“He is taking care of my fees, verdad?”
“Yes, but I don’t care who’s paying the freight. I don’t answer to Yagamata, or anyone else. My loyalty is to you. I don’t know what Yagamata’s agenda is. I only have one, and that’s to give you the best defense possible. I can’t do that if you’re compromising your own case on orders from Yagamata. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He looked straight into his beer.
“Francisco, I need you to help yourself. Show as much care for yourself as you did for me on a hot Sunday night a long time ago.”
“Jake, mi amigo, it is not your concern. I will handle it.”
“Wrong. It’s my concern. Even if I didn’t feel the way I do about you and your mother, there’s something else involved. It’s called ethics.”
Crespo furrowed his brow, and the little scars grew pinker. He didn’t seem to understand. That’s all right. A lot of guys who’ve hung out their shingle wouldn’t either. That’s not to say I’ve always walked the straight and narrow. The ethical rules are a hundred fifty pages of mush. Mine are shorter and simpler. I won’t lie to a judge, steal from a client, or bribe a cop. And I won’t bed down a wife in a divorce. Until the case is over.
“C’mon, Frankie baby,” I implored him. “Tell me what happened in the warehouse. Why did you attack him? Who put you up to it? Who killed Smorodinsky?”
Silence.
“Who are you protecting?”
He helped himself to the beer but stayed quiet.
“Will you talk to me?”
“ No se. Maybe later.”
“We pick a jury tomorrow. If Socolow likes the panel, he’ll withdraw the offer.”
“What would make him like the jury?”
“Six people who’ve got cops for cousins or who’ve been victims of crimes, or don’t like Marielito s. A bunch of hard cases who feel superior to you, who think you wouldn’t be in court if you hadn’t done something shitty. Mean- spirited people who won’t hold the state to its burden of proof and won’t cut you an even break.”
Our waitress appeared with a second pitcher of beer. “You boys want to try the chicken wings?” I waved her off.
“But we might get a jury he doesn’t like, verdad?” Crespo asked.
“Sure, half a dozen open-minded people with a healthy mistrust of authority and a feel for the underdog. It can happen, but don’t count on it.”
“If it does happen, this Mr. Socolow might offer an even better deal.”
“Maybe, but whatever it is, your cooperation will be a condition of the plea. You’d have to tell him who else was involved. You understand?”
Before Crespo could answer, we were interrupted. “ Hola, lawyer! Ay, where’s your little sail?”
Them again. Hector and what’s-his-name. Yagamata’s goons. Wiry guys in muscle shirts to show off their stylish tattoos.
“And the blond,” Hector said. “?Donde esta la rubia? ”
I felt the little surge of adrenaline our knuckle-dragging ancestors must have known. The fight-or-flee response. But I’m a lawyer, so I had another alternative: talk. “Tell your boss if he wants to have lunch, he can come here for some swamp cabbage and chicken wings.”
“He don’t wanna see you, asshole. It’s your friend here. He’s worried about him.”
“Me, too. We’re getting ready for trial, and we appreciate your kind help, but-”
“It’s okay,” Crespo interrupted, getting to his feet. “I’ll go.”
“Sit still, Francisco,” I ordered. “We’re not finished here. And this time, let me handle the problem.”
“Jake, it is all right. If Senor Yagamata wishes to see me, I will go.”
“ Bueno,” Hector’s buddy said, a humorless smile curling his lips. “We don’t like hacerle dano, to hurt nobody.”
“Good thing,” I said, “because it would take another dozen just like you.”
Hector looked surprised, but then, the time of day would surprise this guy. “What you mean by that?”
I was still in my chair, and they had moved, one on each side of me. In the movies, Arnold Schwarzenegger would just reach out and grab each one by the neck, bang their heads together, and calmly finish his beer. Try it sometime, and you’ll get bopped upside the head by two guys who have leverage and mobility on their side. A smart guy would just call it off. Who was I to play knight errant when the damsel had a mustache and was willing to take a ride with the dragon? But I was steamed at Matsuo Yagamata, who had bought himself some trinkets and some people, while he was at it. He owned Francisco Crespo and two petty thugs and maybe me, too. So here I was, expiating a decade of guilt by spitting in the dragon’s eye, because mad as I was at Yagamata, I was enraged at me, and short of banging my own head against a wall, I didn’t know what else to do.
“What I mean, dirtbag, is that you guys are two-bit sacks of shit with brains smaller than a mouse’s asshole. You’re a couple of candy-assed errand boys who need both hands to find your own dicks.”
It takes years of forensic training to become so eloquent. At the next table, the gator hunters stopped talking and turned to listen to our sophisticated colloquy.
Hector cracked a malicious grin. He liked this. His buddy started bouncing on the balls of his feet, excited and expectant.
“And your friend here is so scared his asshole’s whistling Dixie,” I concluded.
“Jake,” Crespo said. “It is not necessary. Please. I will see Senor Yagamata and meet you in court in the morning. Tell Mr. Socolow we go to trial.”
“You’re a good man, Francisco,” I told him, “and even if you weren’t, you’re my brother because of what happened in a place like this. So don’t worry. I can handle Hector. He’s shaking like a dog shitting peach pits.”
There are times when a man’s got to act like a man, and other times like an adolescent.
“ Cagado cabron! ” Hector snarled. I didn’t know what it meant but figured it wasn’t Have a nice day. He picked up a handful of peanuts and dropped them into the beer where they sizzled happily. Then he picked up the pitcher and poured it over my head.
At the next table, I heard someone say, “Shee- it,” and I heard chairs scraping against the planks of the wooden floor, veteran spectators giving us room to arbitrate our grievances. Hector placed the pitcher on the table. Peanuts stuck in my hair. The beer stung my eyes, soaked the front of my shirt, and dripped, icy cold, into my crotch.
“Hector,” I said softly, “I hate Budweiser.”
And then I slipped a hand under the table, grabbed it where the base met the top, planted both feet, and pivoted, swinging the table hard into Hector’s crotch. I dropped the table but continued the movement, swiveling two hundred seventy degrees and getting to my feet, expecting a first punch from his buddy and taking it, a glancing right hand off the side of the skull. I squared up, and snapped a left jab that he ducked. I followed with another that missed, and then feinted yet another jab and came across the top with a right that he tried to avoid by turning his head. He had good quickness, but I still caught him solid on the ear. I felt the jolt all the way to my elbow, and his cerebellum must have been dialing 911, because he folded neatly in half and crumpled into a carpet of peanut shells, unconscious before he hit the floor.
I didn’t have time to give him the mandatory eight-count because Hector took that moment to smash a pool cue across the back of my head. The wood broke with a hellacious cr-ack, but it didn’t hurt my head. Not a bit. Then he ricocheted what was left of the cue stick off my shoulder, and again, same thing. No pain. Those chairs they smash over the cowboys’ heads in B westerns must be made of cue sticks.
I was starting to feel invincible, a celluloid cowboy, snapping long-distance jabs. Since I was taller and stronger, I wanted to maintain what the experts call an outfighting range, keeping Hector from getting inside with quick punches or kicks. But Hector knew what he was doing. He had some hand speed and understood how to retreat, then come back with a flurry. When he counterattacked, I covered up with the double forearm block. It isn’t pretty, something like Floyd Patterson’s peek-a-boo style. It leaves you with bruises on both arms but protects your dimpled chin and semihandsome face.
I had stalked Hector halfway across the bar, around the pool table, and up against a cooler, but he spun away. He kept leaping in and leaping out, a flurry of punches, and then a retreat. He knew something about martial
