Lost Girls

rhythmically at the air until I can feel its flaring stabs in my chest. ''Take enough steps away from the living, Mr. Crane, and you'd be surprised what company you keep.''

''None of this answers my question, Thom. In fact, you haven't answered any of my goddamn questions since I came here. Why? Why can't you tell me this one thing without giving me all this bullshit?''

''What if I told you that I don't know?''

''I'd say you're lying.''

''Well, then, there you have it. You've asked your question and you've got your answer. Feel better? Has your burden been lifted?''

''I think you're the one who should be worried about burdens.''

''Oh, I'm past that, Mr. Crane. Look at me. I'm a prisoner.''

''Well, you could be in here a lot longer if you don't help me.''

''Freedom doesn't mean anything to me anymore. So what difference could the truth possibly make?''

''It makes a difference.'' I glance over Tripp's shoulder to the one-way observation window and catch the shadowed moon of my own face. ''It makes a difference to me.''

Then Tripp does something terrible. Pulls back his lips high enough to crack the skin and bare a line of red, sore-looking gums. My client smiles at me.

''Make believe,'' he says.

chapter 41

The next day is passed by explanations of DNA identification technology delivered by the goggle-eyed lab rat the Crown has brought up from Toronto. I feel for the poor bastard, though, trying to teach a remedial science lesson to the jury, who look back at him as though auditioning for the chorus in Deliverance: The Musical. It gives me a chance to doze off for five-second hits of sleep. A tricky business that involves holding your head up with one hand and positioning it so that your closed eyes will be hidden from the bench. This part is essential. Judges are universally intolerant of sleeping lawyers, mostly because their own seating arrangement prevents them from indulging in the same pleasure themselves.

And each time my eyelids spring back open it's with the terrible image of Bert Gederov and Graham Lyle having kittens all over the boardroom floor two hundred miles to the south because I haven't yet returned their calls. The reason is simple: despite my best efforts I haven't come up with a reasonable explanation for my remarks to the press of the other day. But by the time court is adjourned in the afternoon (the DNA dweeb having just finished his ''introductory remarks''), I know it can no longer be avoided. If I don't call back tonight they're liable to pop up for a visit themselves, and neither of them would arrive in good spirits. Bert because it would mean a day not spent in court (hating this more than anything else in his broad taxonomy of hates) and Graham because of the hives, watery eyes, and swollen glands he suffers from the moment he travels outside Toronto's city limits.

''Well, well. It's a good thing I caught you! Phone here at the desk's been ringing off the hook!'' the concierge calls out from the shadows the moment I walk in the Empire's doors.

''I know about that phone.''

''Beg pardon?''

''You've got some messages for me?''

''Some? A bundle as thick as my--''

''Thumb?''

''My thumb, yeah. One of the fellas that's been callin' is as foul mouthed a sort as I ever spoke to. A Mr. Buggeroff or Getyerrocksoff or something.''

I move forward toward the stairs, keeping my eyes away from the glowing head.

''Here you go,'' he says, sticking the messages into my waving hand. ''And good luck with that Buggeroff character.''

Good afternoon, Lyle, Gederov & Associate. Can I direct your call?''

''Hi, Doris. It's Barth.''

''Bartholomew,'' the receptionist whispers. ''They've been on the warpath looking for you. Is your cellular not working?''

''I guess I just haven't turned it on for a while. Are they around?''

''Both in the boardroom right now, actually.''

''Good, I guess. Time to meet my makers. Hook me up.''

There's a moment of Muzak while I'm put on hold (''The Girl from Ipanema'') and then the click of the boardroom speakerphone being switched on, the background hum of fluorescent lights and air-conditioning.

''Bartholomew! You're alive!'' Graham sings at a considerably lower register than usual.

''Nominally. How are you?''

''Concerned, frankly. Bert is here with me and I think I can speak for him when I say that he's concerned as well. Why have you refused to return our messages? Can we start there, Barth?''

I've never heard Graham quite like this before. Clipped, a viciousness barely concealed by a thin skin of businesslike civility. It's far more unsettling than the raging abuse I've come to expect from Bert.

''I guess it's because I knew what you were calling about,'' I say.

''And?''

''And I didn't much feel like explaining a public relations mistake when I had a trial to concentrate on.''

''Public relations mistake? Are you fucking kidding? You stand there and talk straight into the cameras about what it's like to be a mercenary who doesn't give a fuck and you call it a public relations mistake? You blew it! I told you to keep your mouth shut and then you go and sing like a birdie at the first question they ask. Do you realize how this makes us look? Or are you too fucking stupid?''

This is Bert.

''I recognize that this makes you look bad. But I didn't intend to--''

''Hey, Barth. Can I ask you something? Are you some kind of fucking idiot?''

''Some kind.''

''Prick!''

''Gentlemen! Gentlemen!''

Graham's on his feet, judging from the distant sound of his voice. It's his habit to stand whenever Bert gets rolling, as though in preparation to make a run for the door if things get entirely out of hand.

''Now, Barth. Can we get back to the motive for your comments of the other day? Why did you say those things?''

''It just happened. That's a poor excuse, I know, but one minute I'm standing there trying to find a way through them to the door and the next minute all these things are coming out of my mouth.''

''Barth, are you having problems?''

''No. Problems? Yeah, I guess I've been having some problems.''

Bert lights a cigarette, scoffs, and brings up a load of phlegm from his throat in a swift sequence.

''What sort of problems?'' Graham continues.

''Nothing specific, really. I mean, Tripp is being totally unhelpful. And then there's other things, too, I don't know. I haven't been sleeping much, I guess.''

''Awwww! Poor baby! Not getting enough sleepy bye-byes?'' Bert coos, then follows it with a punctuating snort.

''What's most troubling of all,'' Graham goes on, ''is the matter of your confidence in your client. Do you remember that part? When asked directly as to whether you yourself believed in your client's guilt, you walked away. Walked away! Infinitely worse than screaming, 'He did it! He did it!' from the rooftops! Bartholomew, really, what in heaven's name were you thinking?''