Inside Out

61

New Orleans, Louisiana

Johnny Russo took a handful of quarters from his pocket and poured them onto the steel shelf inside one of the few remaining phone booths in America with a door, or so it seemed. At the curb, Spiro stood leaning against the Lincoln's grill, his massive arms crossed over his chest.

Reading from a business card he held against the closed wallet in his hand, Johnny dropped a quarter in the slot and punched in the penciled phone number. He was phoning the Kurtz of Kurtz, Walker, Koinberg, Rustin, Winklin amp; Associates, Sam Manelli's high-profile criminal attorney.

Johnny Russo deposited the number of coins required for the first three minutes. He hoped he could be done in two. He really hated lawyers, and Kurtz, famous or not, was a strutting fag-or would be, given half a chance.

The phone was answered immediately. “Kurtz,” the lawyer said. The sound of dinnerware and conversations placed the attorney in a restaurant.

“It's Johnny.”

“Johnny?”

“Sam's guy.”

“Sam's guy?”

Johnny raised his voice slightly. “Sam from New Orleans.” He wondered why the lawyer wanted to act as though he had fifty more important Sams to sort through before he arrived at Sam Manelli, a mobster who'd bought the fancy-ass meal the fag and his pals were eating.

“I'm in the middle of something,” Kurtz said pompously. “Is this important?”

“Would I be calling you to see what you're eating for dinner? I got some important hypothetical questions.”

“Shoot.” Kurtz sounded a little impatient, a tone he would never use with Sam, Johnny knew.

“Suppose somebody's lawyer dropped dead-choked on a candy bar or something. Say that by some chance, in this hypothetical scenario, the lawyer had in his possession, at the time of his death, pictures that were proof that the witness against his client was killed in a plane crash with marshals and one prosecutor, say from a New Orleans federal district. Hypothetically speaking.”

Kurtz was silent for a few seconds. Johnny was sure the lawyer had assumed the story was going to be a threat and was relieved it was another lawyer who was dead.

“There would be nothing to prove that this man's client ever saw them?”

“Not a shred.”

“Then if nothing physically linked this evidence to the dead man's client-only to the lawyer-it would more than likely be worthless in court.”

“With no witness left against his client, would that mean the case would be dropped or whatever?”

Johnny heard ice tinkle. “The case against this guy's client would be dropped and the defendant would be released as soon as the lawyers could get to the judge. With the right prodding from the right attorney, this theoretical defendant of yours would be released before the sun goes down tomorrow.”

“That was gonna be my next question,” Johnny said.

“What else could it be?” Kurtz said snottily.

The lawyer hung up, leaving Johnny Russo with a full minute still paid for.

“Ya puke. My next question coulda been ‘How long would it take me to have your head in a bucket?'” Russo gathered the scattered quarters and dropped them back in his pocket. He would have great news for Sam when he called at two A.M.