True Crime

He twitched his smile again. “I won’t hold that against you, Mr. Heller.”

Where this flash of humor—however slight—came from, I hadn’t the faintest idea; but a brief sparkle in the slate eyes disappeared as quickly as it came, and he said, “I have full confidence in you, Mr. Heller.”

That stopped me.

“Why?” I said.

That stopped him.

“Well…let’s just say you were recommended by an attorney.”

“Who would your attorney be?”

“I, uh, didn’t say it was my attorney, Mr. Heller.”

“If I was referred to you by an attorney, I’d like to know who it was.”

“Is that important?”

“If I haven’t heard of him, I’m going to start wondering what this is about. Excuse me, but one thing I can’t allow my clients to be is evasive with me. I can’t do honest work for you if you won’t be honest with me. Fair enough?”

“Louis Piquett,” he said, softly.

“Louis Piquett,” I said.

I didn’t know what to make of that. I had done a job for Piquett once—through him, I’d performed a service for a certain underworld figure. Much of Piquett’s practice was criminal law, so it was natural he’d have connections with both mob and local government (the line between which was often a fine one).

Piquett had a large, and apparently mostly aboveboard, practice; he was, after all, a former city prosecutor— though admittedly that had been in the especially corrupt administration of Big Bill Thompson (a onetime law partner of his). That his client list included a who’s who of bank robbers and gangsters—among them Leo Brothers, the accused slayer of Jake Lingle—only made him “colorful” in Chicago terms.

“Okay,” I said, still a little thrown. “That’s a reference I can accept. How do you know Piquett?”

“He’s the attorney my employers recommended.”

“Who are your employers?”

“I’d rather not involve them—they’re a grain sales and service company, out of Gary.” He cleared his throat, and added, “Indiana?” as if I might not know where Gary was.

Well, this at least made sense; a grain company might have had business with the mob, back in the recent bootlegging past, which could lead them to Piquett. That seemed innocent enough. And so did my client.

I took out a yellow pad from a left-hand drawer. Began scrawling some notes in pencil.

“Why don’t we start with your name,” I said.

“Howard,” he said. “John Howard.”

“All right, Mr. Howard. What is it I can do for you?”

He uncrossed his legs; put his hands on his knees. “This is hard for me…”

“Just regard me as you would your attorney, Mr. Howard. Whatever you say, it’ll be confidential. Anything embarrassing, or illegal…that’ll stay within these walls. Between us. And whatever problem you’re having, it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before, believe me. Like a doctor, I’ve seen a lot of different kinds of illnesses.”

“I think my wife is cheating on me.”

Imagine that.

“Go on,” I said.

“I’m a salesman. Traveling salesman. Selling to feed and grain stores in a two-state area. That keeps me on the road much of the time. Weeks at a time, at times.”

“I see.”

“And Polly…well, Polly’s always been a little free-spirited. Very independent.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Just over a year. A few months ago, I got this new territory—it was a big opportunity for me, how could I pass it up? Only it meant…being gone for longer stretches of time than before. And, well, she didn’t seem to mind. I guess I wish she would have minded. Then last week I found out she’s been working at a cafe. Took the job without even telling me. I confronted her about it, asked her why, why on earth she was doing this, didn’t I make good money, didn’t I do right by her, and she said she was just bored—and that ‘a girl can use a little money of her own.’”

“Do you have any children, Mr. Howard?”

“No. None. Not yet. I hope to…”

“I see. Is it so wrong for her to have a job, a little something to keep her busy?”

“I suppose not.”

“Extra money, in times like these, is that anything to be angry over?”

“Perhaps not…”