he can start that healing process he needs. It would be like, you know, placing him with some kind of family.”
Stefanos cleared his throat and slid the unlit cigarette back in its pack. “I’ll ask around. If I hear of any job openings around town I’ll let you know.”
“I was thinking of that place you work.”
“The Spot? Elaine, you ever seen the place? It’s just a shitty little bar in Southeast.”
“They serve food, don’t they?”
“Yeah, we serve food. In fact, we just hired a couple more people for the kitchen. The owner expanded the menu. He’s trying to beef up the lunch business.”
“Well, there you go. Dimitri could do kitchen work part-time. Wash dishes, anything. With you there, he wouldn’t be walking into a nest of strangers. Marcus was thinking -”
“Marcus?”
“Okay, it would be a personal favor for me, too. Look, I didn’t think you’d mind if I asked.”
“I don’t mind.” Stefanos stood. “Like I said, I’ll ask around, Elaine. How’s that?”
“Thanks, Nicky.” She wrote down a phone number, tore off a piece of paper, and handed it to Stefanos.
Stefanos reached into the side pocket of his leather, pulled out a CD, and put it in front of Elaine. “Here you go.”
Elaine’s face brightened. “What’s this?”
“ Live Evil. It just got reissued on domestic disc. I knew you were an electric Miles freak, so…”
“You know, I’d always see the Japanese pressing of this in the stores, but I never wanted to spring for it.”
“I heard a couple of tracks at the listening station. Some of the pieces were recorded right here at the old Cellar Door in 1970. Johnny McLaughlin on guitar, Michael Henderson on bass – it’s a boss band. It doesn’t cut Agharta, but it’s pretty hot.”
“Nick, that was so sweet.”
Stefanos winced. “A woman shouldn’t ever call a guy sweet, Counselor. It’s like calling him dickless or something.”
“But it was sweet.”
“Yeah, okay, it was sweet.” Stefanos shuffled his feet.
“You all right? You’re looking a little run-down.”
“I’m fine. Listen, I’ll talk to you later, hear?”
“Soon.”
They smiled at each other, and Stefanos turned to go. She watched him walk from the cafeteria and disappear into the crowd gathered at the entrance.
“Who was that?” said the young attorney at the table to her left.
Elaine turned to face the man who’d been a CJA attorney for less than a year. “Nick Stefanos. An investigator I use.”
“From his appearance, I’d say that guy’s been around the block a few times.”
“I suspect he has.”
“He looks like some kind of ghost.”
More like a street angel, she thought, as the voice from the loudspeaker called the young attorney’s name.
“That’s me,” he said. “Show time.”
“Don’t forget your client,” said Elaine.
“There he is. He’s coming now.”
Elaine looked at the kid, thought immediately of her own son, Marcus Jr., now sixteen years old. The kid’s shirt was out and his boots were unlaced. M. J. had begged her to buy him that same brand of boots this Christmas past.
“You might want to tell him to tuck in his shirt,” said Elaine. “Lace up those Timbies, too. He’s liable to trip on his way up to the bench.”
“Timbies?”
“His boots.”
The attorney stood from his chair and collected his papers. “That Stefanos guy,” he said. “You mind if I borrow him sometime?”
Elaine shook her head. “Sorry.”
“He does good work, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he does good work. But he’s mine.”
FOUR
The group gathered once a week in the basement of a Presbyterian church at 23rd and P. A social worker with the police department had set up the support sessions originally and assigned the group a freelance shrink, who, after three weeks, was politely asked to leave. Two and a half years had passed, and the group continued to meet.
Ernst, the church’s live-in custodian, stood near the group, seated in a disjointed circle in the middle of the common room. “Please,” said Ernst. “Pull the plug on that coffee urn when you’re done.”
“We’ll take care of it, Ernst,” said Bernie Walters.
“Ya, sure,” said Ernst, giving them a fangy smile. Clumps of gray hair grew from several large moles on his face. He was older than dirt, and it seemed an effort for him to lift his hand to wave before he walked from the room.
When he left, Thomas Wilson said, “Where’s Ernst from, with that accent of his? Anybody ever figure that out?”
“Latvia,” said Dimitri Karras.
“Where the hell is that?”
“He’s a good old bird,” said Walters, who at fifty was the senior member of the group and its unofficial leader. “Anyway… where were we?”
They started, as they always did, by getting reacquainted. They talked about the things that had happened at their jobs, what they’d done on the weekend, the trades the Skins needed to make to win next season, celebrity deaths, favorite television shows, the latest high-profile trial.
After a while they refreshed their coffee cups and came back and took their seats. Bernie Walters lit a cigarette.
“Funny how you’re the only one of us that smokes,” said Stephanie Maroulis.
“You know us veterans,” said Walters, snapping shut the hinged lid of his lighter. “Marlboro reds and Zippos. We never go anywhere without ’em.”
“ Vanity Fair did a piece on the Zippo lighter,” offered Karras, “and its place in American society relative to Vietnam.”
“Here it comes,” said Thomas Wilson. “‘Relative to Vietnam.’ Now the professor’s gonna explain to us unwashed types what it all means.”
Karras had been, among other things, an American lit instructor in his past life. He had mistakenly mentioned it to Wilson and Walters one night over beers at the Brew Hause.
“Give it a rest, guys,” said Stephanie, trying to head off the inevitable.
But Karras said, “I could bring in the magazine for you, Thomas. If you didn’t want to take the time to read it you could just, I don’t know, look at all the pretty models and dream.”
“Look at ’em and yawn, you mean. I’ve seen those gray girls you’re talking about. Clothes look like they been draped over a wire hanger and shit. Naw, you can keep your Caucasian junkies, Dimitri. And anyway, you know I prefer women with a little back on ’em.”
“Yeah, but what do they think of you?”
Karras smirked at the glimmer in Wilson’s eyes. Wilson liked to try and shock the group – play their idea of
