Final judgment

THIRTY-EIGHT

Avery Fish could cook. He served Mason baked tilapia encrusted with cashews, wild rice, fresh green beans, and a spinach salad with mandarin oranges. Dessert was a persimmon cake.

“I’ve never had anything like that,” Mason said of the dessert.

“That’s because you can’t get persimmons here. This friend of mine in California, her name is Patty, makes them and sends me one every year.”

“Well,” Mason said, pushing back from the table. “Tell Patty to put me on her list after you die. I wouldn’t have guessed you were such a good cook.”

Fish shrugged. “You live alone long enough and you learn to cook. When I was married, we’d have dinner every Sunday night with my wife’s family. Kids running all over the place, people laughing and talking. It was a beautiful noise and the food was always good. So now, at least, I’ve still got the food.”

They didn’t talk about Fish’s case during dinner. Fish waited until after they’d eaten and were sitting in the living room. He had brewed tea for Mason and strong black coffee for himself. The lighting was soft, casting a warm glow against the walls; the furniture sagged but not too much. The walls were decorated with family photos Mason hadn’t noticed on his last visit. The house was like a favorite old sweater, a bit worn but too comfortable to trade in for a newer version.

“So, should I take this deal the U.S. attorney is offering me?” He held his cup of coffee beneath his lips, blowing on it.

“I’d rather you talk about that with your new lawyer.”

“You’re still my lawyer until I get somebody new. Am I right?”

Mason shrugged. “Technically, I suppose that’s correct.”

“Then we’ll talk about my case first and your problems second. Who knows? By the time we’re done, maybe both of our problems will be solved. What about this deal? I don’t even know what it is they want me to do.”

“They want you to help them with a case, but they won’t tell us what it is or what you would have to do. That’s not much of a deal. But, I may know what they have in mind. Charles Rockley worked for the Galaxy Casino. Late Friday night, the cops made a house call to tell me that another Galaxy employee named Johnny Keegan had been shot to death.”

“Oy! When did that happen?”

“Friday night, sometime after eight. That’s when Keegan got off work.”

“Why did the police tell you about this Keegan? Surely they don’t think I had anything to do with it.”

Mason felt like he was tiptoeing through a minefield. He had to be careful that he didn’t tell Fish anything that would raise questions he couldn’t answer. The cops would tell Fish’s new lawyer about Keegan. He wouldn’t be surprised if Rachel Firestone picked up the story as well.

“When Keegan’s body was found, he had a piece of paper in his hand with my name and phone number on it.”

“Which gets us back to your problems while we’re supposed to be talking about my problems.”

“Exactly.”

“This Keegan, did you know him?”

“Never met,” Mason said.

“So why would he have your name and phone number?”

“The easy answer is that he needed a lawyer. I don’t know most of my clients before they walk through my door.”

“But you’re uneasy with the easy answer and you can’t tell me why.” Fish blew again on his coffee as he took a sip.

“The point is that the two murders could be connected to the FBI’s investigation. If they are, it means the FBI is after someone at Galaxy.”

“I don’t know how I can help the FBI. I’m no undercover agent. I’m a businessman. I sell opportunities to people who want them at discount prices. To do that, people have to trust me and be greedy enough not to look at the fine print. Who’s going to trust me after I’m accused of being a thief and a murderer?”

“I don’t know either, unless the feds are after someone at Galaxy who doesn’t care if you are a thief and a murderer. Know anyone who fits that description?”

“No, and I’ve never been to the Galaxy. I never bet against the house and I always make sure I am the house. Did you read the story in yesterday’s newspaper? That reporter-she’s a nice Jewish girl named Rachel Firestone. Do you know her?”

“I do. We’re good friends, as a matter of fact.”

“Some friend. She called me on the phone Friday night. On Shabbos! To ask me if I’d like to explain how this Rockley’s body ended up in my car and did his murder have anything to do with the mail fraud charges against me.”

Mason wasn’t surprised that Rachel hadn’t said anything to him about calling Fish. That was the new Rachel, he thought, remembering how much he preferred the old version.

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing. Just like you told me. I was Mr. No Comment.”

Mason had been so caught up in Saturday’s whirlwind that he’d overlooked the most important consequence of Rachel’s story. Pete Samuelson, the U.S. attorney, had offered to keep the photograph of Blues outside Rockley’s apartment under wraps. He wasn’t doing Fish a favor. He was using the photograph as leverage to persuade Fish to take their deal. Rachel’s article said nothing about Blues, but the bad press was worse than the photograph.

“That article may have cost you the deal with the feds. It forced their hand with the cops. Now, they’ll be under a lot of pressure to turn over everything they’ve got including the photograph of Blues. They can’t take the chance of being accused of withholding evidence.”

“I thought they didn’t want the police to know about their secret investigation. If they turn over the photograph of Mr. Blues, won’t they have to explain how they got it?”

“Maybe. That doesn’t mean the explanation has to be true. It just has to be an explanation.”

“So, I don’t need another lawyer. See, I told you we could work this out.”

Mason put his cup on the table next to his chair. “I’m sorry, Avery. I don’t see any way around it. Things will only get worse for you when the cops get that picture. They’ll want an explanation from you. You’ll have to tell them that you couldn’t have told me to send Blues to Rockley’s apartment because you didn’t know Rockley was the dead man or where he lived. If they believe you, they’ll want an explanation from me.”

“And you can’t give them one. Am I right?”

“You’re right. I can’t. That’s why I don’t see any way around this.”

“Then keep looking. I don’t want another lawyer.”

Mason shook his head. “I’m glad you feel that way, but I don’t have a choice. I’ve got to get out.”

“You can’t quit without telling me why. It’s not right. Besides, maybe I won’t mind that you’ve got a conflict of interest. My whole life has been a conflict of interest and things haven’t worked out so bad for me.”

“You’re divorced. Your daughters will barely let you see your grandkids. You’re facing a federal felony conviction for mail fraud and a state charge for murder. What’s so good about that?”

“Yes, but I can cook,” Fish said. “And, I can think and I’ve been thinking about Mr. Blues and your problem, whatever it is. Someone takes his picture outside the apartment of this dead man, this Rockley. Mr. Blues works for you. He’s your gumshoe. The FBI thinks you sent Mr. Blues to Rockley’s apartment because I told you that Rockley was the dead man in the trunk of my car. How could I have known that unless I killed Rockley? Am I right so far?”

“On the money.”

“But, I didn’t kill Rockley so I didn’t know who he was before or after someone put him in my trunk. That means you had some other reason to send Mr. Blues to Rockley’s apartment. You say that Mr. Blues didn’t kill Rockley and I assume that you didn’t kill him either. So whatever is going on between you and Rockley has nothing to do with me. Still right?”

“Still right.”

“Then what’s the problem? I’ll tell you what’s the problem. You’re in some kind of trouble because of this Rockley and you can’t get out of it and represent me at the same time.”

Mason looked at his watch. “It’s getting late.”

Fish narrowed his eyes. “You’ve got that right, boytchik. I’ve been in my share of tight spots. I know what it’s like to get squeezed. Tell me what this is all about. If I can’t help you, I’ll get another lawyer. Don’t worry. Everything we talk about is confidential anyway.”