The Attorney (6 page)

The guy disappears and for an instant I wonder if he's under the car.

Then I hear the rum-soothed voice from the other side: "Why dun ya just run me over?"

"Okay." The voice is sharp, clear as crystal from the half-open driver's window as she rolls into the parking lot and swerves into the slip directly behind the shop.

For a fleeting moment there is the stillness of a framed picture, the car motionless in its stall, the man prostrate on the sidewalk, his belongings strewn, the image like some painting in a postmodern gallery--Chaos Frozen.

It lasts for only an instant, and is broken by the motion of the driver's door as it opens. She steps out and slams the door, then moves to the rear of the vehicle. There is not an ounce of hesitation, no remorse or compassion, no concern that the man might be injured or dying. He is, after all, still capable of crawling.

She is an image off the pages of Vogue, sporting a broadbrimmed hat: lady of the hacienda. Her black pants are as tight as a toreador's. A fitted jacket is zipped up over her ample bosom; as she peers across the trunk of the car she is the picture of the matador, sans sword.

She surveys her handiwork on the sidewalk. Her figure is shapely; curves in all the right places. Her gold jewelry, earrings and a bracelet, glimmer in the sunlight. I cannot tell her age from this distance, but she certainly appears fit.

The man is now on his hands and knees, working up some venom, mumbling expletives, mostly to himself. He's having difficulty getting to his feet. What I have witnessed is as close to a hit and-no-run as I am ever likely to get.

He crawls on hands and knees. There are a lot of slurred words here, feeble attempts at foul language, but nothing that could be called threatening, except perhaps to the demented, alcohol-sodden mind of another drunk.

He stops crawling long enough to raise one hand, a finger in the air for emphasis, his motions failing to synchronize with his words.

Jack Daniel's sense of timing.

Her right hand is now lost in the main pocket of a large purse that hangs from a strap on her shoulder. It stays there, making me wonder what's inside.

He's talking trash. "Bitch" is every other word. Those that I can understand.

"Come on. Get up. You can do it," she says.

Her body language almost wills him onto his feet. She beckons him with the curved fingers of her other hand, the one not buried in her purse.

He struggles to get up.

"Sure. That's it. Get up. Come on over here and kick my ass.

You're the man. You can do it." He is up, stooped, wobbling and unsure, a stumbling lexicon of slurred epithets. Moment of truth, her elbow begins to flex.

It happens in the flash of an eye, a marked instant of sobriety.

The trash talk ceases, a reckoning which reveals that even to a booze-burned brain there can be a near-death experience. The pins go out from under him. He is again sitting on his ass on the ground, thirty feet from her, looking up in wonderment as if asking the silent question--"How'd I get down here?" She shakes her head more in disappointment than contempt, then fishes in her purse and comes up with keys. She strides to the back door of the building, not even taking notice of him now, and works the locks like a jailer, first the steel bars and then the wooden door behind them. An instant later, senorita of your darkest dreams disappears into the shadows of her shop.

If there was any doubt as to my quarry, it is resolved by the plates on her car: blue letters on a white background--the word zoland--not so much a place as a state of mind, an empire of attitude as dark as her attire.

I figure there's no sense waiting. Hit her while she's on a psychic high. I put my coffee on the floor in the passenger-side well and step out, slamming the door of the Jeep. I walk as I wonder. Did she have a piece in her purse? Would she have used it? I'll never know. Maybe if she'd gotten the chance to shoot the drunk, she might have been sufficiently giddy with euphoria to give up the whereabouts of Amanda Hale. Maybe. It certainly would have made me a witness with leverage--make my day.

I head down the side street, around the corner, toward the front of the building, taking my time, so as to give her a chance to open up. When I get there the door is still locked, lights off in the front of the shop though I can see her moving in the shadows behind the counter inside.

She appears to be reading mail, slitting open envelopes. I tap on the glass and she looks up.

"I'm closed." She dismisses me. Her gaze returns to the mail.

"Sign says you're open." I shout through the door, where the hours are posted: "8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m." It is now nearly nine o'clock. I point to my watch and to the sign on the door.

"I told you I'm closed." I knock again.

She looks at me, this time with real irritation, studying me, then takes her purse from the counter, slings it over her shoulder, one hand buried inside.

With a look of exasperation she comes around the counter, turns the lock on the inside, and opens the door just a crack, the security chain still on.

"What part of closed don't you understand?" she says. Her hand is still buried deep in the dark recesses of her purse. At the moment, I suspect I am living more dangerously than I want to know.

I slip a business card through the crack. "I could tell you I represent the man you just ran down on the street, but that would be a lie." I give her my best smile.

She reads my card. "What's that to me?"

"I'd like to talk to you."

"What about?"

"I'd rather not do it while standing in the street."

"I'm afraid that's as good as it's going to get," she says. "Which one of the molesting deviants do you represent?"

"None. I just want some information."

"Come back some other time. Or better yet. don't bother." She starts to close the door.

"It's possible we have something in common."

"And what could that be?"

"Bailey," I tell her. The single word seems to freeze her in place.

The door is still open, just a sliver. She studies me, searching for some point of recognition, but fails to find it, then hesitates for a moment. Indecision. What to do? One hand is still buried in the purse, the other on the lock.

"What do you know about Bailey?"

"I know he was your son."

"Anybody could have told you my son's name."

"I know he died under suspicious circumstances, probably as a result of abuse by your former husband." This has never been reported in the press, even though she screamed and ranted at the time. Susan had told me the rest of the story.

"There's no probably about it," says Suade.

There was never a conviction, though I sense that now is not the time to debate the point.

"I want to stop it from happening again," I tell her. The magic words, like open sesame. She assesses me for a long moment, an expression that says, "What the hell. Talk is cheap." She slides her hand up the door, catches the chain and slides it off.

"Come in." I know that if I tell her why I'm here, mention Jonah's name, I would never get through the door. Besides, it's only a little white lie, a matter of degrees. There is little question in my mind that one or more of Jessica's live-in lovers possess the same proclivities as Suade's former husband, and present the same dangers to Amanda Hale.

She steps outside and checks the street, first in one direction, then the other. Then she bolts the door behind us.

"So what do you know about Gerald?" she says. Her hand is still in the purse, resting languidly in the bottom I suspect, like a coiled snake.

"Rumor has it he's responsible for the death of your little boy."

"Is that what you've come to tell me? Rumors?"

"Your son died twelve years ago."

"There's no statute of limitations on murder "she says. And apparently none for revenge.

Gerald Langly is Suade's ex. He is currently in prison.

"I know that he beat you. That he brutalized your son. That the boy died under highly suspicious circumstances."

"And how do you know all this?"

"Let's just say we have a mutual acquaintance." She looks me up and down, then finally motions me deeper into the shop. Finally she lifts her hand from the purse.

The overhead lights are still out. The large copying machine behind the counter is as cold as a frozen brick. There are envelopes on the counter, some of them opened, others waiting for the edge of a needle-sharp stiletto opener that lies on the counter next to them.

She lays the purse on the counter and picks up the letter opener, trading one weapon for another.

"Who's this mutual acquaintance?" she asks.

"I'm not at liberty to say." She's clearly interested, racking her brain, trying to figure who would know the intimate details of her life, or for that matter care enough to tell some stranger.

"What do you want?" "As I said, to talk. Just a little help." Her gaze comes up, her expression suddenly filled with an afterthought.

"Stop. Are you wearing a wire?"

"What?"

"It's a simple question. Are you wired?"

"Why would I be wired?"

"Three little letters," she says. "FBI. You don't mind if I look?" She doesn't wait for a reply, but comes around the counter and starts to feel me up, around the waist in the cleft at the center of my back, and at the belt line. She is still holding the needle-sharp letter opener in her hand.

She steps away, wearing a look of suspicion, wary eyes.

"You're clean." She says it as if I don't know this. Like some aliens might have planted a bug on my body without my knowledge.

Suade obviously lives in a world of her own invention.

"The fibbies would love to bust me," she says. "They park out front.

Watch me with field glasses. Try to read my lips." I'm wondering if she has a rich fantasy life, or if the feds really are onto her.

"I'm not working for the FBI. My sole concern is a little girl.

At the present time I think she's in danger. I think you can help and I think once you hear all the facts you will want to." She looks at me as if this is nine-to-five work. Another hour, another child to save. It's a story that puts me squarely in the fold of followers.

"You have a client?"

"I do."

"Tell me about her." The first problem.

I'm saved by the tap of metal on the glass door behind her. I see some guy standing there, a file of paper under his arm. He's looking intently at Suade, tapping on the glass with his keys.

"What do you want?" She doesn't turn but shouts at him through the closed door. Hers is a voice with multiple personalities.

This one is a candidate for exorcism.

"I need some copies." Muted voice from outside.

"Try Kinko's."

"Just take a minute," he says.

"How do you know how long it'll take? Machine's not warmed up.

Read the sign. We're closed." He looks at the closed sign, and the hours posted next to it on the door. "It's after nine," he says.

"Excuse me." She turns around, brim of her hat like a cutting edge.

"What is this? Nobody can read." She's still holding the letter opener with its tip like a stiletto. "Maybe if I stick this up your ass, you'll get the point," she says.

By the time she gets to the door, the guy's already backing up, staring at her wide-eyed, wondering if somehow he's wandered through the portal to hell.

She turns the lock on the door. In less than an hour, she's run one man down on the street and now she's threatening to stab another.

Discretion tells me I should end my conversation while I'm ahead.

"No need to get abusive, lady. All I wanted was some papers copied."

"You think this is abuse?" she says. "You want abuse? I'll show you abuse." The guy's staring at the needle-sharp point. By the time the door is open, he's out in the middle of the sidewalk, pedaling in reverse like some back judge in a football game.

Suade picks up a newspaper that's in front of the door and throws it at him, classifieds flying in the breeze.

He turns and starts to run.

"Like I said, try Kinko's," she says.

"Well, the hell with you." He tries to reclaim a little pride as he scurries down the street.

"Yeah, right. Another hero," she says and steps back through the door.

Almost in the same breath: "You say your client's child is in danger."

"Yes. I think that's safe to say."

"This child. Boy? Girl? How old?"

"A girl. Eight. My biggest problem is I've got to find her."

"What are you talking about, find her? Where is she?"

"I don't know."

"Who's the mother?"

"The mother's got some problems."

"Who doesn't," she says.

"She has a serious criminal record."

"Is that how you came to represent her?"

"Not exactly."

"Listen. I don't have time for twenty questions," says Suade.

"Why don't you just tell me your story so we can cut to the chase."

"I don't represent the mother," I tell her.

This stops her in her tracks. "Don't tell me. You represent the father?"

"No." An instant of relief.

"The grandfather," I say.

She looks at me and laughs. I can't tell if I'm about to get the point.

"I knew it. Have you got a subpoena? If so, hand it here and get out,"

she says.

"I don't serve subpoenas. I have a process server who does that."

"Fine, then just get out. Or would you like me to call the cops?"

"No need for that. What are you afraid of?"

"Not you," she says. She's reaching for her purse, pulling it closer.

"Fine. I just want to talk. Easier here than in a courtroom."

"For who? Not for me," she says. She's giving me a look I've seen in barrooms from guys with broken bottles in their hands, offering the business end to somebody else.

"There's no reason for hostility," I tell her.

But the look in her eyes tells me that's my opinion. Some of us get off on it.

"I have a client ..."

"Good for you."

"His only interest is in finding his granddaughter." She doesn't say a word and is no longer looking at me. She's back to her envelopes.