Steve Martini - The Arraignment

She tells me she and Benny checked out the neighborhood, the drug dealer’s house last night. “But not to worry,” she says. “Benny had his gun. Double-barrel shotgun, both of them loaded. We had to make sure of the address,” she says.

“You didn’t trust me?”

“We’re professionals,” she says. “Like to do it right.”

I can see her up on the porch with one of those flashlights that takes a battery the size of a bread box, with a notepad writing down the names off the mailbox, while Benny sat in the car at the curb with his blunderbuss, ready to blow the shit out of the front of the place if anybody walked out the door. There are at least three felonies here that I can count. It’s the problem with Joyce. I know mobsters with more discretion.

“What did you find out?”

“Your man. It’s one Hector Saldado,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. We got him dead,” she says. “Trus’ me.”

“Just a second.” I grab a pen and some Post-its from the holder on my desk.

“Spell it?”

She does. “Not only is he the only one with a cell phone lives there,” she says. “You know, of the other names you gave me?”

“Yes.”

“But he makes regular calls down to Mexico.”

She can tell by the silence coming from my end that this is something of note.

“I thought you might be interested,” she says. “There were a lotta them. These calls. At least three or four almost every day. None of them long. You know, a minute, maybe two. But how long can it take to order up some drugs? I mean, less time than a pizza, I’m sure. There’s no special toppings.”

“You have his cell statement?”

“I tol’ you I’d get it, didn’t I? You want it all? It’s pretty long. You know, a minute here, two minutes there. A lot of the same phone numbers too,” she says. “I checked it. The country code and area. Mexico,” she says.

“Where? Do you know what part of Mexico?”

“Just a sec,” she says. “Let’s see, I got it here someplace.”

I can hear her hand muffle the mouthpiece, papers shuffling.

“Here it is,” she comes back on. “Cancun. Quin-tan-aroo? Is that right?”

“I’ve heard of it,” I tell her. It’s the area Metz visited when he did business with the two Ibarra brothers. “Listen. I have another job for you.”

This afternoon I am pressed for time. I have a flight north at four, business in Capital City with an errand on the way. I should be at the airport by three, but I am stuck doing lunch, Adam style, in the private dining room next to his office. Tolt sits on one side, me on the other, a table the length of a runway. It is covered by a linen tablecloth and two candles in sterling silver holders. They match the silver chargers resting under the eggshell china dishes in front of us.

The firm retains a chef for special occasions, as well as a company that sends waiters in white livery whenever they are needed to work from the kitchen that is through another door. Everything you need to run a five-star restaurant.

“You handled it very well,” says Adam. “Under the circumstances, I don’t think anyone could have done better. You played the hand you were dealt, and you got a good result.”

“For who?”

“For your client,” he says. He reaches across with his butter knife and stabs one of the little squares in the dish, takes it back, and spreads it on a warm French roll that he’s plucked from the linen-lined basket on the table.

“I know what you think, that I snookered you by using the settlement to cover the money she took. The fact is…”

“The fact is you recovered your money,” I tell him.

“Right.” He smiles. “What can I say? Sometimes things just work out,” he says.

I have a feeling they work out for Adam a little more than they do for the rest of us.

The occasion is the receipt of the check in settlement from the insurance carrier. Dana has compromised her portion and authorized me to deliver payment, a check made out to Rocker, Dusha to cover the missing funds from the firm’s trust account. All of this with interest. This now rests in an envelope on Adam’s desk as we break bread.

“So that you know, she has no basis for complaint. I trust you told her that.” What he means is with money in the bank instead of jail time over her head.

The waiter brings out the main course, poultry braised in red wine, with long grains of wild rice, a medly of roasted vegetables, and a new selection from the vintner, five different wines to choose from.

“Piece de resistance,” says Adam. Another waiter follows with assorted side dishes, stuffed mushrooms and asparagus in a glazed butter sauce, fare rich enough to give a poor man the gout.

“The pheasant is roasted in Madeira,” says Adam. “I first tasted the dish on a trip to Portugal. I guess it was four years ago. I tried to get the recipe, but they wouldn’t give it to me. So I had Armand call the restaurant in Lisbon. He’s our chef and the chief chef at Marmande,” he says.

“I guessed as much.”

“They gave it to him. Professional courtesy. It’s the same in every field,” he says.

The waiter lifts the glass cover from the dish he has set in front of Adam. My waiter does the same. Adam slips his fork into the bird, burying it to the top of the tines. He cuts a small piece with his knife and tastes it as the waiter pours wine.

“Tell Armand he’s outdone himself this time,” he tells the waiter.

The guy smiles, neatly bows at the waist. “Is there anything else?”

Adam looks at me.

“I suppose we could do it reclining like the Romans,” I tell him. “But if there’s anything else, I can’t think what it would be.”

“No, that’ll be all,” says Adam.

They leave.

“I would have invited Harry,” says Tolt. “You have a wonderful partner there. Good man. From the old school. I recognize it,” he says.

For some reason, the two of them have hit it off. I would not have expected this, Adam the world traveler, confidant of the powerful, and Harry who irons his own shirts.

“I was impressed with the thoroughness of his research, the points and authorities you gave to the carrier. That was his work?” He looks up at me.

“Every bit of it. Harry has saved me on more than one occasion,” I tell him.

“Every knight needs a good armorer,” says Tolt. “I would have invited him, but I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

Somehow I knew Adam wouldn’t celebrate like this unless there was some other purpose.

“Some more wine?” he says.

“No thanks.” I look at my watch.

“Not to worry,” he says. “I’ll have my driver take you to the airport.”

“My bags are already in the trunk of my car,” I tell him.

“You can park it in our garage. The driver will get you to the airport in ten minutes and drop you at the curb. That way you won’t have to find a parking space. Give him your flight, he’ll pick you up when you come back.”

“I couldn’t have you do all that.”

“Nonsense.”

“Keep it up. You’re going to spoil me, Adam.”

“That’s the idea.” He smiles and takes another bite.

“So, what is it you wanted to talk about?” I’d like to know what the charges are.

“I didn’t ask you why she took the money. Dana, I mean. Mrs. Rush. I assume she was pressed financially. So I suppose no harm, no foul. But I would like to know one thing.”

I’m sitting back, sipping wine, listening.

“The insurance, her taking of the trust fund checks. Did any of this have to do with Nick’s death? I don’t need to know any details,” he says. “Whatever passed between the two of you in the confines of lawyer- client should stay there. And I will accept whatever you tell me. If you can’t say anything, I understand. My concern regards the firm. I merely want to know whether we can expect more repercussions from this?”