later, her most recent escort approached her with a champagne glass in each hand. Marilee qualifies as eccentric, but she’s certainly no fool.

Speculation around town is that Dr. Aymes is a lesbian and she brings virile young male escorts to all the social events to convince people otherwise. The evidence typically cited in support of this theory includes her extremely short haircut and brassy manner.

Tampa women are not abrasive, at least the socially successful ones aren’t.

Dr. Aymes’s graduation from medical school in 1960, when she was the only woman in her class, must have meant she was a little odd. That she wears a tuxedo to black tie affairs fuels the rumors.

Besides that, everyone will tell you, she smokes cigars, as if that clinches it. Tampa has never been on the crest of the fashion wave. Smoking cigars here is still something the men retire to after dinner with their port, while the ladies socialize. Oh, the tourists smoke cigars, and you can find trendy cigar bars in Ybor City open until the wee hours. But ladies?  My dear, it just isn’t done.

I saw Grover and Fred Johnson, Grover’s partner, himself another prominent plaintiff’s attorney here in town, deep in conversation with Dr. Carolyn Young. I certainly didn’t want to get involved there, so I joined Dr. Aymes.

She ignored her escort; he looked like he’d stepped into the room from a Chippendales calendar.

“I wonder how much of her body is real?” Marilee said, pointing her unlit cigar toward Dr. Young. “I’ve heard she’s actually sixty-five years old.”

Dr. Young looked thirty-five, if that.

“You laugh. From here, I can tell those breast implants are at least five years old, the nose has been done more than once, and there’ve been some collagen injections around the mouth recently. Botox too, probably. Just think what I’d discover if I had my glasses on and was close enough to actually see her.”  She puffed on her stogie like George Burns while she talked.

“Marilee, you can’t possibly tell all that from thirty feet away, can you?”  I asked her, wiping mirthful tears from my eyes.

“Those breasts look like cereal bowls sitting on a flat board. That’s what happens when implants get hard. As for the nose, you can see how small it is compared to the rest of her face. There’s no way she was born with that nose. In fact, if you give me a minute, I can probably name the surgeon. It looks like a signature nose to me.”

Covered my mouth, trying not to make a spectacle of myself by guffawing. But I couldn’t help it. I could barely get the words out, but had to ask. “The collagen injections?”

“She probably had them done last week. Look how plump the lines are between her nose and her mouth. And when she’s laughing, there’s not a sign of crows’ feet. Probably injected there, too.”

She was precious. Tears streamed down my cheeks now, my carefully applied makeup a thing of the past. “Couldn’t she be young? A natural beauty?”

Dr. Aymes snorted. “She could be. But she’s not. How old do you think she is?”

My voice squeaked. “Thirty-five?”

“Try fifty-seven. Look it up. Date of med school graduation is a matter of public record.”

Dr. Aymes took another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. At this rate, she’d be more drunk than Victoria Warwick, but I was pretty sure she’d be more fun, too, if we could change the subject.