the refs' room. Pigeyes would figure one of last night's refs was involved and would start hunting. I wanted to warn Bert — and finish our conversation about the money.
I tracked down a copy of the morning's
'Brierly, Gleason, and Pole.' She was reading to me from last night's press handout. Those were the refs' names.
'How about their first names and addresses?'
'Care of the Mid-Ten. Detroit.'
'You're not gonna make me send a subpoena?'
She laughed. 'You can send what you want. We don't have that information. The conference doesn't even like giving out the last names. There was a lawyer a couple of years ago who wanted to sue one of these guys for smashing somebody's car in the parking lot and he had to get a court order. I mean it. As far as I know, you will need a subpoena. You can call Detroit Monday, but they're incredibly tight with this stuff.'
That made sense. No off-color fan mail. No fixes. When I put down the phone, I got out the local phone book. I found an Orlando Gleason, but nothing else close. Bert must have made Orleans's acquaintance out of town. All in all, Pigeyes had more hurdles ahead than I'd figured.
Not long afterwards, Brushy came in, full weekend regalia, blue jeans and running shoes. She looked pretty cute, wearing a big tan hat and carrying her briefcase, big as a saddlebag, and a bundle from the laundry wrapped in bright blue paper. She took just a step or two inside my door.
'That was nice yesterday,' she said.
'I'll say.'
'You mad? About your rash?'
'Hey,' I said amiably. I told her I'd called her doctor.
'How is it?'
'Wanna check?'
'I'll remember you offered.' She stood there, small, buttoned up, brimming with a great jolly glimmer. It made me a little sad to think how often Brush had been here before, walking into the office and feeling the thrill of knowing that she had this secret something going, a recollection of the senses in this quarter reserved for the grimly logical and perpetually banal. Everybody else arrived thinking of contract clauses and case names, and she rode up the elevators realizing she was going to share the sort of rosy smile we shared now, ripe with the anticipation of pleasure, of things that ought not be spoken of with the door open to the hall.
'I called you last night,' I said.
‘I was here late. I called you, too, when I got home, but you weren't around.' 'Guess who I ran into?'
She actually dropped her laundry and clapped her hands when I mouthed Bert's name. 'He's alive?'
I motioned to close the door. 'Where is he?' she asked. 'What's he been up to?' I reminded her about what she said yesterday, about wanting to stay in the dark.
'Starting tomorrow,' she responded.
I told her just a bit — Bert running from bad guys.
'But what did he say about the money?'
'Not clear,' I said. 'Our negotiations didn't get very far.' I explained that we'd been interrupted by Detective Dimonte.
'It sounds like this guy's really after you,' she said.
I just made a sound. Boy, was that true.
'So when will you hear again from Bert?'
'I'm sitting by the phone.' I touched it, right next to me, the latest in technology, sleek and black, like something from Skylab. 'In the meantime, I'm going to Pico Luan tomorrow to nose around.'
'Tomorrow? Toots's hearing is on again Tuesday.'
'The Committee only gave me two weeks. I'll do a two-day turnaround. Back Monday night. We're ready on Toots, right?' I lifted the brown expandable folder to show her I'd been minding the file. I added, 'I'm taking Lena.'
'Who's Lena?'
'First-year. From the U.'
'The redhead? The cute one?'
'I'd say stylish.'
Brushy frowned. 'What do you need her for?'
'A prover.' A witness — someone who could testify, if need be, in court. 'This lawyer I want to see is supposed to be a little slippery.'
Brushy wagged a finger and let forth in a self-mocking singsong, 'Don't be forgetting who's your girl now, Malloy.'
'Brush, you flatter me.'
'Mmm-hmm,' she answered. I was not sure whether Brushy was feeling wise to the ways of humans in general or just me, but somehow we'd blown past airy humor; her expression was wizened by mistrust. This mood of few illusions reverberated between us, with its bluesy wave forms, and I felt a momentary commission to get to the point.
'Think you're ready to be a one-man woman, Brush?' It was as close as I could come to mentioning Krzysinski.
'I've always gone one at a time, Mack. It's just now and then the time's been short.' She smiled a bit, but I realized intuitively that she meant it. Every one-night stand was a piece of Cinderella inside her head, a part of her always hoping that this slipper was going to fit. People's fantasies, even when they're morbid or trite, are somehow touching; it's the vulnerability, I suppose, the fact that lives, like cardboard cartons, fold so reliably along certain lines.
'You know,' I said, 'if the gals break my heart again, I don't think anyone'll find the pieces.'
'Malloy, give me some credit, okay? I know you. I get it.' She looked to the door to be certain it was closed, then walked to the desk and removed her hat before she gave me a smooch. I was still not ready to be soothed.
'How old are you now, Brush?'
'Thirty-eight,' she said, then thought twice of it and looked at me fiercely. Jesus, this gal could be tough. She asked what difference that made, as if she didn't know. The riff of the independent person is, I don't need nobody. I used to hear the same thing from certain old coppers. But God never made a soul for whom that was completely true. I sort of felt sorry for Brushy. She didn't really take me as the hottest thing on the market and she couldn't misapprehend my reliability or my nature. She just thought I was the best she could get or, maybe, that she deserved. But we both knew I had certain virtues. I'd do what she told me; I needed her guidance. She was smarter than me. And she thrilled me through and through.
‘I was just thinking about you,' I said. 'Thinking what?'
'How it is,' I answered. 'You know. The bright fires of youth burning down. A body gets lonely.' 'Very literary.'
'The Irish.' I touched the inside of my wrist. 'Verse is in the blood.' 'You have a dislikable side, Mack.' 'So I've been told.'
'It doesn't give you the right to hold someone in contempt, just because you get their number. You're not such a mystery yourself, you know.'
‘I see.'
'You're a miserable wretch, in case you think anybody else hasn't noticed.'
I told her to ease up and got to my feet. I took her firmly by her full shoulders and gripped her to my chest, where she willingly lingered, a foot shorter.
'Lunch?' she asked.
'Recruiters,' I said.
