The Anonymous Client

deserved the leisure time. Maybe I’d learn to play golf.”

Steve rubbed his head. “What I really wanted, of course, was another case. Something I could sink my teeth into. Hell, just something to do. But I wasn’t going to get it because nobody knew about me, and those that did, from my first case, had to figure I was some sort of incredible asshole.

“And then, out of the blue, I get it. But it’s not a case. It’s some outrageous, improbable, storybook fantasy that makes no sense whatsoever. I have no idea what’s going on, and my only immediate prospect is being disbarred.”

“Which is great,” Judy said.

Steve stared at her. “Huh?”

“Hey, it’s just what the doctor ordered. Here you are, the embattled hero, fighting insurmountable odds. It’s a thoroughly glamorous position to be in.”

“Judy, this is not a play.”

“No, but it’s theatrical, and that’s where you shine. So stop crabbing, fuck Dirkson, and start fighting.”

“For whom?” Steve cried in exasperation. “That’s the whole fucking problem. Give me someone to fight for, and I’ll fight for ’em. Then I can be aggressive. Do things. Right now, I’m on the defensive all the time.”

“Oh, is that all?” Judy said. “No client, huh?” She reached under the table and fumbled in her purse.

“What are you doing?” Steve said.

“Just a minute,” Judy said. “Ah. Here we are.” Judy’s hand came up from under the table holding the torn half of a dollar bill. “There you are. I’m the client. Start fighting.”

Steve gawked at her. “What the hell!”

Judy shrugged and shook her head. “Can’t take a joke, can you?” Her other hand came up from under the table holding the other half of the dollar bill she had just torn. “Steve, the point is, it doesn’t matter who the client is. Fuck Dirkson. Get out there and kick some ass.” Judy smiled, cocked her head at him, and held up the two halves of the dollar bill. “Got any scotch tape?”

24

Steve Winslow scrunched down in the front seat of the rental car as Marilyn Harding’s Mercedes pulled out of the front gate of her mansion in Glen Cove. He gave her a couple hundred yards and pulled out after her.

If Marilyn had any idea she was being tailed, she didn’t show it. She drove straight to the Long Island Expressway, and headed for New York City.

He almost lost her at the Queens Midtown Tunnel. He didn’t want to be right behind her in line, so he picked another toll-booth. And, just as it was every time he picked a line in the supermarket, his line was slow. The guy in front of him didn’t have his money ready. When he got it out, it was apparently a twenty, because the tollbooth clerk looked at it for some time before slowly counting out the change, just as Marilyn Harding’s Mercedes disappeared into the tunnel. Then the guy wanted a receipt.

Steve took a breath, restrained himself from hitting the horn. If he’d done that, the guy probably would have turned around and given him the finger, wasting more time. Instead, he pulled away slowly.

Steve gunned the motor, lurched into the tollbooth, slapped his two dollars into the toll taker’s hand, gunned the motor again, and zoomed off. In the tunnel he weaved in and out, ignoring the double yellow line and the “KEEP IN ONE LANE” sign. He caught the Mercedes just as it emerged from the tunnel into Manhattan.

Marilyn Harding went down Second Avenue, across 34th Street, and pulled into a garage. Steve didn’t want to go into the same garage, but there were no others around. He pulled over to the curb and waited. About five minutes later Marilyn emerged, tucking her keys and her claim ticket into her purse. Steve hopped out of his car and tagged along behind.

She walked down the street and went into Macy’s. Steve groaned. After hours of sitting in the car, he wasn’t up to hours of shopping. And Macy’s wasn’t really a good place to approach her.

On the other hand, Steve realized, there was no good place to approach her. Well, what the hell. He had to take a shot.

Marilyn hopped on the escalator. Steve hopped on behind. As soon as she lights, he told himself.

She lit in lingerie. Just his luck. As if he didn’t have enough problems, the saleslady would think he was a masher. Well, the hell with it.

Steve walked up behind her. “Miss Harding?”

Marilyn wheeled around. She was holding a lacy bra. From the expression on her face, one would have thought she’d been caught shoplifting it. Then she recognized him.

“You!”

“Yes. Steve Winslow, in case you’ve forgotten. I thought it was time we finished our talk.”

Marilyn’s eyes flashed. “Oh, is that so. I’ve been indicted for murder. I have a lawyer, and he doesn’t happen to be you.”

“I sure wish you could convince some other people of that.”

“What?”

“Hasn’t Fitzpatrick been after you to get you to admit you hired me?”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah. That.”

“I don’t know why-Wait a minute. I’m not talking to you.”

“Yeah. I noticed. Look, I don’t want to talk to you about the case. I just thought we could discuss a mutual acquaintance.”

“What?”

“Sheila Benton.”

Marilyn frowned. “What?”

“Yeah. Old school chum. You went to college together, remember?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sheila was my first client. My only client, actually. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think so?”

Marilyn said nothing, just kept staring at him.

“So I wondered. When was the last time you two talked?”

Marilyn kept her lips clamped tightly together.

“Huh?” Steve persisted.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Marilyn said.

“Fine. Understandable,” Steve said. “You’d like to be rid of me? Want to see me walk out that door? Then just answer one question and I will. When was the last time you talked to Sheila Benton?”

Marilyn took a breath, looked down at the floor, then looked Steve right in the eye. “I haven’t seen Sheila in years,” she said.

Steve looked back at her and shook his head. “God, I wish I could believe that.”

Steve turned on his heel and walked off. On the escalator down he shook his head again. Yeah, Judy. Great advice. This is really getting me somewhere.

Steve emerged onto 34th Street just in time to see his rental car being towed away.

By the time Steve Winslow, one hundred twenty-five dollars poorer, had retrieved his car from the pier, dropped it off at the rental agency, and hailed a cab back to the office, he was in a foul mood to say the least. He had also decided something. Fuck this. No more chasing will-o’-the-wisps. No more groping in the dark. If his client wanted to come forward, fine, but in the meantime he was through. Marilyn Harding could go hang for all he cared. Dirkson could think what he liked. Steve Winslow, attorney, was not involved in the case, and that was that.

Having made that decision, Steve walked into his outer office fully prepared to face the wrath of Tracy Garvin.

He didn’t. Tracy was over her snit. More than that, she was excited. It didn’t take him long to learn why.

There was another letter. Typewritten. Unsigned. Just like the first two. And, to the best Steve could determine, written on the same typewriter.

It said: “Sit in on the trial.”