by John B. Rosenman

"Mr. Turner?" Larson prompted.

Turner unstuck his lips. "I . . . I don't know."

Larson's eyes hardened, seemed to focus on him again. "But you'd agree, wouldn't you, that any man who hurts a woman is basically a coward? A bully who doesn't have the balls to pick on someone his own size?"

Suddenly Turner decided he'd had enough. This was, after all, his house, and Barbara was his wife, a woman whom he'd supported mighty well, thank you, for eighteen years. And he'd done it despite her stupid, annoying habits of clipping coupons from newspapers and magazines even though he was rich, and interrupting him constantly at home when he was working. Now, on top of everything else, she had betrayed him. Imagine talking to this detective behind his back when he had given her fur coats, a new car, and charge accounts at some of the finest stores. When he thought about his wife's monumental ingratitude, he felt fury and outrage. It was so unfair. As for this flatfoot, he'd be damned if he'd take any more crap from him!

Turner moved away from his inquisitor, at the same time glancing angrily up at the ceiling. Just you wait! After I get rid of him, Babs, I'm going to do some hard negotiating with you.

"Unless my wife has pressed charges, I'll have to ask you to leave," Turner said.

Lawson raised a finger and tapped his teeth. "She hasn't pressed charges. Yet. I found her. She didn't find me."

Turner glanced at the ceiling again, surprised at his relief. "In that case, we have nothing to talk about," he replied, letting his voice slip into the tone of curt finality he used with subordinates. "It's late and --"

A hand spun him around, and he saw Larson raise his arm and backhand him viciously across the mouth. Flying backward, Turner fell over the coffee table and crashed to the floor. His drink bounced somewhere on the carpet.

He lay with his head propped up against the front of the sofa, aware only that his mouth hurt and that he had never been hit so hard, and with such savage abandon. As his head cleared, he saw Larson walking slowly and deliberately toward him. Briefly, Turner considered resistance.

Any thought of fighting back, however, vanished immediately when Larson reached down, seized the heavy oak coffee table, and cast it aside like cardboard.

Larson knelt down, so close Turner could feel his breath. "I realize it's late, Mr. Turner," he said politely, "but I'd really appreciate it if you could grant me just a little more time. Perhaps five minutes. Do you think you could spare me that?"

Turner tried to speak, couldn't, and nodded instead.

"Excellent. Now let's see how you like some of your own medicine." Larson raised his hand and started slapping him. Turner felt his head rock from side to side. They were hard, brutal, savage slaps, embodying an anger just barely held in check. On and on it went, in fiery, stinging bursts of pain.

Finally Larson stopped. Turner shuddered, his eyes watering. This man was mad, deranged, psychotic! What if he decided to kill him?

Something dripped from Turner's nose and he looked down. Blood, even redder than the sky outside. It was all over his Ungaro tie and three-thousand-dollar suit.

Larson reached into Turner's jacket and removed his monogrammed handkerchief, which he used to wipe Turner's face. As he did, he spoke quietly, as if he were instructing a child. "You will stop beating your wife, Mr. Turner. You are not to lay a single hostile finger upon her ever again. Understood?"

Turner nodded.

"Say it."

He cleared his throat, half-choking on blood. "Yes, I promise."

Larson smiled and seized Turner's jacket, lifting him upright with a terrible strength. Turner felt himself borne across the room like a baby and slammed against the wall.

"And no intimidation, either," Larson said. "Capisce? No veiled threats or subtle, malicious mind games. In a way, they can hurt even more than fists. From here on, my friend, you are to treat Barbara as you would want to be treated, with respect and kindness and above all, love."

"Y-yes."

Larson nodded, and started to turn, then seemed to reconsider. "There is, of course, always the possibility that you could forget and backslide. You may think . . ."

Turner shook his head. "N-no. Never!"

"Really. It's not that I don't believe you, Mr. Turner. But we'd better make sure." His hand rose, and Turner saw that there was a gun in it. It had a very long barrel.

"Open your mouth, Mr. Turner."

"W-what?" Oh God, what was Larson going to do?