Last Chance for Glory (8 page)

Blake was tempted to crush Joanna’s Limoges cup, just to see her reaction. He could feel his sense of helplessness slowly begin to dissolve, feel the pure elation as it trickled into the vacuum.

Don’t show her a fucking thing, he told himself. Not a fucking thing.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right. You want to feed me your shit-work cases. The ones that are too sordid for Manhattan Executive Security. I’m to become a corporate toilet bowl. That about it?”

Joanna Bardo’s small mouth tightened down. Her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. She’d had enough and Blake knew it.

“Just spell it out, Joanna,” he said quickly.

“I won’t ask you to do anything that would jeopardize your license.”

“How considerate.”

“Naturally, both our computers and our techs will be open to you. At a thirty-percent discount. You repay us when you collect from your client.”

“Fifty percent, Joanna. And if I can’t collect, you write it off.”

“At fifty percent, I’ll lose money.”

“You can always make it up by adding a few hours to somebody else’s bill.” Blake didn’t bother to mention that Joanna was
already
padding the bills. “And I want access to any surveillance equipment I need. Unless you plan to give me ten thousand dollars to buy my own.”

“You can have anything not in use.”

Blake put his cup down, leaned forward. He’d been daydreaming about life on his own for a long time (and, of course, Joanna had to know that, had taken it into her calculations), but had never quite found the courage to face the years of struggle. Now, with Manhattan Executive feeding him business while he established his own client base, there didn’t seem to be any risk.

“I’ll be working out of my apartment at first. You might want to warn your clients not to expect antiques.” Blake waited for her to nod agreement before continuing. “And I’ll need some sort of a guarantee. In case you can’t throw me enough work to keep me in groceries.”

“I’ll see that you get the work. In fact, I have something for you right now.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

This time, Joanna’s smile was genuine. Blake could tell by the way she wrinkled her nose. It was the smile of a little girl bringing home a good report card.

“Believe me, Marty. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I feel responsible for you … and damned grateful. This is going to work out, I just know it. You’ve got the independence, the intelligence, the persistence.
And
you can run a spreadsheet. It’s perfect.”

T
HE EXTERIOR OF THE
Foley Grill on Spruce Street, shadowed by the stone pillars and spider-web cables of the Brooklyn Bridge, was as unpretentious and nondescript as any neighborhood bar in the outer boroughs of New York. In fact, Marty Blake, looking for the kind of midday watering hole likely to attract a legal superstar like Maxwell Steinberg, walked right past it—twice. Maybe it was the missing
l
in Foley. Or the missing
r
and
i
in Grill. Or the sooty windows, the faded green paint on the narrow door, the beggar panhandling in the entranceway. Whatever, the last thing Blake expected, as he pushed through the door, was a determined maitre d’ with an attitude about neckties.

“Sorry, sir, but neckties are required in the Foley Grill.” He shook his head (slowly, of course, so as not to disturb his blow-dried hair), and lowered his eyes. “House rule. So sorry.”

“What about
him?”
Blake jerked his chin at a tieless man at the bar. “And
him?
And
him?”

The maitre d’ managed a double take worthy of Ralph Kramden reacting to a fat joke. “I’ll have to speak to those gentlemen.” Blake smiled politely. “Give me a tie and I’ll put it on.”

“We have no ties, sir. Did you have a reservation?”

“No reservation.” Blake took a minute to count the number of fifteen-hundred-dollar suits scattered about the restaurant. He stopped at twenty, bemused by the reverse snobbery that brought Manhattan’s legal elite to a dive like the Foley Grill. The cluster of federal, state, and local courthouses in Manhattan’s civic center may have been responsible for the sheer numbers, but these were men (and a few women) who could afford the Four Seasons. And the limousine to get them back and forth.

“Perhaps another restaurant. We have no tables, in any event.”

Blake nodded thoughtfully. In Hollywood, the extras would have been movie stars; in Manhattan they were attorneys. Either way, it was about status, about who deserved to bathe in the reflected glory of the gathered celebrities and who did not.

“Oh, I’m not looking for a table.” Blake flashed an affable, goofy smile. “And if I go to another restaurant, the fat guy over there, the one with the cheap wig, is gonna be very disappointed. He’s expecting me.”

The maitre d’s mouth squeezed itself into a disapproving pout. “Why didn’t you say so?” He sounded like an eight-year-old who’d just been kicked in the ass by the neighborhood bully.

Blake slid a ten-dollar bill into the man’s hand, watched his eyes flick downward.

“That’s because I don’t want to join him right away. I’d like to have a drink at the bar first.”

The maitre d’, his dignity restored, nodded solemnly. “Go right ahead, sir. And please enjoy your meal.”

Meal? Blake knew he’d be lucky to get a beer’s worth of time from Maxwell Steinberg. He ordered a cup of coffee, weathered the bartender’s sour, disapproving frown, then settled back to study his prospective client. Blake consciously thought of himself as “all things to all people.” He’d once described himself (to Joanna Bardo, as it happened) as “shallow, you scratch the surface, all you find is curiosity.” It was that lack of a central, rock-ribbed Marty Blake that allowed him to present whatever surface his companion-of-the-moment wanted to see.

So, what did Maxwell Steinberg want to see? Blake watched as the table-hoppers paid court, stopping at Steinberg’s table, muttering a few words. Steinberg, forking lobster into his mouth, didn’t miss a beat. He didn’t ask anyone to sit down, either. The only way to measure the relative importance of the various courtiers was loosely affixed to Max Steinberg’s head. The famous dancing wig. It was as if some modern-day alchemist with a poor understanding of economics had deliberately transformed hair into polyester. The wig’s soft, straight texture contrasted strongly with the coarse hair curling over Steinberg’s ears. The color was off, as well, a faint, graying orange laid over a yellow-white fringe.

But the wig, itself, the
physical
wig, was the least of it. If it had stayed in one place (if he’d bothered to fasten it down) Steinberg would have been just another vain, aging fool. But it didn’t sit still, not for a second. It jiggled to the right, then to the left, dropped far back, then slid forward to drape his forehead. Chewing made it shuffle from side to side. Consternation (such as might be reserved for the testimony of an especially damaging prosecution witness) set it to bouncing like spit on a hot grill.

“Hey, guy.”

Blake turned to find a cup of coffee sitting on the bar. “Four bucks.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me.” He handed over a five, left the cup where it was, turned back to watch a young man with a toothy smile and a suit good enough to make his soft, fat body presentable approach the great man. The kid spoke rapidly, but Steinberg didn’t look up. The wig was draped over the attorney’s forehead, a sure sign of dismissal.

What Steinberg wants, Blake thought, is a tough guy he can push around. No, not push around—manipulate. He has to be on top. Even if being on top ruins him.

After his meeting with Joanna Bardo, Blake had gone directly to Manhattan Exec’s computer room, where he’d entered Maxwell Steinberg’s name into a data base called NEWSSEARCH. Ten minutes later, he had three articles in his hand, two from newspapers,
The New York Times
and
The Daily News,
and one from
The New York Trial Lawyers’ Journal.
The newspaper profiles had dealt with the flamboyant Steinberg, noting that he’d been thrice divorced, twice filed for bankruptcy, once disciplined by the New York Bar Association. The wig had played prominently, of course, but both articles had noted that when the occasion demanded it (when Steinberg, for instance, was eye-to-eye with a jury), the buffoonery dropped away and the real Steinberg emerged, a radiant prince out of a frog’s body. The
News
had compared him to Svengali; the more sedate
Times
to Clarence Darrow.

The
Trial Lawyers’ Journal,
on the other hand, had paid lip service to the courtroom theatrics, then proceeded to what, in their opinion, really made Steinberg a great trial lawyer. Steinberg, according to the
Journal,
began to battle the moment he took on a client. Meticulously prepared motions flew at judges and prosecutors like confetti at a Broadway parade. Every piece of evidence was challenged with two aims in mind: first, to exclude it from the trial; second, to establish a basis for appeal should his client be convicted. Expert prosecution witnesses were met with Steinberg’s own, even more-expert experts. On one particularly memorable occasion, he’d found a Ph.D. from Oregon willing to swear that lead fragments removed from the brain of a homicide victim might have come from a pencil.

Blake took a deep breath and kicked himself into gear. He put a little bounce into his walk as he crossed the room, a little confident athleticism. He needn’t have bothered. Steinberg didn’t look up until Blake was standing at his table.

“Mr. Steinberg? I’m Marty Blake.”

Steinberg’s eyebrows rose, sending the wig back a good two inches.

“Boychick,
take a seat, please.”

A waiter appeared at Blake’s elbow, pulled out a chair, even managed a thin smile. Blake sat.

“Oscar, a brandy, please, for my friend, Martin Blake. We’re drinking cognac this afternoon, Martin. By way of celebrating. This morning, I got a rapist off the hook. Good for the legend, bad for the world.
L’chayim.”

Blake nodded, took a moment to study the lawyer’s face. It was homely, alright, just the way a
Daily News
reporter had described it—unkempt, salt-and-pepper eyebrows overhanging shrewd, black eyes; prominent fleshy nose dominating a thin mouth with a pronounced underbite. Blake made the lawyer for one of those sad kids who’d spent his childhood in the corners of the school yard. Hiding from the bullies, the jocks, the girls.

Oscar snapped his fingers and a second waiter appeared at his elbow. “Hennessy, for Mister Blake, Ryan.”

Ryan nodded his understanding and both men walked away, confirming Blake’s impression of his own status. He was worth a drink, but lunch was out of the question.

“Martin, you’re Irish, yes? Maybe I should dispense with the Yiddish?”

Blake grinned, tapped the table with a forefinger. “Don’t tell that to my mother. She’s sure that I’m Jewish.”

“Your mother’s a Jew?” Steinberg’s mouth dropped open. “Then you’re a Jew. According to the law.”

“According to whose law? Jewish law? Jewish law is not my …”

Steinberg’s eyes narrowed. “According to Nazi law. Hitler law. And it doesn’t stop, Martin. You see how the Germans are now?
Auslander raus!
Very nice. If there were still Jews in Germany, it’d be
Juden raus!
Maybe worse.” He leaned across the table, touched Blake’s sleeve. “In this country, the Jews are lucky. The blacks take the heat for us. But you wait, Martin. Our day will come.”

Blake nodded thoughtfully, thinking, I better not tell this clown that my father’s mother was German.

The lawyer sat back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes, shook his head slowly. “Do you care that I’m taking my time getting to the point? That I’m
plotzing
along like an old drunk?” He waved off Blake’s polite reply. “But if you can’t celebrate a victory, you might as well be dead, right? Today, I got a rapist off the hook.”

The second waiter, Ryan, reappeared with the Hennessy. Blake took a sip, held it in his mouth for a moment, then swallowed dutifully.

“So, Blake, you know how I know this rapist was a rapist? He tells me, that’s how. He comes waltzing into my office and says, ‘The cops are looking for me. I committed a rape. Get me off the hook.’”

“Just like that?” Blake looked at his brandy, shuddered, turned back to Steinberg.

“Well, maybe not
exactly
like that. But words to that effect. Told me all about it, every detail.”

“So what’d you do.”

“Me? I rubbed my thumb across the tips of my fingers. ‘Moolah, baby,’ I tell him.
‘Dinero, gelt.’
He dicks me around for a few minutes, pissing and moaning about his financial problems. ‘Slow down a second,’ I say. ‘I wanna ask you a few questions. First, this woman you raped was your best buddy’s girlfriend, right?’

“‘Yeah,’ he says.

“And you went to her apartment intending to have sex with her. Whether she liked it or not.’

“‘Yeah, well … uh.’

“And she refused and she tried to fight you off. Correct?’

“‘Yeah.’

“‘And you fucked her anyway.’

“‘I don’t see what you’re gettin’ at.’

“‘What I’m getting at is this: no discounts for rapists. You want off the hook, you gotta come up with the price of whatever freedom I can arrange.’”

Blake fought a revulsion bordering on nausea. Not every criminal lawyer accepted rape cases, especially from clients as guilty as the one Steinberg had just described.

“Once he understands my position, we have no trouble coming to an understanding. Seventy-five, large, plus expenses, which he gets from his rich daddy. Me, I start throwing money in all directions. I find two big-time MDs who’ll swear the vaginal bruising could have come about through normal sex. And she’s had plenty of that, been around the block so many times her head spins when she’s standing still. The ex-boyfriends are ready to swear she liked it kinky and her being in analysis since she was thirteen isn’t gonna help the prosecution’s case one bit. Then I start with the evidence which mainly consists of torn underwear. Turns out the letter of transmittal from the duty officer at Midtown South to the forensic laboratories at One Police Plaza can’t be found. Boom, out go the panties, out goes the bra. Now, I’m just waitin’ for the bastards to blink.”