Lost Girls

''Little prick--''

''Gentlemen!'' Graham cuts in, arms open and pleading. ''We have business--quite startling business--to attend to.''

I take my seat, pull a blank legal pad out of my briefcase, ready a pen above the page. Bert pushes his chair from the table and lets his head tip back in exaggerated boredom. This is to be Graham's meeting. He begins by tossing the day's Star over the table at me.

''You've seen?'' he asks.

''Not really.''

''You must have heard of those missing girls up north?''

''I've heard.''

''Well, the local constabulary arrested a man last night, and he has since retained our firm for his defense.''

Graham, who up to this point had been standing, now settles himself into his chair. With a wave of his hand more appropriate if it came from royalty passing in a gilded carriage, he attempts to clear the air of smoke, but it does no good. Bert, pretending not to notice, belches forth another sulfurous cloud like some nineteenth-century coal incinerator.

''Which of you is taking it?''

''Kind of you to inquire, but we'd like you to handle it, Bartholomew. It's yours. Bert and I discussed it early this morning and we thought, This is a career maker. You know what I'm saying? We thought, This is the one for our boy, Bartholomew. Hoorah!''

Graham titters and circles his hands in the air, palms out, like a flapper doing the Charleston. Then his face contracts again into a mask of mock severity.

''It has all the makings of a classic. The media have made starlets of them already--they've taken a very strong what-is-the-world-coming-to-when-these-little-darlings-go-missing? angle on it. And the English teacher as the accused is perfect for the Humbert Humbert poeticism of the thing. Well, with all of this obvious promise I can tell you that Bert and I were both slobbering over it like dogs. But, no, we decided it was time to give you a turn at the bitch's teat.''

Graham beams at me over his clasped hands like a schoolboy who has just completed his multiplication tables in prize-winning time. Bert lights another cigarette and coughs up something large sounding, considers spitting it somewhere, then, not finding a wastebasket within range, swallows it back down to the tarry depths from whence it came.

''Did he do it?'' I ask.

''Who?''

''Our guy.''

''Name is Tripp. An unfortunate moniker for an accused murderer, I admit. And, yes, I suspect he did it. I mean, they've all done it, haven't they?''

''What I'm asking is, did he do it beyond a reasonable doubt? In short, Graham, am I going to get fucked on this?''

At this Bert makes a sound in his throat that could be either a grunting effort toward laughter or an attempt to dislodge a new obstruction from his windpipe. At the same time Graham gasps in theatrical surprise.

''Language! Bartholomew! Language! To be truthful there's lots of circumstantial physical stuff connecting Tripp to the girls, yes. And he has taken a behavioral turn for the weird of late, apparently. But nothing too too unusual: nasty divorce with the missus a few years ago where she got to keep the kid, followed by some fairly curious preoccupations including cutout girlies from the Sears pajama section plastered all over the bedroom wall. And he is not the most coherent conversationalist one could hope for, particularly for a professeur d'anglais. But it isn't charm we demand of our clients, is it, Bartholomew?''

I slide my chair back from the boardroom table and stand before Graham, in part because I intend to turn and get myself a cup of coffee from the cabinet behind me and in part to get the height advantage on the tricky bastard. Don't take my eyes off him as I pour and lump and stir. And the whole time Graham meets my gaze as Bert sets a new personal record by lighting his third cigarette within four minutes of my arrival.

''So that's why you and Bert don't want it,'' I say, taking them both in through the gloom. ''Dead little girls. And the teacher did them in to sniff the panties. No alternative suspect, no alternative theory, no alternative alibi. That's why you're giving it to me. It's dirty, ugly, and unwinnable. Plus, he probably couldn't afford either of you. So you'll take the professional credibility kick for handling the famous client while skimming the margin between what he pays you and you pay me.''

''Bartholomew! Your suspicious streak is showing! Really! No, no, no. Not at all. I should have told you earlier. You see, there's a very nice thing about Mr. Tripp's circumstances you haven't yet heard.'' Graham almost giggles, and then it's his turn to pause. ''There are no bodies. No photographs of pale limbs in tall grasses. Six weeks of helicopters, woof-woof police doggies, and weepy search parties of concerned citizens shuffling through the trees, and nothing. No bods to keep the lonely coroner company.''

''No girls, no case,'' I say, calculating with a sugar cube between my fingers. ''Even if they prove he had intent, if there aren't dead bodies they can't establish the actus reus, and they need both. Am I right?''

''That would appear to follow at first blush, although I suggest--''

''Did he confess?''

''No. He's a muddle-headed fellow, but not so stupid as to tell the truth to the police.''

Graham grins up at me with his ashen face of blue eyes and fastidious wrinkles that somehow fixes him in a state of permanent childhood. Bert smokes. They're waiting for me to say yes. But I'm not going to. I need my first murder to be a winner, and if these two are handing it to me there's got to be something wrong with it. We work together; they're my mentors and only friends in the world, but they'd far sooner screw me than each other.

''No,'' I say, and touch lips to coffee.

''No what?''

''You can keep it.''

''Faggot,'' Bert spits.

''No, Bert, that's your partner. Maybe you can't see for the smoke. I'm the guy over here trying to cover his ass.''

''Fucker fuck!''

''Boys! Boys! I must say for the record that I resent both of your comments.'' Graham shakes his head in false injury. ''And as for you, Bartholomew, it's not a loser file, you are ready, and I've advised Mr. Tripp to expect you in Murdoch the day after tomorrow.''

I attempt to read their faces but it's impossible, their features shrouded in thickening smoke. For a time nobody moves. Then it's Bert, his voice a low, territorial growl.

''You want to keep your job, you take this file.''

''That's it?''

''That's it, pally boy.''

''Well, if you're going to be so sweet about it, Bert, then I guess I accept your offer.''

Graham throws his fists into the curdled air.

''Good! I'm so pleased! We'll--''

''But I have to do it alone.''

''Alone? Well, now, you really should consider that dividing some of the work would only assist--''

''No dividing, no assisting. On my own. Completely.''

''I do like this attitude! Very eat-what-you-kill. Grrr! ''

Bert pulls his chair in and places his thick hands on the table, drills his eyes into my forehead.

''I'm leaving now,'' he says. ''Call us if the newspapers get too hot on you and I'll handle them from down here. Other than that, any shit you create is your own. And when Graham said this was a career maker, he forgot to