She went to the washroom, pulled a towel from the rack, grabbed a bar of soap, and filled a bucket with water. A moment later, she knelt in front of him.
“I’m checking for any other open wounds,” she explained, not wanting to startle him with her touch. “So Dewey’s not dead, but you two fought.”
“I caught up with him in the home of an uptown Negro family and persuaded him to engage in fisticuffs.”
“You what?”
Still on the stool, he suddenly pitched toward the floor, until his hand slammed against the wall, stopping his fall.
“I box for a fee,” he said in a rough voice. “Last night, I won the fight and received a few rounds of bonded bourbon for my trouble.”
“You boxed Dewey?”
“It was a gentleman’s battle.”
“Such a foolish thing to say.”
“No. Never foolish. Pissed, drunk, but never foolish.” His hand on the wall, he pushed himself to his feet, unbuckled his belt, and pulled down his trousers.
“Ezekiel!” She covered her eyes.
“I have on briefs, Honoree. Too damn cold to run around outside without an extra layer between my pants and my bare legs. A pair of long underwear would’ve been better.”
She uncovered her eyes and took in his muscular frame. Three years ago, their lovemaking had been a tangle of arms, legs, and lips, but it was mostly clothed. She’d never seen his nude torso, and he didn’t have the muscles he had now back then.
“I remember being with you,” he said, his voice suddenly somber.
“I remember, too.” She swallowed.
“There were several layers of slips and skirts.”
“And shirts.” She wrung the water from a sudsy cloth and wiped his shoulders and upper arms. He rested the back of his head against the wall, but he watched her from beneath hooded eyelids.
“Honoree,” he said, his voice deep. “There’s almost nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
“Almostis the word that echoes, Ezekiel.”
“I can’t complete my business with Dewey and Archie if you’re involved.”
“I’m already involved because of that damn shooting.” She dropped the cloth in the basin. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. You’re too full of gin.”
He slumped forward. “Yes, I am, but why are you here? Were you worried about me?”
“That scene last night was scary.”
“Should never have been brought to your doorstep. That was Dewey’s fault.”
“Houdini and the envelope? That was Trudy’s fault.”
“No. That was my fault.”
She started to ask him to explain further, but his eyelids fluttered shut, and the liquor reeked from his pores. “I’m gonna finish washing you up. After that, put on a nightshirt and go straight to bed. Get some sleep. We can talk later.”
It took a few more minutes to persuade him to do what she needed him to do without whining. His big body was difficult to handle, especially when his muscles were mush and his bones useless. Finally, she had him cleaned up. The next hardest part was getting him into the bed. He kept grabbing her in the most inappropriate places. But she gave him a one-time pass due to his drunkenness.
He sat on the edge of the bed, struggling with the nightshirt she’d handed him.
Bloodshot eyes met hers. “You’ll be here when I wake up?”
