It won’t take long, I said, fishing in the cup of pencils on my desk for the small key that opened my bottom desk drawer.
You’re kidding, right?
Would I kid you? I asked, pulling out a half-empty – well, in the circumstances half-full – fifth of Scotch and two small glasses.
Dorita made a face. But she drank hers down.
That felt good, I said, relishing the distraction of a good gut-burn.
Can’t deny it.
Hey, I said, pouring myself a refill. I never got an answer. Has anybody talked to Jules?
He’s at the station too.
They picked him up on this?
Well, wouldn’t you? Closest blood relative? History of animosity? Suspect in recent murder?
Yeah, I guess so. Jesus, why didn’t he call me?
Maybe he doesn’t know your number.
He knows my number.
Maybe he doesn’t want to see you.
That doesn’t make any sense.
Anything make sense around here for the last month?
You’ve got a point there.
I usually do.
The little moron. Who else is going to help him?
I can’t answer that question. Not enough information. It does, however, betray a rather excessive amount of self-regard.
Damn, I said.
What?
I got a call last night. Just before yours. I ignored it. Probably that was him. Calling from the station.
Could be.
I’m going down there.
Not without me, you aren’t.
I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.
Okay. Give me a few. I’ve got to make a couple of calls. Cancel a few things.
Dorita left. My chest felt tight. I thought about Steiglitz. Shit. I didn’t want to think about Steiglitz. I didn’t want to think about anything.
I eyed my empty shot glass. It looked lonely. I reintroduced it to some mediocre Scotch.
98.
We flagged a cab. It smelled strangely of pickles. Dill, I thought.
I took that to be a good sign.
At the station there was a mob. Television trucks and vans lined the entire block. Reporters were shoving microphones into any face that moved.
The obligatory beefy boy in blue blocked the entrance to the station.
I’m Jules FitzGibbon’s lawyer, I said.
Says who? he asked.
His cynicism was concealed under a thick layer of cynicism.
Says me, I said.
That ain’t gonna do it, he said, standing his ground.
Butch Hardiman in there? I asked.
Butch? Maybe, he said.
Ask him, I said. He’ll vouch for me.
He looked at me impassively for a moment. He took my name. Turned to a diminutive female cop.
Charlie, he said, come here.
She came over.
Hold these guys right here, he said. I’ve got to check something out.
Okay, she said. She stepped between us and the door. She put her legs apart. She put her arms on her hips. Right next to the gun.
We amused ourselves watching the police-cruiser flashers’ red, white and blue turn the mob scene outside into a patriotic disco party.
Mr. Beefcake came back. He whispered something to Charlie. Charlie stepped aside. Mr. Beefcake gave us a nod. We stepped in.
Butch was waiting for us just inside the door. He didn’t look happy.
Butch, I said. Why didn’t somebody call me?
It’s a zoo in here. I’m not sure you were the first thing on anyone’s mind.
You’ve got a point. Where’s Jules?
Last I heard he was in with Donegan. Give me a sec.
He went through the swinging doors to the back of the precinct house.
Donegan? Dorita asked.
I know him a bit, I said. He’s a lifer. The kind of guy was born with a police-issue. 38 strapped to his waist.
Ouch. Poor Mom.
I think you used that one already.
It’s still funny.
Right. He’s a big guy, with a bigger head. Not too bright, but dogged as hell. After twenty years they finally made him detective. He outlasted them.
Sounds charming.
Actually, he’s an okay guy. I think.
I guess we’ll find out.
Butch came back through the swinging doors.
Donegan says you can come back, he said. But the kid says he doesn’t want to see you.
What?
That’s what he says.
Did he give any reason?
No. Just said he doesn’t want to see you.
A tiny tattooed thing flung itself around my neck, cried out, Mr. Redman! I’m so glad you’re here!
I pried its arms off me. Asked it to calm down a bit.
Dorita raised her eyebrows.
Dorita, I said, this is Lisa. Lisa, my friend Dorita.
Friend? said Dorita.
Pleased to meet you, Lisa said, more demurely than the circumstances called for.
She held out a hand. Dorita took it.
The same, I’m sure, said Dorita, with a jaundiced glance my way.
They tell me Jules doesn’t want to see me, I told Lisa.
Oh God, she said. He’s been so weirded out by all this. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. I’ll go talk to him.
Okay, I said. I’d appreciate that.
She pushed through the swinging doors, back to the inner sanctum.
So, said Dorita, that’s your little temptress.
