Hell Bent (8 page)

I shook my head. “It’ll take some digging. If we need to do it, we’ll give Gordie Cahill a call. A PI can get the goods in a day, if they’re there to be gotten.” I tapped the letter. “Fax a copy of this to Doug and Mary with a note just saying that we’ve got the ball rolling and we’ll be in touch. Certified mail to Double A, as usual.”

Julie nodded, then looked at me and smiled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess that you’re itching for a battle with this outfit.”

“I admit,” I said, “we haven’t had a good knock-down, drag-out, good-guys-versus-bad-guys litigation in quite a while, and this one could be fun. But for the sake of our clients …”

“Sure,” she said. “We’ll be happy to settle.”

That evening Henry and I were in the living room watching
Monday Night Football
—the Detroit Lions were playing the Chicago Bears at Soldier Field—and as always happened when
I watched an
MNF
game between two teams I didn’t care about, I remembered and missed Howard Cosell’s flamboyant style and gravelly voice and in-your-face commentary. It was Cosell who memorably announced the assassination of John Lennon to the world during a
Monday Night Football
game, putting it all into perspective.

The phone on the table beside my chair rang just as the second-half kickoff was settling into the returner’s arms. I hit mute on the remote, picked up the phone, and said, “Hello,” without taking my eyes off the television.

“Hey.” It was Alex.

“Oh,” I said. “Hi.”

“You okay?”

“Me? Sure.”

“Did you get my message the other night?”

“I did,” I said. “Yes.”

“Were you planning on returning my call?”

“No,” I said. “I guess not.”

She laughed quickly. “You never did pull your punches. One of the things I loved about you. Straight from the hip. Good old tell-it-like-it-is Coyne.”

Me and Howard Cosell,
I thought.

“Well,” said Alex after an awkward moment, “maybe I should be flattered.” She hesitated. “Is that it? Should I? Be flattered, I mean? That you didn’t return my call?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Yes.”

“Then you miss my point,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, this is all about Gus, okay? I mean, I am flattered. But I’m not here to complicate your life. I feel bad about Evie, but—”

“Leave Evie out of it,” I said.

“I’m sorry. You’re right.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I just wanted to buy you dinner,” said Alex. “See how it went with Gussie. Get your impressions. See what we can do for my brother, thank you for taking his case. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” I said.

Alex sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

“You call me in that sleepy whispery voice of yours,” I said, “make sure I know you’re in bed, wearing nothing but a T-shirt, probably, conjure up a million old memories? What’m I supposed to think?”

She said nothing.

The Bears quarterback had a screen pass batted down at the line of scrimmage.

“I would like to have dinner with you,” I said after a minute. “We do need to talk about your brother’s case.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And,” she said, “that’s the only reason you’d like to have dinner with me?”

“You didn’t tell me that Gus’s wife took out a 209A on him,” I said. “You didn’t tell me that he threatened his family with a gun.”

“I guess I don’t quite rise to the Brady Coyne standards of candor,” she said. “Would you have taken his case if you’d known that?”

“You did know, then.”

“I did,” she said. “Yes. Gussie told me. He was very shaken up by it. Said it was like he was somebody else. It’s why he’s not interested in defending himself. He feels like he doesn’t know what he’s going to do next.”

“I would’ve taken the case,” I said. “I don’t limit my clientele to angels. Or cases I’m sure I can win, either.”

“I should have known that,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“More to the point,” I said,
“he
should have told me. He’s the client. He’s the one who has to tell me the truth, not you.”

“I have to, too,” said Alex. “I’m the friend.”

“So instead,” I said, “I got blindsided by his wife’s attorney.”

“That had to’ve been awkward. I’m sorry.”

“It happens to all of us,” I said. “Clients lying, or just withholding something. Lily knew better than to try to make something out of it. Still …”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Have dinner with you,” I said. “How’s Friday work for you?”

“I meant about Gus.”

“He’s my client,” I said. “I’ll give him hell and we’ll move on.”

I heard her blow out a soft breath. “Thank you,” she said. “So are you sure?”

“About what?”

“Having dinner with me?”

“I feel bad,” I said, “not returning your call. You’re my friend. That’s not the way I treat my friends. You still staying at the Best Western there at the rotary?”

“I got this room for two weeks, which I may extend,” she said. “I’m looking around for some place to sublet for a month or two. I feel like I should stick close to Gussie for a while. Anyway, I’ve got my book to work on, and I need to do some research around here. You haven’t heard of anything, have you?”

“Subleases, you mean?”

“Yes. Preferably in this area. Concord, Acton, Bedford.”

“I’ll keep my ears open,” I said. “So Friday, dinner is here. You can leave your car at Alewife, hop on the subway, or if you’d rather drive in, we can put a Resident Parking sign on your dashboard. I’ll mix a pitcher of gin and tonics, grill some chicken. We can eat out in the garden at my picnic table if it’s nice, enjoy the Indian summer weather while it lasts. Dress casual.”

“You sure?” she said. “I intended to take you out to a fancy restaurant.”

“The trouble with fancy restaurants,” I said, “is neckties.”

She chuckled. “I remember how you used to love to grill burgers on that greasy old hibachi on your balcony when you lived on Lewis Wharf.”

“I got a spiffy gas grill now.”

“Friday, then?”

“Around seven okay?”

“Perfect,” said Alex in that husky bedroom voice of hers. “I’ll be there. Friday at seven. Looking forward to it.”

After we disconnected, I sat there with the phone in my hand watching the giant gladiators on Soldier Field crash into each other, and I thought:
What the hell do you think you’re doing, Coyne?

H
enry and I stayed up till almost midnight watching the rest of the Bears-Lions game, which came down to a last-second field goal try by the Lions that a gust of Chicago wind blew wide left. Howard Cosell, telling it like it was even if the sponsors didn’t like it, would’ve pointed out that this was a meaningless and sloppily played game between two noncontending teams, but the present-day announcers made it sound like the Super Bowl.

It wasn’t adrenaline from watching a close football game that kept me awake. It was thoughts of Alex Shaw, my old love, coming to my house—Evie’s and my house—for drinks and a cookout, ping-ponging with thoughts about how Alex’s brother and my client, Gus, had pointed a gun at his wife and daughters, resulting in an abuse prevention order and a divorce procedure.

I was angry at Gus, but I felt sorry for him, too. The poor guy’s life was spinning away from him. As far as I could see, his best chance of slowing it down and regaining some control over it rested on my shoulders.

I decided I’d clear the air with him first thing the next morning.

I didn’t know what to do about Alex.

I caught Gus at home at eight o’clock on Tuesday morning and arranged to meet him at the Sleepy Hollow Café in Concord an hour later. The café was within walking distance of the camera shop where he worked. He had to be there at ten. That would give us an hour.

I didn’t tell Gus what I wanted to talk to him about, and he didn’t ask.

I steered my car onto Storrow Drive, heading west. It was another postcard New England autumn day. The maples and oaks along the Esplanade glowed in shades of gold and orange, and the sun glittered off the Charles River. Sculls and sailboats left long wakes on the flat water. Joggers and dog-walkers and cyclists clogged the footpaths.

I was heading out of the city while most of the traffic was heading in, so I made good time, and I pulled into the parking lot beside the Sleepy Hollow Café on Walden Street in Concord ten minutes early.

Besides its indoor dining room, the café featured a dozen umbrella-shaded tables on an outdoor patio. When I got out of my car and approached the patio, I saw that all but two of the tables were occupied. Gus Shaw was seated at one of them, and he wasn’t alone.

A Hispanic-looking man, midthirties, I guessed, sat across from him. A compact, fit, quick-looking man. He had black hair and a black mustache and wore sunglasses. Both men had their forearms on the table and were leaning forward with their faces close, talking intently to each other.

Their body language told me that this wasn’t a good time to interrupt, so I stopped there outside the patio.

I realized that Gus was doing most of the talking. The other guy—he was wearing a tan shirt and matching pants, some kind of a job uniform, I guessed—kept shaking his head, and then he suddenly pushed back his chair and stood up.

Gus said something, and the other guy put both of his hands on the table and bent forward. From where I was standing I heard the passion—it might have been anger—in his voice, though I couldn’t tell what he was saying.

Gus leaned back, crossed his arms, and shook his head.

The Hispanic guy stared down at him for a moment, then he smiled and nodded.

Gus looked at him, then stood up, held out his left arm, and made a fist.

The other guy tapped Gus’s fist with his own.

That’s when I approached them.

Gus looked up and saw me. He said something to the other man, who turned and narrowed his eyes at me.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said to Gus, although I wasn’t late. “City traffic, you know? Am I interrupting something?”

“Just leaving,” said the Hispanic man. Up close, I saw that he was older than I’d thought. There were flecks of silver in his hair and frown lines on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes.

“Brady,” said Gus, “this is Pete. Pete, Brady.”

I shook hands with Pete.

He looked me in the eye and nodded once. Then he lifted his chin at Gus. “Later, man.”

Gus nodded. “Later.” He watched Pete turn and leave, then looked at me. “Friend of mine.”

“Everything all right?” I said.

“All right?” He shook his head. “Nothing’s all right.”

“I meant with Pete. You guys seemed pretty intense there.”

“We’re both intense people.”

I sat at the table. “Anything you want to talk about?”

Gus sat down, too. “Nope. No problems, man. Life is good.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t really suit you,” I said.

He smiled. “A man can try, huh?”

“Just so you remember,” I said, “I’m a lawyer. I’m required by the ethical standards of my profession to maintain confidentiality.”

“Sure.” He nodded. “I appreciate it.” He gazed up at the sky for a moment. Then he kind of shrugged and said, “You want something to eat? I’m having a muffin. They make their own muffins here. The date-and-nut’s my favorite. The bran’s good, too. They’re all good. Homemade. I ordered us a carafe of coffee. I remember you like coffee.” Gus’s knee was jiggling like he was keeping time to a very fast piece of music.

I smiled. “Relax, Gus. You’re all wound up.”

He shrugged. “You make me nervous.”

“Me?” I said. “You seemed pretty keyed up before I arrived on the scene.”

“Okay,” he said. “I make myself nervous. I don’t need any help to feel nervous. It’s not you, it’s not Pedro. I don’t even need a reason to feel nervous. I feel strung out all the time. But, yeah, okay, I didn’t expect you to drive out here like this. You didn’t tell me what you wanted. That makes me nervous. So what’s up, huh?”

“I had a meeting with Lily Capezza yesterday.”

“Who?”

“Your wife’s lawyer.”

“About me?”

“About your divorce. She told me something that disturbed me.”

Gus blinked.

“You want to guess what it was?” I said.

“I don’t—” He stopped, and his eyes shifted to someplace behind me.

A waitress appeared, a trim fortyish woman wearing snug jeans and a long-sleeved white jersey with a little lime-colored apron around her waist. She put a muffin on a plate in front of Gus and a stainless-steel carafe and two mugs and a little pitcher of cream on the table between us. “Would you like a menu, sir?” she said to me.

I pointed at Gus’s muffin. “One of those date-and-nut muffins, please,” I said. “Can you heat it for me?”

“They’re already warm,” she said. “Fresh from the oven. That’s how we serve them.”

She left, and I poured two mugs full of coffee.

Gus watched her walk away, then looked at me and said, “So what did Claudia’s lawyer say?”

“I bet you know.”

He looked down at his muffin and said nothing.

I reached over and touched his arm. “Dammit, Gus. You’ve got to be straight with me. I came this close to firing you.”

“I wish I cared more,” he said.

“You better care,” I said, “because I do, and Alex does, and I’m betting Claudia and your kids do, too.”

“Can you do that?”

“What?”

“Fire me. I didn’t think …”

“Sure I can. It’s tempting.”

“That restraining order, huh?”

“Threatening your wife and kids with a gun? Jesus Christ, Gus. Do you ever want to see your children again? How am I supposed to help you if you keep things like that from me?”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t take my case.”

“The only reason not to take your case,” I said, “is if you lie to me.”

He looked up at me. “I didn’t threaten them.”

“You didn’t wave a gun around in your living room?”

“Well, I did, sort of, yeah, but—”

“And Claudia kicked you out and took out a 209A against you, right?”

“Yes, she did. But it wasn’t like that.” His eyes stared hard into mine.

“What was it like, then?”