And you don’t agree that you owe him the money?
Owed him. No. I didn’t.
Why ‘owed’?
What do you mean?
Why the past tense?
You don’t owe a dead man money, do you?
It depends. But wait a minute. I guess we need to back up a bit here. He’s dead?
Yeah. He’s dead. What the fuck. They didn’t tell you that?
They didn’t tell me anything.
I’d been thinking simple assault. Aggravated at most. Plead it down. Make Daddy happy. Get back to the quiet life of litigation, drink and gambling.
Were there any weapons involved in this fight? I asked.
Nah. Hands. Feet.
How did he die?
I don’t know.
He didn’t die right there?
Shit no. Broke his nose maybe. That’s all.
So how did he die?
I told you, I don’t know. They found him later.
Who found him later?
I don’t know.
Then why did you say ‘they’?
I don’t know. It’s what you say.
Where was he when they found him?
I don’t know. I don’t know shit.
What did they find?
They found him dead, man. Shit. I’m getting a little tired of this crap. Okay, okay. You don’t know shit. All right.
He put out his hand for another cigarette. I gave him one. I took one for myself.
We smoked awhile.
Okay, I said. I’m going to have to get some information.
Sounds like it.
Before I go, just tell me the whole story again. What you do know. The fight. From the beginning. I’ll stop asking questions.
That’d be good.
All right then. Shoot.
Larry came over. He was pissed. He said I owed him money. From the poker game.
Poker game. Hm. Maybe I had some expertise to bring to this case after all.
Two grand, he said. I said, Fuck you, man, I don’t owe you no two grand. We settled up last night. I mean, he was too wasted to remember shit anyway.
And?
So he starts yelling and shit, all kindsa bullshit. I could tell he was wired. I don’t know what he was doing, mescaline or something. He had that paranoid thing in his eyes. I couldn’t even understand what he was saying half the time. So I told him to fuck off and come back when he came down. But that just got him more pissed off. He picks up a bottle, and he’s waving it at me, a beer bottle, and he’s saying he’s going to kill me. So I dive at him, low, going to take him out at the knees. And then it was just punching and wrestling and shit, and I guess he let go the bottle at some point, ’cause he never hit me with it. And sometime in there I must’ve busted him in the nose, ’cause he’s bleeding all over from it, and after a while we’re just both all tired out, and we lie there for a while, breathing heavy, and I say, Shit, Larry, what the fuck? And he’s, Fuck you, man, and he gets up and walks out, and he slams the door.
And that’s it?
That’s it, man. Next thing I know the cops are at the door, and they’re telling me I killed the guy.
So you never heard from him after he left?
Nah.
Anybody see any of this fight? Hear it?
Shit, somebody had to hear it. There’s fifty people in the building. It’s lofts. It’s an old factory building. You can hear everything. I hear the next-door neighbors fucking six times a night.
Okay. All right. I’ve got to go ask some questions. Don’t go anywhere.
Yeah, sure. I’ll cancel them plane tickets.
I started thinking I kind of liked this kid. Feisty little guy. I might even start to believe his stupid story, you gave me a little time.
8.
On the way home, I stopped at the Wolf’s Lair. I took my usual seat next to the cash register.
I worked on a double Scotch, and the seventeenth draft of an article for World Oil magazine. I was bored.
I read the letter tacked to the wall behind the register. I’d read it before. A hundred times, at least. It was on the letterhead of a Dr. Fritzinger. It said: Dear Thom, Just a note to let you know your lab results were all ok. Thanks. Sincerely, Natalie,
Medical Assistant
I wondered, as usual, what it was doing there, pinned to the cork above the telephone.
But I never asked. If I did, they’d probably figure I didn’t get the joke.
Whatever it was.
A young guy sat down next to me. Well, younger than me. He was maybe thirty-five. He ordered a whiskey sour.
Hey, he said.
Hey, I replied.
What’s that you’re writing?
An article.
Really? You a writer?
Not really. I’m a lawyer.
Oh, he said. So, what’s it about? The O.J. case?
No, I laughed. I don’t think they care too much about O.J. anymore. Old news.
Right.
It’s just a little thing for World Oil magazine.
He leaned closer. I could smell aftershave.
World Oil? he said. Don’t think I’ve heard of it.
I’d be surprised if you had. The circulation’s only about three thousand.
Really?
He seemed genuinely interested.
So, why would you want to write an article for them?
It’s a very rich three thousand.
Ah.
Very, very rich.
So, you’re an oil lawyer?
No. Just a litigator. Sometimes oil companies are involved.
