I listened to the click of a connection, then a woman’s voice said, “Mr. Farrell’s office.”
“Mr. Farrell, please.”
“May I say who’s calling?”
“Cliff Janeway.”
Another click, followed by the familiar resonance of an old and confidential source.
“Hey, Cliff! Where the hell’ve you been?”
“Cruising down the river, you old son of a bitch.”
“Jesus, I haven’t heard your voice for what?…seems like a year now.”
“More like two. So how’re things at the good old phone company?”
“Same old shit.”
“Howard, you need to start breaking in a new act. But then what would guys like me do when they need a favor out of old Ma Bell?”
“Uh-oh. You’re not official anymore, are you?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Damn right it is. Just for old-time’s sake, what do you want?”
“Clydell Slater.”
“My favorite cop. He still playing smashmouth with Denver’s finest?”
“He does it on his own now.”
“What an asshole. Look, Cliff…this isn’t likely to cause Mr. Slater any grief, is it?”
“It might pinch his balls a little.”
“Then I’ll do it. Same ground rules as always. Give me a number, I’ll call you right back.”
Five minutes later Farrell called and, for my ears only, gave me Slater’s home number.
I placed the call.
It was answered by a recording, a woman’s voice. “Hi, this’s Tina. Me’n‘ Clyde are out now. We’ll call ya back.”
I hung up on the beep.
I lingered over breakfast in a downtown cafe. Read the high points in last night’s
Went back to the hotel. Took a shower and went upstairs to the lobby. My tickets had arrived. I slipped them into my inside jacket pocket with my court papers and went to the jail to see Eleanor.
It was still early, well before ten. They led her in and we sat with glass between us, talking through a bitch box.
“How’re you doing?” I said.
“Just wonderful.”
“I wanted to see you and say a few things.”
“You don’t have to.”
“What are you now, a mind reader?”
“I know what you’re gonna say, I can see it in your eyes. I know you’re bothered by all this. Don’t be…you don’t owe me a thing.”
“In a cold-blooded dog-eat-dog world, that would be one way to look at it.”
“Well, isn’t that what it is?”
“Only sometimes.”
“I’ll bet this was your big failing as a cop. People can look in your face and see what’s in your heart.”
“Would you believe nobody’s ever said that to me?…Not once. In some circles I’m known as a helluva poker player, impossible to read.”
“Amazing.”
We looked at each other.
“If you’re waiting for absolution, you already have it,” she said. “You were doing a job. You’ve got a strange way of doing it, but I’ve got no kick coming. If it makes you feel better, you’ve got my unqualified permission to
