George Higgins - The rat on fire

“We went to La Patisserie,” she said. “Stephanie’s on another one of her diets.”

“Which is exactly what I figured,” he said. “You never go to the Colonnade for lunch when you go to the Colonnade for lunch with Stephanie. Stephanie decides she wants Greek food, or you get a yen for Italian food, or Sharon shows up and she wants to go to Nick’s or the Fifty-seven or someplace else. I never know where you’re having lunch when you’re having lunch at the Colonnade, and I know I don’t, so I don’t even bother trying there. Besides, I was just playing golf. There wasn’t any harm in it. The cops can’t get me for playing golf, I don’t think.”

“It isn’t what you did,” she said. “There’s been a fire.”

“Whaddaya mean, there’s been a fire?” he said. “Where’s the fucking fire? You all right? What burned, for Christ sake? The hell’d you let me go on for anyway? Where the hell was the fire?”

“It was in one of our buildings on Bristol Road,” she said. “I don’t know which one.”

Fein went over to the off-white stuffed chair and sat down heavily. “Oh, for Christ sake,” he said. “Those fucking niggers.”

“Nobody got hurt,” she said. “That’s good, at least.”

“Hurt?” he said. “Hurt? I wished one of the bastards would get hurt. Honest to God. They got bored with tearing the place down piece by piece so they’re gonna take the quick way and burn it.”

“You don’t know that, Jerry,” she said.

“Get me a straight vodka on ice, will you?” he said. “I do know it. I know it just as sure as I’m sitting here. Those fucking niggers that won’t pay their rent decided they’ll forget about tearing the plumbing out and knocking holes in the walls, and they’ll set the place on fire. Jesus Christ. I knew they didn’t give a shit about my property, but now they’re getting ready to burn their own with it. Not that they got any, of course. Holy shit.”

“You can’t be sure of that, Jerry,” she said, bringing the drink from the crescent-shaped white marble bar. “You don’t know it was that. It could’ve been an accident. Something went wrong with the heater or something.”

“Bullshit, I can’t be sure,” Fein said. “If there was a fire in that building, it was set. There’s nothing wrong with the furnace and there’s nothing wrong with the boiler or anything else. Why the hell do you think the cops’re coming, huh? You think the cops just automatically visit anybody that owns property when there’s a fire in it? The cops? Cops direct traffic and tag cars and stop guys from speeding, and now and then by accident they catch a crook. Firemen go to fires. When the cops come about a fire, it’s because they know damned well that somebody set it. And I know it just as well as they do. They aren’t telling me a single fuckin’ thing that I don’t know. I take a day off to play golf, and one of my lovely tenants puts a match to my building. Well, good luck to the cocksuckers. I’m out the first five hundred for repairs, but the hell with that. I hope they burn the place fuckin’ flat, and with them in it.”

Mavis Davis sat in Wilfrid Mack’s office at 8:45 p.m. and looked worried. “I hate to bother you, Mister Mack,” she said.

“It’s no bother,” he said. “I’m out of here most of the day. If I’m not in court, I’m in the State House. I expect to be here at night. It’s the only time I can see people, and after all, this job wasn’t forced on me. It’s just that I do have to tell you that I can’t represent Alfred unless I get a fee, and it’s going to have to be a substantial one.”

“Mister Mack,” she said, “Alfred hasn’t got any money and I sure don’t.”

“Look,” Mack said, “I know that. I know Alfred hasn’t any money and I know the trouble you had coming up with my fee a good many years ago, when everything was cheaper. But you have to understand: I don’t have any money either. I have to make a living too. If I don’t charge Alfred and everybody else I represent, I won’t be able to stay in business. I filed my appearance for him this morning for purposes of arraignment only because I can’t afford to go around taking cases for clients who can’t pay me anything. I just can’t do it. If Alfred wants me to try his case for him in court, Alfred is going to have to come up with a lot of money. Otherwise I am not going to be able to do it. And I won’t do it, either. Not that it’s going to matter much.”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“Mrs. Davis,” Mack said, “Alfred jumped a cop and tried to whap him around with a tire iron. As usual, Alfred was careful to make sure that there was another witness around. Another cop, to be exact. Not to mention his sister and probably some other folks that I don’t know about yet, but who know Alfred and could pick him out of a two-hundred-man line-up.”

“Selene,” she said, “they can’t make Selene testify.”

“Unfortunately,” Mack said, “they can make Selene testify. They maybe can’t make her tell the truth, but they can make her testify. If they choose to do so. Which I can’t imagine why they would want to, since if I ever heard of a case that was ironclad, airtight, gone for sure and over with, this is it. But if they decide that they want to hammer her, they can do it, and if she lies about recognising her brother or her boyfriend, they will be in a position to do something to Selene. If they want to. Nope, they can haul her in. They have got the Davis family in a very tight corner.”

“Mister Mack,” she said, “we had a fire at Bristol Road today.”

“Oh, my God,” Mack said. “Was anybody hurt?”

“Nobody was hurt,” she said. “The only person in the building apparently was Alfred, and he was sleeping after he got home from court, but it was just smoke and stuff and he got out all right.

“Alfred,” she said, “Alfred was up all night. He didn’t get no sleep after they arrested him and he was scared and he just went home and he went to bed and he was sleeping.”

“Alfred was sleeping,” Mack said.

“Yes, he was,” she said. “He was sleeping. He told me he was sleeping so he’d be able to go to work tonight and help me get that money back that I paid for his bail there, and I believe him.”

“You believe him,” Mack said.

“He was all hurt, Mister Mack,” she said. “They beat on him something fearful, them cops. He was sore and he was hurt and he didn’t have any medical down at the jail there. Yeah, I believe him.”

“I don’t,” Mack said.

“Senator,” she said, “the hell you mean by that?”

“Mrs. Davis,” he said, “I have talked with Alfred. I have represented Alfred. Alfred is the most difficult client I ever had in my entire professional career. Alfred does not lie all the time, which I guess is to his credit. But Alfred does not tell the truth all the time, either, and I never know what or which time it is when Alfred is talking to me.

“You’re in a different position,” Mack said. “You are Alfred’s mother. This is a terrible burden that was put on you, but I guess probably the Lord Jesus has His reasons for doing things like this to perfectly decent people. I suppose when Alfred says something, such as that he was sleeping, you are more or less obliged to believe it, for that reason.

“I am not Alfred’s mother,” Mack said. “There are some things in my life I would change if God gave me half a chance, but that is not one of them. I am very grateful that I am not Alfred’s mother. I would rather have a good case of malaria than anything that put me in a position where I was probably obliged to believe what Alfred said.”

“Mister Mack,” she said.