Flood

3

WHEN I WOKE up, it was already getting dark. Pansy was looking at me like she was dying to go out, but I knew that was an act. The dog has the metabolism of a diesel engine-she doesn’t move fast but she can go for days and days without stopping. I let her out to the roof anyway, like I usually do at night. While she was upstairs, I set about putting together my props for the night’s work. Miss Flood wasn’t the only person of honor on this planet. When I bet that hundred with Maurice, I was really betting that she’d show with the money she’d promised. I won that bet, but I didn’t expect to be as successful at Yonkers as I was at reading human character. And Maurice would want his money tomorrow. My heart doesn’t run a heavy risk of stopping from overwork-I only use it for betting on horses.

Tonight there was a lovely three-year-old going in a C-3 pace who hadn’t won all damn year. But he was a colt by Armbro Nesbit, who held the track record. I was there the night he set it. Usually, I have a tremendous bias in favor of horses who run off the pace and then come from behind in the stretch, like I’m always telling myself I’m going to do someday. But Armbro Nesbit always rocketed to the lead, dictated the fractions, and just dared the other animals to come at him. After his four-year-old season, his people put him out to stud, and he only got two crops before he died in his stall. A lot of asshole horse-players laughed about how he must have died happy, but they don’t know anything. He didn’t die happy. The only way Armbro Nesbit would have died happy was on the front end of the mile, charging for home.

Anyway, this horse I bet on tonight was his son, and I wanted him to win. And I realized that I’d have to see Maurice in the morning if I wanted to keep that line of credit open.

When I got Pansy downstairs, I called Mama and learned that this James character hadn’t called back. I went into the closet next door to dress since I needed to look good for the night’s Murphy Game. I fingered my one silk shirt. I love that shirt-it’s from Sulka’s and it cost me a hundred and fifty dollars. The way it works with Sulka’s is that you go in and order a dozen shirts, so they treat you like a citizen. But you have to know up front that they won’t make you a dozen shirts until they get one that fits perfectly. So, when I had the money, I went up there and got fitted. The sample they made me up was this beautiful rose silk, with no pockets and french cuffs with my initials (“mb” for Mister Burke) on the left cuff. I paid for the one shirt (a class outfit, they didn’t raise their eyebrows at cash), and told them I’d be back in a couple of days to pick out the rest of the colors I needed. I never went back, of course. But I couldn’t wear that shirt for this game, so I found a nice blue oxford-cloth buttondown, a plain blue tie, and a dark blue pinstripe that fell off a rack in the garment district along with several others last year. All the department stores have my size-it’s called “shrinkage.” With my black brogans polished, I took an attache case from the closet floor and was ready to operate. I thought I’d stop by Mama’s if I got the chance, so I told Pansy I’d bring her something good when I got back.

I went down the stairs to the garage, put the gun back next to the transmission hump-at least I knew where this Cobra was-and hung the suitcoat neatly in the back so it wouldn’t wrinkle. I wanted to get to the Criminal Court before they started doing heavy business with the night arraignments.

It’s lucky the court’s not far from my office. I parked the car illegally in the back, put my PBA card that says “Attorney” on its embossed silver police shield on the dashboard, and flipped the switch in the glove compartment that would keep the car from moving even if some skell tried to steal it. Then I walked around to the front entrance, looking for Blumberg, Artuli or any of my regulars.

As I walked inside the marble-floored slime pit I spotted Blumberg in his usual position. He was leaning up against the information booth that hasn’t been occupied in years and trying not to look like what he is-a fat slob is what he is, but he isn’t any worse than Legal Aid for night court. Blumberg won’t try a case-but he’ll plead you fast and, all things being equal, plead you pretty well. His doughy face arranged itself into a smile when he saw me. “So, Burke, how’s the boy?”

“Got anything on tonight, Sam?”

“Well, my boy, I’m not sure. I did have this client call me and ask me to meet him here, but he didn’t give a name. He said he would recognize me.”

“From the front-page coverage of your last big trial, no doubt?”

“There’s no profit in hostility, Burke. You want to work tonight?”

“That’s why I’m here, Sam. The usual twenty-five percent?”

“Well, I’ll tell you, son. There are guys working for twenty now, and there’s one Spanish kid who works for ten, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Listen, you want a yard in front, right? Okay, I’ll get you the whole yard, no percentage, and I keep everything over that. How’s that for a deal?”

“Burke, you’re sure you’re not Jewish? How about twenty-five percent up to two hundred, and a third after that?”

“Right. Look, I got to go to work. Try and at least look like a real lawyer for a couple hours, okay?”

He didn’t answer and I went to work.

You have to know who to look for-that’s always the game. Forget the hookers. They never have a dime anyway, and if they’re not already in the pens waiting for arraignment, they’re carrying some scumbag pimp’s money to pay another girl’s fines. And real poor people are a waste of time too, for obvious practical reasons. What you want is some lame who thinks a private lawyer is going to do more for him than Legal Aid-someone who thinks he’s got an image, even if he was busted for stealing welfare checks. But the best is some parent whose kid has just been arrested. Tonight I couldn’t wait for the best, just a fast hundred and out the door. Breaking my ass to get back to zero. The people inside the big building were all worried about getting a sentence-and here I was, already serving mine.

My first customers were a black couple-the man about forty-five, still wearing work clothes, and his wife, dressed up her Pentecostal best. I stood there looking like one hell of a lawyer, but they didn’t move. So I did. “Pardon me, sir, are you here for your son’s arraignment tonight?”

“Yes-yes, I am. Are you the man from the Legal Aid?”

A slightly sardonic laugh, “No sir, you’ll be able to recognize them easily enough. They’ll be the kids wearing blue jeans with the long hair. Just pick out the first one you see who doesn’t even look like a lawyer.”

From the woman, “Oh my God. Harry, do you…” As I turned and acted like I was walking away to some important business, the man lightly touched my sleeve: “Sir, excuse me, are you a lawyer?”

“No, I’m a private investigator. I work for Mr. Blumberg. You know, Sam Blumberg,”-like the fat man’s name should mean something to them. “I’m here tonight on a case with Mr. Blumberg, but I think his last motion to suppress was so effective that the charges will be dismissed, so I won’t have anything else to do.”

“We don’t have a private lawyer. The police said that Henry would have Legal Aid-we didn’t have to have one.”

That, of course, made me angry, and I let it show. “What a racist pig! What a terrible thing to say to you folks.”

“You mean it isn’t true?” the mother asks.

“Well, it’s true enough that your son will have Legal Aid if you don’t retain private counsel. But what the cops were really saying is that you’re probably on welfare and you couldn’t afford a real attorney.”

Harry said, “Man, I work. I got a good job. Had it for almost fifteen years. What kinda crap is this?”

“Well, sir, I can’t speak for the police, but you know as well as I do that they’d rather have you go with the Legal Aid so they have a better chance of convicting your son.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Are there any private lawyers right here?”

“Well, Mr. Blumberg himself is here, on that case I told you about. If it doesn’t go forward, I’m sure he could accommodate you.”

“Is he expensive?”

“Well, sir, the best costs the most, as you know. But I also know that Mr. Blumberg is especially interested in young people, and what with you working and all, I’m sure something could be worked out. Of course, you’d have to have a retainer to pay him immediately so he could file a Notice of Appearance on your son’s behalf.”

Now the lady got back into the act. “How much would that be, mister?”

“Well, it generally runs about five hundred dollars, but Mr. Blumberg doesn’t expect people to walk around with that kind of money, the way crime in the streets is today.”

“Do you know how much he would take?”

“Well, I know he never takes less than two hundred, no matter what. But sometimes he’s lucky and the whole case can be disposed of in a single evening.”

Momma says, “Oh God, that would be wonderful. They been holding my boy in that jail ever since yesterday afternoon and-”

“Well, let me go and find Mr. Blumberg and I’ll get back to you, all right?”

“Thank you, yes.”

I was glad to accommodate them-they seemed like nice folks. Odds were that their kid would get held for the Grand Jury, and Blumberg would be filing his notice For Arraignment Only, but at least they’d have a private lawyer for their two bills. And it just might work out-who knew? This part of my work isn’t really a scam-the people are getting what they paid for. Besides, when it comes to making a quick deal, Blumberg can hang in there with the best of them. He pleads so many cases that he knows what they’re really worth, and he’s not going to let a kid cop to some outrageous nonsense. Sam doesn’t sit in on the games too long anymore, but he can still play a decent hand while he’s there. Anything’s better than some Legal Aid hippie who’ll make some halfass speech about racism or “the system” while the judge doubles the bail.

I quickly found Sam, told him the deal, closed it, brought the good people to him, watched the money change hands, and went along with him to file his notice. I braced him in the hallway, took my fifty bucks, and went back to work.

I told the black couple they should wait inside the courtroom for their kid to be brought up because it would look good to the judge to see them so concerned, and I split. I’m not pleading good Samaritan, but it was an honest dodge. They’d get a fair shake from the fat man.

Business was great that evening. A bullshit burglary charge that even Sam could get tossed was good for a yard and a half, fifty bucks from some character who kept mumbling about wanting a private lawyer so it wouldn’t be like the “last time” and a great score of three hundred from a Puerto Rican whose brother had been held for four days on an attempted murder charge. Sam was in heaven, and I cleared $183. I told him to keep the breakage on the last third (the three-hundred score) and that gave him orgasms.

A couple of hours of intense work and I had Maurice covered plus a good piece of change for the next couple of days. As I walked up to my Plymouth, I saw a couple of uniformed cops leaning against it. They checked my clothes, nodded at the car. “You on the job?”

I smiled at them. “No, private,” and they walked off in disgust. Nice guys.