They didn't break for a commercial at the bell, electing instead to keep the camera on the younger fighter's corner while his seconds worked on him. The announcers had a lot to say about what they were showing us, but they said it in Spanish so we didn't have to pay any attention to it.
'About that computer,' TJ said.
'I'll think about it.'
'Damn,' he said. 'Had you the next thing to sold on it, and the old man there had to land a lucky punch and break the flow. Why couldn't he wait a round?'
'He was just one old guy looking out for the interests of another,' I said. 'We old guys are like that.'
'This catalog,' he said, brandishing it. 'You happen to see this here night-vision scope? Came from Russia or some such.'
I nodded. It was Soviet Army issue, according to the Gehlen people, and would presumably enable me to read fine print at the bottom of an abandoned coal mine.
'Can't see what we'd need it for,' he said, 'but you could have fun with something like that.' He tossed the catalog aside. 'Have fun with most of this shit. It's toys is all it is.'
'And what's the computer? A bigger toy than the others?'
He shook his head. 'It's a tool, Buell. But why do I be wastin' my breath tryin' to get through to you?'
'Why indeed?'
I thought we might get to see a knockout in the next round, but it was clear halfway through that it wasn't going to happen. The kid had shaken off the effects of the knockdown, and my guy was slower, having a hard time getting his punches to go where he wanted them. I knew how he felt.
The phone rang, and Elaine picked it up in the other room. On the TV screen, my guy shook off a punch and waded in.
Elaine came in, a hard-to-read expression on her face. 'It's for you,' she said. 'It's Adrian Whitfield. Do you want to call him back?'
'No, I'll talk to him,' I said, rising. 'I wonder what he wants.'
* * *
Adrian Whitfield was a rising star, a criminal defense attorney who'd been getting an increasing number of high-profile clients in the past couple of years, and a corresponding increase in media attention. In the course of the summer I'd seen him three times on the TV screen.
Roger Ailes had him on to discuss the notion that the jury system was outmoded and due for replacement. (His position was a tentative maybe in the civil courts, a flat no in criminal cases.) Then he was on Larry King twice, first to talk about the latest star-spangled homicide case in Los Angeles , and then to argue the merits of the death penalty.
(He was unequivocally against it.) Most recently I'd seen him along with Raymond Gruliow on Charlie Rose, all three of them caught up in an earnest discussion of the question of the lawyer as popular celebrity.
Hard-Way Ray had put the issue in historical context, telling some wonderful stories about Earl Rodgers and Bill Fallen and Clarence Darrow.
I had done some work for Whitfield on Ray Gruliow's recommendation, running checks on witnesses and potential jurors, and I liked him well enough to hope to do more. It was a little late for him to be calling me on business, but the nature of the business is such that you get calls at all hours. I didn't mind the interruption, especially if it meant work. It had been a slow summer thus far. That wasn't all bad, Elaine and I had been able to get away for some long weekends in the country, but I was beginning to get rusty. The signs were there in the way I read the morning papers, obsessively interested in the local crime news and itching to get mixed up in it.
I took the phone in the kitchen and said, 'Matthew Scudder,'
announcing myself to whoever had placed the call for him.
But he'd made it himself. 'Matt,' he said. 'Adrian Whitfield. I hope I didn't get you at a bad time.'
'I was watching two fellows hitting each other,' I said. 'Without much enthusiasm, on my part or theirs.
What can I do for you?'
'That's a good question. Tell me something, would you? How do I sound?'
'How do you sound?'
'My voice isn't shaky, is it?'
'No.'
'I didn't think it was,' he said, 'but it ought to be. I got a phone call a little while ago.'
'Oh?'
'From that idiot with the News, but perhaps I shouldn't call him that. For all I know he's a friend of yours.'
I knew a few people at the Daily News. 'Who?'
'Marty McGraw.'
'Hardly a friend,' I said. 'I met him once or twice, but neither of us had much of a chance to make an impression on the other. I doubt he'd remember, and the only reason I remember is I've been reading his column twice a week for I don't know how many years.'
'Isn't he in there three times a week?'
