Next

CHAPTER 073

When Brad Gordon started the bar fight at the Lucky Lucy Saloon on Pearl Street in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, he hadn’t intended to end up in the hospital. The two guys in the tight-fitting plaid shirts with the pointy pearl-button pockets looked like pussies to him, and he figured he could take them easily. There was no way to know they were brothers, not lovers, and they didn’t take kindly to his remarks about them.

And there was no way to know that the smaller one taught karate at Wyoming State and had won some kind of championship at a Bruce Lee tournament for martial arts in Hong Kong.

Kickboxing with metal-tipped cowboy boots. Brad lasted all of thirty seconds. And a lot of his teeth were loose. He had been lying in this fucking infirmary for three hours, while they tried to push the teeth back in place. There was one periodontist they kept calling, but he wasn’t answering, possibly because (as the intern explained) he was off hunting for the weekend-he liked elk. Tasty eating.

Elk! Brad’s fucking mouth was killing him.

So they left him there with icepacks on his face and his jaw shot full of Novocain, and somehow he fell asleep, and the next morning, the swelling had gone down enough that he could talk on the phone, so he called his attorney, Willy Johnson, in Los Angeles, holding the business card between his bruised thumb and forefinger.

The receptionist was cheerful: “Johnson, Baker, and Halloran.”

“Willy Johnson, please.”

“Hold on, please.” The phone clicked, but he wasn’t put on hold, and then he heard the woman say, “Faber, Ellis, and Condon.”

Brad looked again at the card in his hand. The address was an office building in Encino. He knew what that place was. It was a building where solo attorneys could rent a tiny office and share a receptionist who was trained to answer the phone as if she was working at a big law firm, so clients would not suspect their attorneys were on their own. That building housed only the most unsuccessful sort of attorney. The ones who handled small-time drug dealers. Or who had done jail time themselves.

“Excuse me…” he said, into the phone.

“Sorry sir, I am trying to find Mr. Johnson for you.” She cupped her hand over the phone. “Anybody seen Willy Johnson?”

And he heard a muffled voice yell back, “Willy Johnson is a dick!”

Sitting there at the entrance to the emergency room, weak and in pain, his jaw aching like hell, Brad did not feel good about what he was hearing. “Did you find Mr. Johnson?”

“One moment sir, we’re looking…”

He hung up.

He felt like crying.

He went out to get breakfast, but it hurt too much to eat, and people in the coffee shop looked at him oddly. He saw his reflection in the glass and realized his whole jaw was blue and puffy. Still it was better than last night. He wasn’t worried about anything except this attorney Johnson. All his initial suspicions about the man were confirmed. Why had they met at a restaurant, instead of his law firm? Because Johnson didn’t belong to a law firm.

There was nothing to do but call his uncle Jack.

“John B. Watson Investment Group.”

“Mr. Watson, please.”

They put him through to the secretary, who put him through to his uncle.

“Hey, Uncle Jack.”

“Where the fuck are you?” Watson said. He sounded distinctly unfriendly.

“I’m in Wyoming.”

“Staying out of trouble, I hope.”

“Actually, my attorney sent me here,” he said, “and that’s why I am calling you. I’m a little worried, I mean this guy-”

“Look,” Watson said, “you’re up on a molestation charge, and you’ve got a molestation expert to handle your case. You don’t have to like him. Personally I hear he’s a prick.”

“Well-”

“But he wins cases. Do what he says. Why are you talking funny?”

“Nothing…”

“I’m busy, Brad. And you were told never to call.”

Click.

Brad was feeling worse than ever. Back at his motel room, the guy at the desk said someone from the police had come looking for him. Something about a hate crime. Brad decided it was time to leave beautiful Jackson Hole.

He went to his room to pack, watching some true-crime show where the police caught a dangerous fugitive by pretending to put him on television. They staged a fake TV interview setup, and as soon as the guy relaxed, they slapped cuffs on him. And now the guy was on death row.

Police were getting tricky. Brad hastily finished packing, paid his bill, and hurried out to his car.