'I mean…I know how you people work. You have your own code. You'd never talk even if…' Reassuring himself. I knew who'd given him my name. Cops have their own code too.
I got up to go. He didn't offer to shake hands. I'd see him again someday. The senator wasn't cut out for crime. He was the kind of man who'd use vanity plates on a getaway car.
15
THE EXPRESS took me back as far as Fourteenth Street. A little kid squatted at the curb with his pants down, dumping a load while his mother shared a joint with a mush-faced human in a sleeveless dungaree jacket. In New York, the pooper-scooper laws only apply to dogs. On the corner, a guy was handing out leaflets, facing away from me. He fed me one with a deft behind-the-back move, slapping it into my palm like passing the baton in a relay race. I glanced at it. A topless bar. Where We Know How to Treat a Gentleman. I crumpled it up, tossed it at an overflowing garbage can. Missed.
Another leaflet-dealer at the next corner. Look down or look hard. I grabbed his eyes as I closed in, my hands clenched into fists. 'Don't look so angry, chief. I saved one for you,' he sang out. Fuck it, I took one. Jews for Jesus.
A derelict combed his hair, holding a rearview mirror from a car in one hand, adjusting his look. Fancy running shoes on his feet— you can always pick up a pair in the homeless shelters. The yuppies donate their old models every time a new style comes out. Tax-deductible relevance.
A blissed-out dude with long hair and
Something white under my windshield wiper. As I came closer, I saw it was a business card. A tiny black&white photo of a woman in bra and garter belt, red lipsticked imprint. Dial 555-PAIN slashed across the top. I read the small print. Press (I) Submissive Sarah; (2) Two beautiful bisexual girls; (3) Adventures of Lady Whiplust. Smaller print: $1.50 first minute, $0.50 for each additional minute.
16
NOTHING ON the all-news station. Pushed the buttons. Found some sports-talk program. So sad to listen to callers desperate to stay on the line, prolong the contact. Mike, I've got a couple of quick questions, and then a comment, okay?' Not all Dumpster-divers are homeless— the city's a giant cellblock, stuffed with humans who never see each other. As lonely as masturbation.
You make your bed, you have to sleep in it. Some people smoke in theirs.
I opened the newspaper. In the Personals: hand-drawn picture of a little girl, pretty bow in her hair, licking a lollypop. A child's rounded scrawl: 'Call me, please.' It was signed Bridgette. The phone number said: $3.50 a call, max. Adults Only.
Virgil had called at the right time. New York was always hard, but now it was ugly.
Full of checks that bounced and women who didn't.
A good time to go.
17
BUT FIRST, I had to see my lawyer. Davidson was in the conference room, surrounded by a mountain of books, arguing with two other guys. One was about my age, the other a rookie.
'But the law clearly says…' the young guy was saying.
'Says to who?' Davidson challenged him. 'You think the jury's going to be a bunch of smartass law students?'
'But your defense…it admits guilt.'
The older guy smiled. 'He
Davidson cut him off. 'This isn't a bar exam, kid. Vega shot Suarez. Four fucking times, okay?'
'But if you put him on the stand…'
'Yeah, yeah. The DA will bring out that this isn't the first time Vega used a gun on somebody. But my man gets to tell his story.'
'Some story.'
'Hey! The dead guy, Suarez, he gets into an argument with our guy Vega in the club. Vega slaps him. Suarez walks out. He tells every hombre in the place that he's going home, get his shit, and make a comeback. All right? Couple of hours later, the door opens. Suarez rolls in, puts his hand in his pocket. Our guy shoots first. Self-fucking- defense.'
'Suarez didn't have a gun. All he had in his pocket was a knife.'
Davidson shrugged. 'You threaten a man in a South Bronx social club, you come back inside and reach for your pocket, you're
I shook hands with Davidson. Lit a cigarette. It didn't make a dent in the fumes from Davidson's bratwurst- sized cigar. He introduced me around. As Mitchell Sloane, a lawyer he was working with on a Jersey case. With Davidson, confidentiality goes a long way.
He didn't ask the other two guys to leave. Even though his partner knew the score, we talked obliquely. Habit. I asked him if he ever got paid on the last matter we covered and he nodded. Meaning: my credit was good if I got popped again.
The kid stepped out. Came back with another guy. I knew him from the courts. Drug lawyer. Good-looking boy, nice rap. Took his cash in paper bags, put some of it back into his wardrobe. Ruby ring, diamonds around the bezel of his watch. Very stylish.
The new guy ignored me. 'You going to handle the Simpson trial?' he asked Davidson in a flea-market voice.
'Yep.'
'I got a piece coming.'
'How so?'
'Goldstein referred it to you, right?'
Davidson shrugged.
'Simpson came to me too. Same day as Goldstein. I guess he didn't like the fee— so he went shopping.'
Davidson raised his eyebrows.
'I quoted him seventy-five. Too rich for his blood— he went for the lower-priced spread— that's how Goldstein got called.'
'So you figure…he doesn't go to Goldstein, I don't get the case?'
'That's about it.' The guy smiled, looking over at me, including me in his slice-of-the-pie bullshit. One lawyer to another.
'How much you figure it's worth?' Davidson asked him.
'Well, Goldstein gloms a third, right? I figure I should…How much is he paying you anyway?'
Davidson puffed on his cigar. 'A buck and a quarter.'
The guy's face went white. 'A hundred and twenty-five fucking thousand dollars?'
'Yep.'
'Why?'
'That's what I charged him.'
The guy sat down, wondering what went wrong with the world. His ruby ring dimmed.
Davidson ignored him, turned to me. We have something to discuss? Some new matter?'
'No rush,' I told him. 'I got plenty of time.'
