“Smart man. If I had all the time I spent on golf back, I could have saved the world. Come on, maybe we can talk this through and avoid going to court.”
I have no desire to have lunch with this guy, especially with the trial date almost upon us. But I have even less desire to spend my time in court on the custody issue, and I can’t afford to have Waggy unprotected. So I agree to have lunch with Robinson at his club, which is located in Alpine, about twenty minutes from my house, and he goes back to watching Tevye.
Laurie and I say our good-byes to Barb and wish her luck. On the way home, Laurie says, “So if not for you, Waggy would be doing that?”
I laugh. “Waggy in that ring. Now, that would be worth the price of admission.”
I DON’T PLAY GOLF, I don’t watch golf, and I don’t get golf.
I just can’t get interested in anything that requires a “tee time.” Even if I wanted to play, if I went for a four-hour walk on the grass without taking Tara, she would turn me into a giant steak bone.
Everything about golf is grossly oversize. First of all, it takes forever. People drive to a club, get dressed, play eighteen holes, and then spend more time talking about it than it took to play. It’s a full day’s operation; I can watch six college basketball games in that time, and drink beer while I’m doing it.
And the space these golf courses occupy is unbelievable. The one I am driving along now, the one at Charles Robinson’s club, is endless. If this amount of land were in a normal city, it would have four congressmen.
The idea of taking turns swinging a stick every ten minutes has no appeal for me. One of the reasons, I think, is that I prefer games where defense can be played. Football, basketball, baseball, even pool, all include attempts to prevent the opposition from scoring. Golf doesn’t, and that for me is crucial. It’s probably why I became a defense attorney. I don’t like golf, or swimming, or figure skating, or anything else in which defense isn’t a major factor.
As I’m handing my car off to the valet guy, I see Robert Jacoby standing in front of the club, waiting for his car. I’m not surprised he’s here; Walter Timmerman was also a member, and Jacoby’s e-mail had mentioned that they golfed together.
He waves to me and I just wave back. If I go over to him I’ll start talking about the DNA e-mail again, and neither of us would be in the mood for that. When the valet guy gives him his keys he calls him Mr. Jacoby, and he responds, “Thanks, Tim,” so I assume he’s a member here.
If Charles Robinson has been playing a lot of golf, he’s been using a cart. When I enter the dining room he is sitting at a corner table, and he certainly looks to be in his natural habitat.
He sees me from across the room and waves me to the table. He doesn’t get up to greet me, understandable since to do so a crane would have to be brought over.
He tells me how delighted he is that I could join him, in the same garrulous way he talked at the dog show. He does this with his mouth full and chewing, and I notice that there are already enough bread crumbs on his plate for Tara to bury a bone in.
A waiter instantly appears and takes our orders. I get a chicken Caesar salad, while Robinson orders veal parmigiana with a side of pasta. The food comes quickly, and we mostly make small talk while we eat. I’ve got a feeling that in Robinson’s case, everything takes a backseat to eating.
Once the plates have been cleared, he gets down to the reason he summoned me. “So you’ve got your hands full, huh?” he asks.
“You mean with the dog?”
“Hell, no, I mean with the case. The way I hear it your client is in deep trouble.”
“Then I hope you haven’t gotten any jury duty notices lately.”
He laughs far too loudly. Nobody at nearby tables looks over, so I suspect this is not an unusual event.
“Truth is, I know Steven. He used to call me Uncle Charlie. Back in the day. Tough situation, especially if he did it.”
There doesn’t seem to be a question in there, so I don’t bother answering.
“You think you’re going to get him off?” he asks.
“I think justice will prevail.”
Robinson laughs again. “Uh-oh. Sounds like you really got a problem. So let’s talk about the dog, what’s his name again?”
“Waggy?”
“Where is he now?”
“On a farm in western Pennsylvania.”
“What the hell is he doing there?”
“Mostly plowing, some hoeing, a little weeding. He just loves to work the land.”
“Everybody says you’re a wiseass,” he says.
“Really? Nobody’s ever mentioned anything like that to me.”
Robinson laughs again; I’m thrilled to pieces that he finds me so amusing. “So how do I get my hands on this dog without us fighting it out in court? He’s a champion, and if Walter had lived he’d be competing already.”
“But Walter didn’t live. And another thing he didn’t do was mention you in his will.”
“Hell, I know that. But the two people he did mention are dead and in jail. Walter and I were best friends; we played golf here every day. And we were partners on some dogs. He’d want me to have the Bernese.”
“He told you that?”
“Nah, if he had lived he wouldn’t let me near that dog. He’d want to use it to kick my ass.”
“What does that mean?”
“That dog could be a champion, and winning was all that mattered to Walter.” He laughs again. “Like me.”
“So you were rivals? I thought you were friends?”
He nods. “We were both. All of my friends are rivals.”
“But you were in the dog show business together?” I ask.
“That ain’t business; that’s fun. It’s like owning racehorses, except they eat less and shit less.”
If Robinson had any chance to get me to give him Waggy, which he didn’t, he just blew it. I move my napkin from my lap to the table. It’s my way of telling him I’m about to get up and leave. “If your intention in inviting me here was to give you custody of Waggy, it’s not going to work. I’ve been asked by the judge to decide where he should go, and it won’t be with you.”
For the first time the smile leaves his face, and it is replaced by a cold anger. “You have a problem with me?”
“No, not at all,” I say. “But I’ve got a hunch Waggy would.”
The smile comes back to his face, albeit a little forced. “So what do they say? See you in court, counselor?”
I shrug. “It’s my home away from home.”
FBI SPECIAL AGENT DAMIEN CORVALLIS doesn’t look the part.
He’s maybe five eight, 160 pounds if you tied weights to his feet. Of course, I have no idea why anyone would tie weights to an FBI agent’s feet; I know I wouldn’t. But if someone were to tell you that Corvallis was in law enforcement, you would guess library cop.
On the other hand, he has mastered the disdainful stare that all agents must be taught their first day in FBI school. It tells the person at whom the agent is staring that he is inferior and not worth the agent’s time.
We are at the FBI offices in Newark, and I’m surprised that the only other person in the room is Cindy Spodek, who flew down from Boston this morning. Usually someone in Corvallis’s position would want a bunch of his minions in attendance, so as to intimidate me. That he’s kept the meeting so small could be a sign that he wants to talk frankly. At least I hope so.
Cindy is no doubt here because she knows me, and might be of value in getting me to cooperate. She and I
