William Deverell - Kill All the Judges

“I expect it will be interesting.”

Front desk was paging, Cudworth Brown was on the premises. Brian asked April Fan Wu to arm herself with several sharpened pencils. He wanted Cuddles’s every uttered word, he had to find a solution to Astrid Leich, the surprise eyewitness.

Before greeting his client, he slipped into the washroom, locked the door, laid out a pair, inhaled, rubbed his nostrils, and quickly felt much better. Maybe he’ll come to the office more often, get to know April Wu better. She’s quick, she gave him tit for tat. Obviously likes him. Finds him charmingly eccentric. Handsome enough with his chiselled, strife-worn features, despite his cigarette-yellowed moustache. She’s intrigued, here was someone different, the famed defender of an international assassin. The Abu Khazzam case, front-page news all through Asia. Ah, my love, did your heart skip a beat when you learned you’d be working for the great Bry Pomeroy?

He did a couple more rows, then peed, washed his hands, and went out to fetch Cudworth. A muttering of greetings, no apologies, no eye contact. He sat him on a sofa, well away from the Oriental goddess, who was cross-legged on a wooden chair, pencil poised.

“Okay, Cud, face this way, not at her. From the top.”

Of the three writers Judge Whynet-Moir invited, the most exotic was Cudworth Brown, a poet of bawdy and muscular verse, and he was the first to arrive-eager to sup at the capitalist trough, to rub elbows with philanthropists and possible patrons.

As Cudworth’s taxi pulled into the portico, Whynet-Moir came out to greet him. A thin, greying, straight-backed man, a soft city hand that went limp in Cudworth’s gnarly grip. Waving off his ill-meant protests, Whynet-Moir paid the fifty dollars on the meter.

“Bless you, Judge. That fare would’ve wiped me out.”

“My pleasure. Where are you staying?”

“I’ll find a place, I’ll get by.”

Whynet-Moir saw that Cudworth had brought a backpack presumably stuffed with overnight gear, and he grappled with the implications for a moment. “Nonsense, you’ll stay the night here. Plenty of empty beds. Self-contained suite above the garage if you prefer, the maid’s room.” Above-the-garage was what Whynet-Moir would prefer: this vulgarian had a suspect reputation.

He ushered Cudworth in, showed him where to hang his poncho. The brute had had a recent shave and haircut, at least, and the grace to use a deodorizer. Floppy boots, baggy black pants held up by red braces, the top buttons of a denim shirt opened to reveal a peace medallion nestled among chest curls. Poor Flo, she will be aghast. He wished she would quickly finish her makeup and rescue him. He would definitely check the seating assignments, to make sure he was at the other end of the table from this hulk-shouldered rural.

To kill time before the other guests arrived (the political essayist, Professor Chandra, would be His Lordship’s preferred seatmate), he toured Cudworth through the main wing of the house. A catering chef and his assistant were in the kitchen, an atrium of stainless steel; servers were setting a long table in a dining salon whose sliding glass doors gave access to the wraparound cedar deck and views of rock faces towering over a narrow, frothy inlet.

A living room dominated by a two-sided fireplace. A glassed overlook to the heated pool, steaming and bubbling. Jade conveniences in each washroom. Elevator to the wine cellar. Just off the dining parlour, a well-stocked bar.

Whynet-Moir didn’t know how to respond to Cudworth’s mantra, “Nice set-up,” “Real nice set-up.” With neither able to bridge the cultural gap, conversation was sparse, but Cudworth couldn’t say no a martini, and he lingered so longingly at the countertop humidor that Whynet-Moir gave him a Romeo y Julieta. “I’m afraid we prefer to smoke outdoors,” he said, ushering Cudworth outside. With relief, the judge ran off to attend to new arrivals.

Cudworth twirled his cigar, playing with it, wanting to save it for the right mellow moment, with some of that Hennessy VSOP to go with it. He lit a cigarette, watched Whynet-Moir greet a couple in a high-end Porsche. Here coming up the driveway was a voluptuous car, a topless Lamborghini. Ever since he lost his virginity in a Jaguar, Cudworth had a thing about fine cars.

“Want to fire me up?”

He turned to see what looked like a frame from an early flick, Lauren Bacall in mid-career, maybe, or Greta Garbo, in what they call a little black thing, high black boots, a long set of pearls, an unlit cigarette proffered. There was something vaguely Oriental about her, in her eyes and colour, but he figured half the world had Genghis Khan’s genes, sometimes they showed up more obviously.

He didn’t skip a beat, had a match under her fag in an instant, his hand cupped to shelter the flame, her hand there too, touching, winered lips puckering, inhaling, smoke creeping from flared nostrils.

“You changed my life,” she said.

Brian opened a window to let some of the heat escape. He hadn’t been with a woman for months, was horny for Florenza LeGrand, what right had Cud to pucker with the transoceanic shipping line princess? She really say that, Cud? You changed her life ? Sounds a little wheezy, falsely dramatic.

An image of Florenza and her little black thing and her winered lips came again, but his erection failed to last, submitting limply to an infernal chorus from a shop speaker about the coming of Santa Claus.

He should have had that beer with Max, should have gone with him to the Club d’Jazz at attitude adjustment hour. He shouldn’t have sneaked out the back way, by the stairs of cowardice. He should have listened to Max diagnose him. I’ll be blunt, Bry. I don’t think you’re sick, you’re just being an asshole. He could have refuted that. Easy. But he wants them to think he’s being an asshole. That’s his cover.

At the same time he hadn’t wanted a harangue from the scrawny long-distance runner, a drug abuse lecture. Brian took pride in his drug abuse, he was a gourmand of drug abuse, Max wouldn’t understand that. Brian had hit on the perfect combination: a tequila on the hour, a line on the half-hour, and non-stop nicotine, a sustained creative high. Presumably most crime writers, from Dashiell Hammett on, composed while drunk or stoned, so Brian was maintaining a fine tradition. As Widgeon said, I find a wee nip at the bottom of the day stirs the embers to one last spurt before the weary writer retires to the comfort of easy chair and telly.

It had never occurred to Cudworth his verses might change a life; it was a wondrous concept to which he quickly warmed.

“I was living a lie,” she said.

“How?”

“I’ll tell you sometime.”

She pulled two thin volumes from her bag. Liquor Balls and Karmageddon . “Write something scintillating.” Then she had second thoughts, because she put them back. “Later, when you’ve got to know me better. Would you like to stay the night?”

“Thanks, I’ve already been asked. I’ll be in the maid’s room.” Cud pointed to the room above the garage, in case she needed directions. She butted her smoke and went off to greet her guests.

You’re asking me to buy this, Cud, this seduction scenario? I’ll play along with it, but what’s her version? There’s the rub-she’s made no statements and, on the advice of counsel, hasn’t talked to the Crown. Brian had learned this from a letter from Abigail Hitchins he’d eventually found enclosed in a box with the particulars of evidence.

So Brian didn’t know what Ms. LeGrand was going to say at the trial, he hadn’t a clue. He’d read about her, seen photos of her, a favourite of the gossip columns, wild, eccentric, unclassifiable. Rumours abounded of dissolute early years, before her marriage two years ago to the handsome, allegedly suave, and utterly eligible bachelor judge.