The Whole Truth (20 page)

“I need more help on this LaSalle thing,” Steve said. “I need to know just how much they can get away with and still be legit under California law.”

“What do you mean get away with?”

“Regarding views on race. Can they claim that according to their religion, they are not to be bound by things like equal protection and antidiscrimination laws? Can you do me a memo on that?”

“Sure.”

“I'll pay. I can pay now.”

“That's a good thing.”

“There's more.” He paused. “I don't know if you want to hear about the personal angle.”

“If you want to tell me.”

He did. He wanted to tell her and have her understand him, and then he wanted her to put her arms around him and kiss him and tell him all would be well.

So he gave her the story all the way up to the troubling revelations of Eldon LaSalle. He spoke evenly, wanting her to assess all the information for herself. When he was finished, he felt more vulnerable than he had in many years.

She looked off for a long moment. Then said, “That's an unbelievable story. How does it make you feel?”

“I don't think I know yet. I don't know if I completely believe it all.”

“No? You think he's lying to you?”

“Or maybe he's got selective memory. I know one way to find out, though. There's a doctor named Phillips who may still be around. I want to see if I can track him down. He was there. He did the autopsy on the boy who was burned. He can corroborate what Eldon LaSalle told me. Or not.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I have a lead. I'll follow it up.”

Sienna looked at her watch. “I have a class.”

“There's another reason I drove down here.”

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to see you.”

When she hesitated in her answer, Steve felt like a sliding door had been left open, only slightly, with the curtains lifted by the breeze. Maybe he could sneak in after all.

“Mr. Conroy, I thought I made it plain — ”

“It's because I'm not religious like you, is that it?”

“This is not getting us — ”

“Or do you have an
other
? And I don't care if you sue me or run away screaming, I really want to know.”

She smiled and shook her head. The door slid a little farther open. “You don't give up, do you?”

“Let me put it to you this way. You ever heard of Satchel Paige?”

“Baseball player?”

“And philosopher. He once said, ‘Don't look back, something may be gaining on you.' ”

“Profound.”

“Yeah, it is. It's how I've lived my life. If I look back, I'm cooked. I've got to keep moving forward, and I will. So let me make my case.”

“What case?”

“The case about taking you out to dinner, with no strings attached, just to get to know each other a little better.”

Sienna looked at the sky. A heavenly appeal? Or a signal of frustration at the end of her rope?

“All right,” she said. “Dinner. One time.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“You do move forward, don't you?”

Driving back to the Valley, Steve had to make a case on himself.

Okay, boy, you've got your foot in the door. Keep it out of your
mouth. Clean up your act. Maybe this is just what you need, a little
inspiration. Motivation. A good woman.

She is good. Too good for you. Who are you, pal? She's got something.
What have you got? You're a day-to-day guy, afraid to look back.
Maybe you shouldn't do this thing. Maybe you'll drag her down instead
of her dragging you up.

You'll get to know her and like her and maybe she'll like you, and
then you'll fall and get high and ruin everything.

Bad idea, the whole thing. Call her back and call it off.

Steve flipped his phone open just as he merged onto the 101. Then he snapped it shut.

Life was risk. Life was the Zipper, Gincy said.

Go for it.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Steve stopped off at the Starbucks on Victory near the Warner Center. As he thought, Norm was there, laptop open, fingers flying, eyes wild with a desperate search for inspiration.

“Hey, Norm,” Steve said.

The writer looked up, startled. “Don't do that!”

“What?”

“I'm in flow here.”

“I need to talk to you, Norm.”

“I'm working here!”

“Can I get you a refill?”

Norm's eyes flashed to the venti cup on the round table. He rubbed the stubble on his chin with his right hand, then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Straight drip.”

Steve took the cup and got in line. He bought a tall drip and got a refill for Norm, then took them back to the table, pulling up a chair.

Norm took a slug of coffee, then said, “What are you doing here?”

“I thought maybe we could finally settle that account,” Steve said.

“Oh, man! Don't hit me now. Give me some time, will you?”

“Norm, we can work it out another way.”

“What way is that?”

“Your brother works for the DMV, right?”

Norm narrowed his gaze. “What are you asking?”

“I need an address.”

“Can't do that.”

“Of course you can. You did it before.”

He cocked his head. “Now you're not gonna bring that up, are you?”

“Don't you remember me keeping that out of the public record? The prosecutor was going to present that evidence to the judge, that you used your brother to get that dealer's address. I kept that from happening, my friend.”

Norm shook his head. “Man, you guys are like elephants. You never forget what you can use against somebody.”

“I'm not against you. I'm asking you for a favor. Do this favor for me and we'll call our account all square.”

“All?”

“Interested?”

“Do you realize what you're asking me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you realize the trouble my brother could get in?”

“Yes. You in or out?”

“In.”

“Good.” Steve took out a pen and wrote the name
Dr. Walker
C. Phillips
on the back of a brown Starbucks napkin. “Here's a clue. Temecula or Tehachapi.”

“That's a clue?”

“He may be in one of those two places.”

Norm ran his hand over his face, his chin, the back of his head. “All right! Fine! But I don't want any nickel-and-diming after this, are we clear?”

“Clear, Norm. You'll be doing a big favor for society.”

“Yeah, right. If I sell this series, then I'll be doing a favor.”

Steve nodded. “You're exactly right, Norm. We need a television show about a boy who becomes mayor. World peace to follow.”

“You know,” Norm said, “if I didn't know lawyers better, I'd say you were making fun of me.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Wednesday morning, Steve ordered a dozen red roses to be delivered to Sienna Ciccone at her apartment on Vermont. Might as well go all the way. It could be his one and only shot.

He went down to the bench in the courtyard of the apartment building and fed Nick Nolte a small bowl of milk. Mrs. Stanky yelled at him from her ground-floor apartment window. She didn't want that cat around. Steve smiled and waved, like someone who spoke English as a second language.

The boy from number ten, on the other side of the courtyard, was pedaling his tricycle around the perimeter, going for a land speed record. His name was Ramon and he lived with his mother. His mother was gone a lot. Ramon was too young to be left alone. Steve checked the apartment every now and then. Ramon was usually glad to see him, unless cartoons were on TV.

Then he heard: “Hey, what up?”

It was the guy from number seven, the little gangsta. He was smiling stupidly at Steve, his eyes with the red rims of the newly high. Short, maybe five seven in his socks, he wore an oversized jacket and low-riding jeans that bunched up over his white Converse sneaks.

Steve nodded, then looked back at Nick. He was in no mood for a conversation with Number Seven, which suddenly struck him as a perfect name for a rapper. Numba Sev'n.

Just shoot me now
, Steve thought.

“Lissen up, we got to talk.” Numba sat on the bench.

“Who invited you to sit down?” Steve said.

Numba's stupid smile melted into attitude. “What up with you?”

“Why don't you quit pretending you're from Compton? You have something to say, say it and then move along.”

“Oh man, you are trippin'.”

“Don't say
trippin'
.”

“Don't tell me how to talk, dog.”

“Don't say
dog
.”

“You don't even know what I want.”

“Whatever it is, I'm not buying.”

“Don't know about that.” His smile came back. “I can take care of you.”

“Excuse me?”

Numba looked around, then whispered, “Set you up. Get you what you need.”

A skin-tightening jolt hit the back of Steve's neck. “You have no idea what I need.”

“I do, my friend.”

“I'm not your friend.”

Numba wrinkled his nose and made a sniffing sound.

Steve jumped off the bench. His foot hit the dish of milk. Nick Nolte jumped a foot in the air.

Grabbing two handfuls of Numba's jacket, Steve pulled the kid to his feet. “Who told you?”

“Get your hands — ”

“
Who
?”

The gangsta in training tried to shake loose, but Steve was able to keep hold. “I don't have to tell you nothin'.”

“Stop that right now!” Mrs. Stanky yelled from the window.

The distraction got Steve to loosen his grip enough for Numba to jerk free. He stepped back, bumped into the bench, recovered, and pointed at Steve. Didn't say anything. Just tried to screw his face into a menacing expression.

Then he turned his back and went off toward his apartment.

“That was a very bad thing to do!” Mrs. Stanky said.

Steve picked Nick Nolte up by the back of the neck, walked to Mrs. Stanky's window. Before he could say anything Nick put his paws out and clawed the screen. Mrs. Stanky yelped and took a step away from the window.

“Get him away from here!” she said.

Steve pulled Nick Nolte to his chest, where the cat relaxed. “Don't get excited, Mrs. Stanky. Breathe easy.”

“Don't tell me how to breathe!”

That wasn't all he wanted to tell her. He walked away before he lost it completely.

He'd cooled off by five o'clock. All seemed quiet for once on the apartment grounds. Nobody screaming at him or getting in his face. He was getting tired of the flotsam and jetsam of society floating into the Valley, into his very apartment building.

He missed the Altadena house. It was a place with a lawn, his own place. He and Ashley hadn't been too unhappy together, had they?

Yeah, they had, thanks to him.

With the LaSalle money, if it kept up, maybe he could put a down payment on another house, or at least a condo. He had to get out of the Sheridan Arms before he went nuts. So maybe there were some unresolved questions about Eldon LaSalle, so what? How much did you ever know about any client?

Traffic was heavy through the Cahuenga Pass and past Hollywood, but Steve managed to get to Sienna's apartment a little before six.

She was waiting outside, talking on her cell phone. She saw him and gestured she'd be just a moment.

Giving Steve time to appreciate her all over again. He knew he was on major rebound. He knew he was doing this to cover the pain of the breakup with Ashley. And he knew he didn't care.

THIRTY-NINE

“How about a nice pinot?” Steve said.

“I think I'll pass,” Sienna said.

“Religious scruples?”

“I have a feeling I need to keep a clear head tonight.”

They were seated in a booth at Bistro Michel, always Steve's secret weapon. Whenever he needed some credits in Ashley's ledger, he brought her here. Until he burned through most of their accounts to fund his habit.

Steve said, “Then I will keep a clear head too.” When the waiter, one of the old-world gentleman types, arrived, Steve closed the wine list. “Two of your finest colas, my good man. A Pepsi '98 if you have it.”

The waiter frowned. Then nodded and left.

“Tough room,” Steve said.

“Not with the right material,” Sienna said.

“You are definitely the right material.”

“Oh, please.”

“Come on! That was a very slick line.”

Sienna said, “I would rather not have this be a night of slick lines, all right?”

“Check.” Steve wanted to stab himself with the butter knife. Instead, he asked, “How about this. What kind of law do you want to practice?”

“I'm not really sure. What's it like being a solo?”

“Not easy. You have scramble. You have to market. And you have to stay off drugs. Think you can stay off drugs?”

She smiled. “I'll try real hard.”

“You also end up hacking off a lot of people. Like the feds. So do you want to help me take on the feds?”

She looked confused. “How?”

“Maybe you can help me with a 1983 action.” Section 1983 of the United States Code was the statute authorizing civil rights violations against federal officials.

“On what basis?” Sienna said. “They have immunity.”

“Qualified immunity,” Steve corrected. “Your job would be to find a way around that.”

“You have any ideas how?”

“Yes,” Steve said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

“Write a lengthy brief on my sophistication and charm.”

“I think I can handle that in a memo.”

“Ouch.” His cell vibrated. He checked the number. “I have to take this,” he said to Sienna, then flipped it open.