again. Not surprising-their first good season in years and they were on a roll. The Yankees were rumored to be about to make a managerial change. That was news? Hell, you could run the same column every six months.
Steve sighed. Shit. Another day with nothing to do but read the paper. And just when he’d thought he had it made.
For a while, Steve Winslow had been the most obscure lawyer in New York City. A lawyer with only one client who’d handled only one case. And handled it in such a way as to make himself look like an incompetent clown. Then the Marilyn Harding case had come along and changed all that. He’d made a splash in that one all right, right on the front page of the
Too sensational. He’d made a name for himself all right, and he had a law practice now. But it wasn’t a normal law practice. Because the type of publicity he got wasn’t the type that attracted your standard brand of client. It was the type that attracted mainly the undesirables and the kooks.
And not in great numbers, either. Most days there were none. Some days there was one. Today there’d been two. Mr. Thorngood and Mr. Walsh.
One undesirable and one kook.
Steve sighed again, put the section of the paper down. So much for drama and sports. Time for the hard news. Pro-life protests, terrorists, and the budget deficit. Steve picked up the first section, opened the front page.
Tracy Garvin came in the door. “Someone else to see you.”
Steve folded the paper, kicked his feet off the desk and sat up. “You’re kidding.”
Tracy smiled. “I know. It’s a deluge. Three in one day.”
“Who is it?”
“A Mr. Carl Jenson.”
“What does he want?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
Steve grinned. “Again? You must be getting a complex.”
“Not as long as you keep reading them the riot act when they try to throw me out.”
“Never fear,” Steve said. “So what’s he like?”
“He’s about thirty, medium height and build, brown hair, blue eyes.”
“That’s a police description. How does he strike you?”
“I don’t like him. And not just ’cause he wouldn’t talk to me. He’s got a pleasant enough face-not ugly, not handsome-just ordinary. It’s just his manner. I mean, he’s well dressed. Presentable. There’s nothing I can put my finger on. I just don’t like him.”
Steve grinned. “You’re advising me against taking him on as a client?”
“Of course not. It’s just a feeling, and he may be a nice guy, but you asked me so I told you.”
“All right,” Steve said. “Show the gentleman in.”
Tracy went out and returned moments later ushering in Carl Jenson. She made a show of closing the door behind her, indicating that she intended to stay, before saying, “Mr. Jenson to see you, Mr. Winslow.”
The gesture was wasted. Jenson strode up to the desk. Steve rose to meet him.
“Mr. Winslow?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Carl Jenson.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
They shook hands.
“Sit down, Mr. Jenson,” Steve said. “What can I do for you?”
Jenson sat in the clients’ chair. Steve sat at his desk. Tracy pulled up a chair, opened her notebook. Jenson gave her a look, but said nothing. Tracy frowned slightly. Steve’s eyes twinkled. She’d been hoping Jenson would object to her being there so Steve would dress him down.
“I was hoping we could exchange some information,” Jenson said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Jenson put up his hands. “I know, I know. You’re an attorney. You don’t want to tell me anything. But I think once you understand the situation-” Jenson smiled. “Well, I’m sure we can work something out.”
“I’m not so sure we can,” Steve said. “But what did you have in mind?”
“It’s about Uncle Jack, of course.”
“Uncle Jack?”
“Yes. Perhaps you didn’t catch the name. I’m Carl Jenson.”
“Your name I caught. Your drift is what I’m having problems with.”
“But surely he mentioned me.”
“Who?”
“Uncle Jack.”
“And who is Uncle Jack?”
“Then he didn’t mention me. That’s strange. No wonder you’re confused. I’m sorry. I keep saying Uncle Jack. I mean Jack Walsh, of course.”
Steve’s face was absolutely neutral. “Jack Walsh?”
Jenson smiled and put up his hands. “Sure, sure. Play it safe and conservative. Like you never heard the name. All right. I’ll tell you. I’m referring to Jack Walsh. My uncle. The man who came to your office this morning to consult you.”
Jenson stopped, looked at him. Steve said nothing. Jenson frowned. “Or perhaps he used another name. That would be just like him.” Jenson smiled. “But you couldn’t miss him. I mean the bum.”
“The bum?”
“Yeah, the bum. The street person. The man who looked like he rolled in the gutter before he came up here.”
Steve said nothing. His face remained positively neutral.
“Surely you remember him,” Jenson said dryly.
Steve sighed. “Mr. Jenson. I think I made my position clear. I have no intention of discussing any of my clients with you in any way. If you came for information, you’re in the wrong place. Now, if you want to talk, I will let you talk. If you want to keep making statements that are really questions, and trying to get a rise out of me, I suggest that you leave.”
Jenson nodded. “Sure, sure. You say that now. But once you understand the situation … All right. All right. You listen, I’ll tell you.”
Jenson stopped and leaned in confidentially. “The first thing you have to understand is that the man is sick. I don’t mean physically sick. Physically he’s strong as a horse. No, I mean mentally sick. The man has lost it. Gone off the deep end. So whatever he told you, you shouldn’t take it at face value.”
Steve closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Mr. Jenson,” he said. “We don’t seem to be getting anywhere. And I doubt if there is anywhere to get. In the interests of expediency, I am going to discuss this with you as if I knew what you were talking about. Which quite frankly I don’t. But setting that aside, and without admitting for a moment that I even know the man you’re talking about, let’s discuss him. This man-your uncle-Jack Walsh-what makes you think he’s not mentally competent?”
“Are you kidding?” Jenson said. “Just look at him. He sleeps in the subways. He lives like a bum.”
“Mr. Jenson, there are thousands of homeless people in New York City. Granted, some of them are mentally incompetent. But a large number of them are merely poor.”
“But he
“Millions?”
“Yes, of course. Didn’t he tell you that?”
Steve frowned. “Again with the questions.” Steve rubbed his head. “Mr. Jenson, what makes you think your uncle consulted me?”
“I don’t think, I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I followed him here.”
