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161 Chapter Twenty-One The Black Knight Enter Rick, the Black Knight Clad in black leather, he appeared out of nowhere on his black Harley Davidson steed, and he caused Stephanie’s reason to fly off, on the draft of wind, the wind created by riding at top speed through our nearby canyons. How she loved the feeling of freedom on the motorcycle—and fell for the allure of the forbidden. And he, full of testosterone, appeared like a remedy to her disappointment with the virginal Raul. But of course, she didn’t tell me any of this. Not in the beginning. Rick had taken a drive into the movie-star-map section of Beverly Hills where we lived. He stopped his shiny motorcycle and began talking to Stephanie . That day she wore a red T-shirt and white shorts, showing tanned and shapely legs and walking Duke, the Irish setter we had recently picked up from the pound. Stephanie’s limitations were not visible, and sadly, her surging hormones hampered her ability to judge men. Also, had she not been brain-injured, she never would have spoken more than a few words with Rick. These rides were dangerous for her in many ways. While balancing on the motorbike, she was holding on to Rick with her paralyzed right hand—fraught with danger. But worst of all, she did not wear a helmet. Stephanie began lying, and since I was accustomed to her former truthfulness , did not suspect anything was amiss. But I did wonder why Stephanie suddenly showed such enthusiasm for walking the dog. I should have realized it was strange that neither Duke nor Stephanie ever looked tired when they returned. No wonder. She leashed the poor dog to a lamppost about a block down the street (opposite of Barbra Streisand’s house on Carolwood Drive), while Stephanie was off, rocketing through the rises and valleys of Holmby Hills and Bel Air—up and over Mulholland Drive, zooming down to the San Fernando Valley and back to Brentwood, and on and on. All without 162 Broken Butterfly any clothing to protect her in case Rick took a spill. While Reckless Rick rode encased in black leather and a helmet. He swore Stephanie to secrecy. But to keep silent about these adventures was too much to ask of her. And finally she bubbled over with talk. She told me that he lived with his uncle, and that the uncle had bought him the Harley. I worried deeply about this enigma, this Rick. He said he was twenty-two years old and had left high school before graduation. He had worked as a roofer . This man he called uncle had met him who-knows-where and tried to play Professor Higgins as in My Fair Lady. Only Rick was no Eliza Doolittle. The uncle bought him suitable clothes and took him on a Caribbean cruise. The uncle was Anglo, but Rick’s high cheekbones, his narrow nose and full lips, his black, short-cropped kinky hair and café-au-lait skin, his slanted eyes, all indicated he was a mix of races. He had an athlete’s body and long legs, and he might have been considered handsome had it not been for his lascivious grin that displayed stained teeth, protruding fan-like, almost horizontally. When I opened the door, and Steff introduced him to me, his expression was sly and cunning. We shook hands, and he held onto my hand much too long. His hand was damp, and I wanted to drop it. He held on to my hand, tight. His squinting gaze stripped me naked. I finally was able to jerk my hand loose, itching to wipe the leer off his face. When I objected to her going out with Rick, she called me a racist. I begged Marvin to intervene, to have a father-daughter talk with her. His answer was curt, “Sorry, I’m going to leave for Europe in two days. I don’t have time.” Steven, at six foot two inches and built like a football player, was my only hope to intimidate Rick. They met, and Steven told Rick to stay away from his sister. The result was that Stephanie screamed at her brother and labeled him a racist, too. From then on she met Rick in secret. A few weeks later she disappeared. I called the uncle. My suspicions were confirmed. Stephanie and Rick had run off. Rick and his Harley were...

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