She did, but she missed his b.a.l.l.s. Annoyed, she pivoted and smashed his kneecap. The instructor cackled.

"Now, this time, you're going to go for the b.a.l.l.s with your hands. Like this." The instructor held Ralph in one hand, demonstrating slowly with the other. "Slap! Grab! Squeeze! Pull! Got that? Watch it again. Slap! Grab! Squeeze! Pull! Say it with me. Slap! Grab! Squeeze! Pull! Now again, faster, louder. SLAP! GRAB! SQUEEZE! PULL!"

Jessie felt perspiration soaking the armpits and back of her t-shirt and starting to dampen the crotch of her jeans She wished that Ralph really had b.a.l.l.s to grab, so she would know for sure she had hit them. The instructor told them that Ralph had originally been anatomically correct, but his b.a.l.l.s had long since been lost in the stuffing. Jessie was annoyed that no one had bothered to replace them.

Shortly after noon, they broke for lunch. There was a courtyard behind the small building, nothing more than three picnic tables and a tree. Jessie had promised Karen that she would take care of lunch-chicken salad, bread, cheese, pears, mineral water. The woman with biceps, Sarah, and her pillow-punching partner Rita, a young black woman with hair in cornrows and a lean, gymnast's body, sat at the same table. They had each brought a sandwich and bought a soda from a battered machine near the door.

Jessie had barely taken a bite of her lunch when Sarah plunged into the story of the attack that had brought her to the cla.s.s.

"I kept screaming and flailing at him as he banged my head against the sidewalk," Sarah was saying as the instructor joined them, pulling an apple and mineral water out of a paper bag. "And-I'm really sorry to say this, Rita-but for weeks afterward I couldn't look at a black man, any black man, without wanting to cry, or scream, or run, or something, I didn't know what."

Rita shrugged. "I know a few black men I'd run away from. You were lucky he didn't have a knife."

"I know a few white men I'd run from," Karen said, smiling at them.

Jessie looked at the bit of mayonnaise-smeared chicken on her plastic fork. She didn't understand how Karen could wolf chicken salad and nod sympathetically at the same time.

"Yeah, I know." Sarah's voice was flat. "But if it happens again, I'll be ready for him, knife or no knife."

"I'm sure it won't happen again," Karen said. "Why should it?"

Sarah smiled a little lopsidedly at her. "Why should it happen the first time?"

"n.o.body can promise it won't happen again, you know that," the instructor said. She was short and heavy, as if she normally ate more than an apple for lunch. She had strong features and might have been attractive if she had wanted to be. But n.o.body looked attractive in a self-defense cla.s.s.

"All I can promise is that you will be more cautious and you'll be better equipped, if somebody tries it again," she continued. "Although you might want to think twice about fighting if he has a knife. You'd have to use your own judgment."

"Yeah, that's what I tell my boyfriend, I gotta use my own judgment," Rita said. "He didn't want me to take this cla.s.s, but I told him I gotta learn to protect myself. He didn't think I could learn much in one day. Well, he sure has a surprise coming!"

The instructor shook her head. "Don't do it. Women leave this cla.s.s, and they go home, and there's a man waiting for them. And he says, 'What did you learn?' And she says, 'I learned to protect myself.' He says, 'Sure you did. Prove it. Protect yourself against me.' And he goes for her. And she doesn't want to hurt him. So she can't hit him, she can't break his hold, she can't throw him. She can't hurt someone she loves, so she thinks she can't hurt someone who threatens her. And her power is lost all over again. So don't do it. Practice with each other, take another cla.s.s, but just tell the man you love that you had a good time today."

"Suppose I wanted to take another cla.s.s. Where would I go?" Jessie asked.

"There's a place on the Westside, run by women. I'll give you their card when we go back in. Most martial arts places are run by men, and they're pretty condescending toward women who come in."

"Thanks," Jessie said. "I'd like the card."

"Really?" Karen was surprised.

"Yeah, really."

"But after that whole thing with Greg, after you broke up and he-because he-" Karen stopped as Jessie stared at her.

"So?"

"I just have trouble seeing you into violence."

"I'm not into violence. I'm into protecting myself from violence." Even as she said it, Jessie remembered the rush she felt when her foot had connected with the dummy's kneecap. She wanted that rush again.

Karen looked away. Sarah nodded.

After lunch there were chokeholds and bear hugs to break. They learned how to throw a man who pinned them down. Jessie was pleased when Karen threw her. Karen laughed and wanted to do it again.

The cla.s.s ended at four. The women hugged each other and wished each other well before they dispersed.

Jessie's muscles had started to stiffen by the time they reached Karen's house. She had pulled over on the way, to put the top up on her convertible. The slight breeze made her shiver as her sweat dried, even though the sun was still warm.

When they reached the house, Karen invited Jessie in for a drink.

"Jesus, you both stink," Wayne, Karen's husband, said in welcome. "Sit down, and I'll get you some wine."

Jessie and Karen slumped in their chairs.

"So what did you learn?" Wayne asked, handing them their gla.s.ses.

"Oh, G.o.d, it was great. Thanks," Karen said, taking a sip of her wine. "We learned so much. Where to hit, how to hit, how to get away, how to throw somebody who pins you down."

"What?"

"We had a good time," Jessie said.

"No, come on. How to throw somebody who pins you down? Come on, Karen. If I pinned you down, you couldn't throw me. You just aren't strong enough."

"Yes. Yes, I could. I could throw you. I could use my strength against your weakness and throw you."

"Try it," Wayne said, setting down his gla.s.s.

"Wayne, forget it, we had a good time," Jessie told him.

"No. Put your gla.s.s down, Karen."

"Sure. Okay."

Karen lay down on the floor, and Wayne sat on her, pinning her wrists. They were still for a moment, and then Karen started straining. She struggled with her hand, kicked out with her feet.

"I don't remember," she finally said. "I don't remember how to do it."

"Yeah. I didn't think so." Wayne got to his feet and winked at Jessie.

"Pin me down," Jessie said softly.

Wayne shrugged. "Okay. If you want."

Wayne sat on her easily, holding her wrists tightly, but still smiling.

Jessie lifted her knees, thrust with her pelvis, and stuck her left wrist out. Wayne was suddenly on his back.

He lay there stunned for an instant.

"Let's try that again," he said as he got up.

This time Jessie could feel the tension in his thigh muscles as he braced himself, and he pulled her shoulders as he stretched her arms out. Her wrists hurt from his grip. His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened as he looked down at her. She thrust with her pelvis. And she threw him.

"I guess you did learn something, Jessie, didn't you?" His mouth smiled again.

"I guess I did."

"Excuse me a moment."

Wayne walked down the hall toward the bathroom.

Jessie looked at her untouched wine. "Well. I guess I'd better go now. Thanks for the drink."

Karen walked her to the door.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay?"

"I really need to get home." Jessie said it politely. She didn't want to hurt Karen.

"Oh. Sure. I'm tired, too. I'm-maybe we ought to practice on each other sometime."

"Yeah. That's a good idea. Let's do that."

"Jessie?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too."

Jessie had a muddled sense that they were sorry for the wrong things.

Karen reached out and hugged her tightly. Jessie hugged back the best that she could.

"Do you want to call me about the martial arts cla.s.ses?" Karen asked. "Maybe I could go with you."

"Sure. Of course I'll call you."

Jessie separated herself carefully. She turned back and waved good-bye as she reached her car.

She had intended to go straight home, but the more she thought about the way Karen had lost her power, had become compliant, and the more she thought about how good it had felt to throw Wayne, the more she felt there was a stop she needed to make first.

And really, Greg's apartment wasn't that far out of the way.

She could feel her heart beating, her blood pounding, as she parked the car in front of his building, as she walked up the stairs to his apartment.

"Jessie!" he exclaimed, startled, when he opened the door to see her there. He was in his bathrobe, towel around his neck, hair still damp from the shower. "Listen, this isn't a good time to talk."

"I didn't exactly come to talk," she said softly. "I came to say NO!"

He wasn't expecting it, of course, and that was in her favor. And he was naked under his robe.

Still, Jessie was surprised at how easily she found them with her left hand. Slap! Grab! Squeeze! Pull!

Her right hand became a fist that connected squarely with his nose.

Greg crumpled so easily, barely making a sound, just a whimper as she let go and he belatedly moved to protect himself, curling into a fetal position in the doorway. His face was stark white, bloodless from the shock.

One of his legs had come out from under the bathrobe as he twitched on the floor, and Jessie considered stomping the exposed kneecap. She shook her head. Not this time.

She walked back down the stairs to her car, right hand aching from the force of the blow to his face.

Greg wouldn't leave it there, she knew that. He'd come after her, worse than the last time. But when he came for her, she would be ready. A knife? No, a gun would be better. More certain.

It was a matter of self-defense.

Defrauding the Cat

A Faith Ca.s.sidy Mystery

This story was Faith Ca.s.sidy's first appearance in print. I had written several stories about Los Angeles, with the thought that sometime I would turn them into a book, following the lives of three interconnected women. None of the stories were published in their original forms. But when I received an invitation to contribute a story to an anthology about cats and Hollywood, I had to have a protagonist who wasn't Freddie O'Neal. Freddie and Hollywood just couldn't get together. So I called on Faith Ca.s.sidy, the actress turned therapist. Here is her first adventure as an amateur sleuth.

"Tell me again. What were you doing with twenty-five thousand dollars in your checking account?" Faith started to lean on the round white table, which rocked just enough to slosh cappuccino into her saucer. She stuck her napkin under the cup and crossed her arms instead.

Sitting in the open area at the Farmers Market always sounded better than it seemed once she got there, particularly in June, when the low cloud cover that marked the beginning of summer in Los Angeles cast a pale gray light on what would otherwise be stalls of brightly colored fruits and vegetables. The tables next to the food stands were surprisingly full, considering the lack of sun. Fluorescent t-shirts saying I SURVIVED THE 6.8 marked the tourists. The native Southern Californians all wore multiple earrings and looked hung over.

"Elizabeth's contract. For the commercial. The money was only supposed to be in the checking account temporarily."

"Right."

"And it wasn't taken. The bank was worried about the amount of the check, so when the commodities firm called them to make certain it was good, they called to make sure I had written it, which of course I hadn't. So they didn't pay it. The money is still there." Michael had been holding his cup until he was certain the table was through rocking. He placed it carefully in the pristine saucer.

"Does it ever bother you to live off Elizabeth like this? You've let your practice go to h.e.l.l."

"My practice hasn't gone to h.e.l.l. My clients were all cured. The two I still have only see me once a week out of habit, because they like to talk to me. I'd end the dependency, but they're both so entertaining that I'd miss them. And of course it doesn't bother me to live off Elizabeth. After all, I paid six hundred dollars for her. She wasn't even two months old, and I knew she was going to be a star."

"Michael, she was a kitten. How could you know she was going to grow up with an att.i.tude?"

"Because she was my kitten, Fay. She was therefore going to d.a.m.n well have my att.i.tude."

"Faith. How many times do I have to tell you-I don't want to be called Fay anymore." She started to lean on the table again, but remembered in time. "I want to be called Faith. It's not such a great leap, from Fay to Faith. It's not as if I wanted to be called Hope or Charity or anything like that."