Or legs. She wore a red leather mini with silver tights underneath. The legs were long and sleek and flashed like blades of giant scissors. The suntanned face was set in a screw-you mode. As she clacked closer along the corridor the waves of attorneys, clerks, and witnesses parted in front of her. “Mr. Lassiter!” It sounded like an indictment. I turned to face her. “Mrs. Blinderman.” She stood close enough to give me a cold, but this time there was no friction of body parts. She cocked a hip and jabbed a finger at me. “How would you like to be sued for slander? Or would you prefer I just report you to the bar association?” “Is there a third choice?” I asked. “Maybe a week in Philadelphia?” She jammed the local section of the morning paper under my nose. “You read this bullshit?” I allowed as how the Journal was part of my morning ritual, right along with fresh mangoes and one-arm push-ups.
