The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy (33 page)

The smile that showed just the tip of his tongue
before Trinh laced his fingers and brought them over and behind his
carefully moussed head. Reclining in the desk chair, he said, "You
like a hungry dog, got a stick he want to be a bone."

"Meaning you had nothing to do with Gant's being
killed." Grover became agitated. "Say what?"

Trinh didn't bother to look at him. "Shut up,
deadbeat." To me, "Like I told you before. I'm gonna kill
the man, I don't shoot him."

"You'd just have Oscar beat him to death."

"Been a pleasure," said Huong from the
wall.

His boss gave him a look that I thought meant,
"That's enough." Then Trinh returned to me. "But it
didn't happen that way."

"You've got a grudge against Gant. Makes you a
prime suspect if he goes down, especially from a beating administered
by somebody like Hands of Stone over there. Plus, you've been kind of
dipping into his life, like getting him to eat in a restaurant you're
bankrolling."

More agitation from Grover. "What you saying?"

“
Nugey here isn't just your banker, my friend. He
fronted the money for the restaurant your brother ate in the night he
was killed. Owns the building, in fact."

Gant seemed like he wanted to say something more. But
Oscar Huong came half a step off the wall, and the sentence died in
Grover's throat.

Trinh rocked his chair a little. "So the man
eats at a restaurant maybe five mile from his condo."

I thought, Nugey knows where Woodrow Gant lived, down
to the distance.

Trinh kept rocking. "Shit like that happens."

"Only this time it didn't just 'happen.' You set
it up, Nugey."

The tongue licked out and back once. "You wanna
tell me how?"

“
By having your girlfriend take him there for lunch
the first time."

Now Gant turned in his chair toward me. "Girlfriend?"
Trinh said, "Grover, I tell you once already, shut up. Not gonna
say it again."

I kept my gun on the man behind the desk. "Then
let me explain things so your favorite customer here doesn't have to
talk. Woodrow Gant put you and Oscar away for that home invasion.
After getting out, you expand your horizons, eventually meet a lawyer
in his firm. Which gives you an idea. You start threading your way
back into Woodrow Gant's life. Loaning money to his brother who likes
to gamble, moving—"

Grover Gant finally added things up and rose from his
chair, rage in his voice. "You yellow mother'—"

Thanks to peripheral vision, I was aware of Oscar
Huong moving, but I couldn't have told you what part of him struck
Grover. I could see what part of Gant hit the floor, though. All of
him, a cracking sound still dying away in the air as he writhed,
hugging his right arm with his left hand and moaning. Huong's face
said he wasn't finished.

I kept the gun on Trinh. "Call him off, or I put
a round in you."

Just a tip-of-the-tongue smile from across the desk.
"You lose your license."

"It's that, or lose Grover, right?"

Trinh stopped smiling, "Oscar?"

This time Huong needed more prodding.

"Oscar, enough, okay? Man's not gonna try
anything more."

Reluctantly, Huong backed up to the wall again, Gant
moaning louder.

I said, "Grover, you all right?"

Trinh shook his head. "Somebody come after me
like that, Oscar usually break something."

"Just one bone," said Huong. "So far."

I watched Trinh. "You started dating Deborah
Ling to get your hooks further into Woodrow Gant. But why?"

"She a good-looking chick."

"There's got to be more to it than that."

Trinh blinked twice, pursing his lips, then moved his
eyes off to the right, where nobody could see them. In a smaller
voice, he said, "I fell for her, all right?"

Grover Gant began to moan even louder, now sprinkling
in a few words.

I said to Trinh, "Fell in love?"

"Yeah. Her, too. With me, I mean."

I tried not to shake my head. "Okay, let's say I
believe that. I still don't see why you were stalking Woodrow Gant."

"You said it before."

"Said what?"

Trinh swung his head back to me, the eyes as involved
as his mouth in what he was saying. "The 'grudge' thing. Gant
put me away, Mr. Private Eye. Me and Oscar, for a long time. What
happened to us back in Vietnam wasn't enough. No, you guys have to
get us over here, too. So, yeah, I was 'stalking' the lawyer-man, but
not to kill him. Just to . . . get him."

"Get him how?"

“
Like I got Chan there with his restaurant. Make
that pure-blood respect me."

"Only Chan knew he was dealing with you, and
Woodrow Gant didn't, right?"

Trinh shrugged. "Best I could do. When the
lawyer-man put us away, I couldn't do nothing. When I got out, I make
enough money, I could. So I start in with his law-woman. And then I
loan some money to his brother. Grover couldn't come up with enough
to cover things, and so it was like old Woodrow was paying me direct,
for all the time I was in the slam. And after that, I—"

Grover Gant began to cry. Deep, blubbering sobs.

I said, “You what?"

Trinh changed gears. "Nothing, that was it. Only
way I could get the lawyer-man was without him knowing anything. In
fact, it was almost better that way. I'm getting him, and he don't
even know shit's happening"

"But Grover's into you for a goodly sum of
money."

Trinh seemed thrown. "So?"

"So maybe you want to send a message to the
deadbeat who owes you."

A squint. "You saying I kill old Woodrow because
I want to put pressure on Grover?"

"It fits."

"Mr. Private Eye, what kinda shit you smoking,
huh? I gonna shoot a lawyer-man put me away after he eats at a place
I own? Not to mention old Woodrow's covering Grover's bad bets. How
am I gonna get paid, I kill the goose laying the golden eggs for this
deadbeat crying all over my floor right now?"

"Because Grover is the beneficiary on a policy
covering his brother's life."

Trinh's nostrils flared, the vein at his temple
pulsing under the skin. "Life insurance?"

"That's what we call it."

"This piece of shit here got money because the
lawyer-man died?"

"One hundred thousand. You see the . . ."
Looking down at Grover, I realized he wasn't wearing the watch
anymore.

"See the what?" said Trinh.

"Never mind. Just take my word for it. The
company paid Grover off."

Trinh stood up, Huong tensing at the wall.

I said, "Easy does it, everybody."

His palms on the desktop, Trinh craned forward far
enough to see Gant. "You fucking piece of shit, Grover! You come
in here and hand me three hundred you say you got at the track today,
and your deadbeat ass is sitting on one hundred large at your momma's
house?"

I said, "At least he was telling you the truth
about the track part."

Trinh looked at me, then laughed. Only a titter at
first, almost girlish, then heartier. Huong didn't see the humor in
the situation, or at least, he didn't show it. Grover began moaning
louder, the tears flowing freely.

Trinh sat back down, still laughing, but quieter now.
"Mr. Private Eye, you just made my day."

"Mind letting me in on it?"

The middle finger of his right hand whisked under
each eye, smearing a couple of tears. "You just tell me I don't
got a thing to worry about. Lawyer-man's dead, I figure I got to wait
till his nice car get sold, get my money from Grover's inheritance.
Now you telling me, my money's coming tomorrow, soon as that piece of
shit get a cast on his one arm, count me out the bills with the
other."

I waited a moment, but what Trinh said sounded right.
And unless he was up there with Olivier and De Niro, it seemed to me
that the insurance policy on Woodrow Gant was major-league news to
him.

"So," said Trinh, "you got any more
questions?"

"Not just now."

"Then do me a favor, Mr. Private Eye. You put
your gun away and you take this piece of shit on my floor to a
hospital."

"I don't know if he has insurance."

“
You just told me his brother's policy—"

"I mean medical insurance, for the doctors and
all."

"Oh." Trinh thought about it, then opened a
desk drawer and took out some bills. Tossing them at me, he said,
"Here's the three hundred from the track. I wait for it this
long, I can wait some more."

Then Nguyen Trinh raised his voice, aiming it over
the desk and down. "But, Grover, only till tomorrow, right?"
 

Chapter 18

TWENTY MINUTES AFTER dropping Grover Gant at St.
Elizabeth's emergency room, I said, "No rest for the weary."

Imogene Burbage looked up from behind the reception
desk at Epstein & Neely as I came off the elevator. She wore a
conservative blue suit and a determined gray frown.

"Mr. Cuddy, we are a law firm—one which had a
temp call in sick this morning—and I think we've already granted
you more than enough of our time."

"Maybe Frank Neely would give me an extension?"

Frown to sneer. “Mr. Neely isn't in."

"How about—"

I stopped, cold, because I heard a familiar voice
accompany footsteps from the direction of Uta Radachowski's office. A
voice with a little of the South in it, but also one a little out of
context.

". . . and so I really don't see any problem."

"Good," said Radachowski as she and Parris
Jeppers came into view around the corner.

Both of them seemed surprised to see me.

"Mr. Jeppers." I said, nodding neutrally.

The lawyer from the Board of Bar Overseers
backpedaled. Verbally, if not physically, his hand coming up to the
bow tie
du jour
and
then his goatee. "Ah, yes. Mr .... ?"

"John Cuddy." said Radachowski, staring
daggers through her thick lenses at me. "He's a detective
representing Alan Spaeth."

"Of course." Jeppers extended his hand.
"Sorry not to have remembered."

I shook with him. “Mine's an easy name to forget."

"Well," he said, "I must be off. Have
a nice day, now."

Radachowski and I stayed silent until the elevator
door closed and the light through the diamond window dropped away. I
let her speak next.

"Mr. Cuddy—"

"I thought it was 'John' and 'Uta'?"

Radachowski bit back something before saying, "I'm
afraid we can't give you any more of our time."

From the desk, Burbage said, "I told him the
same thing"

I stayed with Radachowski. "This might be my
last visit, and after all the cooperation Frank Neely's provided me,
I'd hate to have to tell Steve Rothenberg that it's subpoena time."

"I don't like threats, Mr. Cuddy."

"And I'm not making one. But you're still a
partner here, and therefore—"

This time I stopped because of the look on
Radachowski's face, as though she'd just heard me use a four-letter
word over Thanksgiving dinner.

I said, "Is something wrong?"

"No." Radachowski waved at the air. "No,
you're right. I can order you out, and call the police if that
doesn't work, but I'd rather everything remained on professional, if
not friendly, terms, too. What do you want to see me about?"

First Jeppers's overly casual reaction to me, now
Radachowski assuming I'd come to see her. Instinct said to go with
it.

"Just a few minutes'
worth, maybe in your office"

* * *

Even sitting behind her desk, Radachowski looked
ill-at-ease for the first time. "Your questions, please."

"Alan Spaeth's alibi witness was found dead this
morning."

She seemed to relax a bit, like the worst was over.
"I'm sorry to hear that."

" 'Any man's death'."

"What?"

"It's a quote, I'm not sure from where. 'Any
man's death makes us all the poorer,' or something like that."

Radachowski looked down at her desk for a moment,
then back up at me. "Are you making jokes now?"

"No, I'm definitely not doing that. Two men are
dead. One was your partner, and the other was a hard-luck guy whose
major flaw seems to have been loyalty to a friend, though he can't
testify to that anymore."

A shake of the head. "Mr. Cuddy, I don't see how
I fit into this line of questioning."

"Would Mr. Jeppers fit into it any better?"

"Parris?" A grunted laugh, that patronizing
sound lawyers make in court when a witness's answer hits them like an
arrow through the heart. "What in the world could he have to do
with your dead witness?"