'You're closer,' I said.
He smiled a wide smile, a good old Georgia boy, friendly as lemon cake.
'But not necessarily easier,' he said.
'And there are things I want to know that may not be a matter of public record,' I said.
'I don't see how I can help you,' he said.
'You represented Walter Clive?'
'Yes.'
'And now you represent the Clive estate.'
'I do.'
'You represent Dolly as well,' I said.
'I just told you I do.'
'Dolly feels that the estate is screwing her and her son.'
'She's never said that to me.'
'She claims she has.'
'Spenser, you better understand some things about Dolly,' Vallone said. 'She is not one to miss anything she sees as the main chance.'
'So if this ends up in court, are you going to be attorney for both sides?'
'It won't end up in court.'
'It might, or I might boogie on up to Atlanta and talk with the Georgia Bar Association.'
'Don't be ridiculous.'
'It makes people laugh when I mention it,' I said. 'But the bar association has an ethics committee.'
'I'm perfectly aware,' he said, 'of the bar association. My efforts in this case have been motivated solely by the best interests of everyone involved.'
'So who are Clive's heirs? The three daughters?'
Vallone dipped his head a little in some kind of acknowledgment.
'Yes,' he said.
'Solely.'
'Yes.'
'Was he planning to rewrite his will, or in the process of it, or any such thing?'
'No.'
'Never mentioned looking out for Dolly or her son?'
'Her son?' Vallone said. 'I understand why he might have taken care of Dolly, but the son rendered him no service.'
'Dolly says he was Clive's son as well.'
'Walter Clive's son? That's absurd. The boy is in his middle twenties. Walter was only with Dolly for, what, eight or ten years.'
'There's a story there, but it doesn't matter.'
'I'd be happy to listen.'
'In all honesty, Mr. Vallone, I'd need to know a little more about why you're asking, and a little more specifically what you want to know.'
Vallone let his chair lean forward. He opened a cigar humidor. He offered me one, and I shook my head. He selected one slightly smaller than a Little League bat and snipped it and lit it and leaned back and smoked it for a minute. Then he laughed.
'By God, sir,' he said. 'Just, goddamned, by God.'
THIRTY-ONE
I HAD BREAKFAST with Dr. Larry Klein at the hospital cafeteria at six in the morning.
'I'm sorry to be so early,' he said when I sat down, 'but I have rounds at six-thirty and patients all day.'
'I don't mind,' I said. 'Maybe I'll catch a worm.'
Klein was older than I was expecting. He was smallish and wiry and looked like he might have been the off guard at a small college who got by on his set shot. I had juice, coffee, and a corn muffin. Klein was eating two frosted sweet rolls that would have sickened a coyote.
'You represent Dolly Hartman?' he said.
'Yes.'
