The Big Law

“Massive overstimulation-the big O, I mean”-Broker snapped his fingers-“that fast. Seizure. Your ticker maxes out. You, ah, ready to blast off, you snotty little punk.”

Broker picked up the canister and splashed white malt into the funnel. David, eyes bulging, neck veins pumped up red, put out a pint of sweat and trembled with a mighty effort to wheeze it back out. The funnel bubbled. His eyes signaled frantically, going from side to side. Broker withdrew the funnel. “Yes?”

David spit the residue from his mouth. Gagged, trying to make himself vomit. Broker cupped his hand over David’s mouth. “Now, you going to answer some questions?”

David nodded furiously, smothering. Broker lifted his hand. “Didn’t bug the woman on Sergeant…just checked for mail, address books, diaries…Dad figured this James dude is too smart to use the phone.”

Broker let some of the liquid spill on David’s cheek. He cringed away. “What about beating her?” asked Broker.

“Not us, not us,” David gasped. “Honest.”

“Okay, so where’s the bug in here?”

“I feel sick,” wailed David.

“You didn’t get that much. But your pupils are starting to dilate.” He turned to Garrison. “Maybe we could get him to the Clinic, have his stomach pumped. Whatta you think?”

Garrison nodded. “Sure, we could do that. Where’s the bug? How come I didn’t find a tape recorder in your cabin?”

“Nauseous, really…Okay, not a mike: a wireless discreet camera…fish-eye lens. Transmits over normal radio waves.”

His head jerked toward the living room. “Behind the dragon’s eye, aimed at the telephone in the kitchen…set to a TV

channel nobody uses up here. We picked it up on the set next door. Taped it.”

Garrison crossed the room in long strides, climbed on his whittling chair in front of the hearth and pulled a black object from behind the sculpture. The camera sprouted a small antenna and was the size of a cigarette pack

Broker glanced at his dragon, furious. “You were watching me on TV?” He raised the juice canister. “Die, you Communist.”

“I’m not a Communist, I voted for Dole!” David protested, convulsing, huge tears spilling from his eyes. “My dad was a Communist, but only because he had to.”

Broker timed David’s sobs, inserted the funnel, bore down, and poured half of the white liquid down his throat. They watched him try to hold his breath, to fight it. Broker tickled his throat. Finally, choking, he swallowed.

They sat the chair up and turned it around facing the table.

He was hyperventilating, eyes swollen; strangled puking sounds hiccuped deep in his throat.

Then Broker raised the container and drank some of the mixture. When he finished, he smacked his lips so he left a white mustache on his upper lip. David watched, gasping.

Broker reached in the cupboard, removed one of the supplement containers, sifted some residue through his fingers for David’s edification. Then he held it in front of David’s bulging eyes until he quieted enough to read the ingredients.

Broker smiled and patted David on the head. He was almost certain now that David’s crew had not jumped Ida.

Garrison took David to the bathroom to clean up. Broker called Halme’s North Shore Travel Agency in town; Gretchen, wife to Dale Halme, the county deputy, answered.

“Hi, Gretchen, Phil Broker. What’s the quickest way to get to Santa Cruz, California?”

He waited while the tap of computer keys plotted a solution. Gretchen said, “There’s an eleven A.M. flight to San Jose tomorrow-but I’ve had those get canceled if they’re not return booked on the other end. Safer bet is a Northwest daily flight to San Francisco. Leaves four-fifteen our time, gets into San Francisco six-forty-five Pacific time.”

From looking at the Atlas, he figured a two-hour cab ride from San Francisco to Watsonville.

“Get me a seat on the flight to San Francisco tomorrow,”

said Broker. He finished up with Gretchen, gave his VISA numbers and expiration, thanked her and hung up.

He had a strong notion who’d hit Ida. Also, who might have been in his house. And what Keith meant. The signal of the rings.

“Papka-they’re not cops. They’re crazy, no, I mean, they’re psycho.” David, somewhat recovered, sat unbound in the chair and clutched the phone with both hands. His knuckles were white pennies under the skin and the air was thick with Garrison’s cigar smoke. David handed the phone to Broker.

“Hi, how you doing,” said Broker.

“If you’ve harmed my son…” The controlled urbane voice conveyed great resources of retribution. A slight rumble of accent had been filtered through layers of education.

“You mean this weasel who’s been spying on me? It’s not what we did, Mr. Konic, we just spooked him. He’s a little pussy, is all. It’s what we’ll do.” Broker frolicked briefly in the undercover biker persona he’d used ten years ago.

He felt loose, ready. He used to excel at this kind of thing.

Fast, developing, dangerous.

“So,” said Victor Konic.

“So, you stuck your nose in my business in a rude way,”

said Broker. His voice changed, less confrontational, more businesslike. “If you want something. Ask.”

Konic answered directly in the same tone of voice, “Did you find James?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“You know, I need to question him about Caren Angland’s death,” said Broker.

“Right,” said Konic, settling in, enjoying the negotiation.

“Okay,” said Broker, “we want the two million dollars we suspect he took, but you won’t let us have that, will you?”

“No. The money must be returned to its rightful owner.

It’s a matter of…business. And reputations.”

“I have a reputation, too. Half,” said Broker. Across the table, Garrison curled his forefinger into his thumb in an

“okay” gesture.

“We know about your reputation, and it’s only worth twenty percent and you get to live,” said Konic.

“Forty and David gets to live.”

“Thirty,” said Konic indifferently. “Take it or leave it. I have other sons.”

“Thirty,” Broker said to Garrison. Garrison shrugged and tugged the brim of his brown hat down over one eye, drew on his Havana.

Back to Konic: “I want to talk to him alone. I’m serious about taking his statement.”

“What a hypocrite. But agreed. Provided you are not recording.”

“I need an excuse for going out there.”

“And where is that?”

“You know what I look like?”

“We had pictures made.”

“I’m arriving in San Francisco tomorrow at six-forty-five their time. There should be regular flights to San Francisco where you are. I’m flying Northwest flight one-eight-nine from Minneapolis. We had pictures made, too. I want to see you personally. But not before I talk to James. Understood.”

“Agreed.”

“When I get back, we let David go.”

“Fine. What about the money.”

“We don’t know where the money is, that could get complicated. We’ll have to convince James to tell