Steve Martini - Double Tap

“As I recall, Templeton told the judge that his office had ‘reservations’ concerning cameras. That’s not exactly storming the barricades,” says Harry. “You saw the gleam in his eyes. The thought of appearing daily on the small tube, given his track record in front of juries, could spawn a whole new fad in reality television: Lilliputians in Court .”

“Okay, he’s a problem.”

“A problem?” says Harry. “A nine-point earthquake is a problem. Getting too close to a star when it goes supernova is a problem. Mud wrestling with a midget in the middle of a murder trial while he moonwalks on boards in the front of the jury is not a problem. I would call that a catastrophe, maybe a cataclysm.”

“If he gets out of control, Gilcrest will rein him in.” If Templeton is the dark side of our case, Sam Gilcrest, the trial judge, is the bright seam. He’s a former public defender, one of the last survivors, a point for our side. He’ll listen politely to Templeton’s arguments, but if he has to he’ll sit on him.

“Be easier to disarm a nuclear warhead while you’re in the middle of a grand mal seizure,” says Harry. “Face it: this thing’s gonna be tried in the center ring of a circus. And you and I are likely to be outside the tent.”

“I think you’re overstating it.”

“That’s not possible,” says Harry.

“It is what it is. At this point we don’t have a lot of choices.”

“Kendal found one.” Harry means backing out of the case.

“Even if I were inclined-which I am not-the court wouldn’t allow it. Not at this stage. Not this late. Not unless the client fired us, and I don’t think Ruiz is going to do that.”

“If you let me talk to him alone, I think I can arrange it,” says Harry.

I smile and ignore him. The message from Herman includes a number. According to the note, he’ll only be there until four o’clock. I check my watch. After that I’m supposed to join him. He’s left the name of the place and an address.

“We end up doing this on live television,” says Harry. “Twenty or thirty million people watching while every unemployed lawyer in North America vies for face time so they can criticize our every move during each break. When it’s over, they’ll erect a tombstone out in front of the office. You know what it’ll say?”

“No.”

“‘Here Lie Madriani and Hinds, Killed by Tom Thumb.”’

“I didn’t ask for Templeton. And unless you know something I don’t, there’s no process for removing a prosecutor with an affidavit. So, short of finding a magical shrinking potion, inhaling helium, or learning how to sing ‘The Lollipop Guild’ in falsetto, what is it you would like me to do?”

“For starters, we could have somebody fall on the little fucker,” says Harry.

“Or maybe you could just drop your briefcase on him.”

“Hey. The man pushed me first. There is a limit.”

“There’s also something called assault and battery,” I tell him.

“I was defending myself,” says Harry. “The guy was trying to feed me the spiral end of his notebook.”

I pile the telephone slips in the middle of the blotter on my desk, keeping only the one from Herman. I’m out of my chair and heading for the door. I grab my jacket from the coat tree as I go.

“Where are you going?”

“To get a drink,” I tell him.

“First good idea you’ve had all day.”

“Alone.”

In the light of dusk you can see it a block away, the words Crash’N Burn in purple neon, blazing against the white stucco on the building’s façade. The place is set back from the street in a small strip mall about a half mile from the main gate at Isotenics, Inc.

According to Herman, this is the chief watering hole for the programmers, the number crunchers, and a few of the execs at Software City, the principal after-work hangout at rush hour. They come here to down a drink or two while they kill time waiting for the solid stream of red taillights on I-5 to snake south and break up. Herman has been coming here every night for a week. Three days ago he made contact and has been cultivating it each evening since.

Except for a small Chinese restaurant and a private parcel shop, Crash’N Burn takes up nearly the entire retail space along the mall. Its large neon sign spans the length of the building, emitting an eerie violet hue that illuminates the front of the club like a black light.

It takes me a couple of minutes to find a parking space in the lot out in front. The place is packed. I leave my jacket, take my wallet and slip it into my hip pocket, and lose the tie. The object is to look as unbusinesslike as possible, hoping the man with Herman won’t recognize me, at least until I have a chance to sit down.

I lock the car and head for the entrance under the art deco canopy spanning the sidewalk in front. The sleeves of my white shirt take on a phosphorescent glow under the hum of the neon tubes overhead. The canopy leads to double doors of smoked glass, very heavy. I can feel vibrations from the bass boom of music inside before I arrive.

I pull one of the doors open. Inside, the crush of bodies, laughter, and loud music from the sound system become an exercise in sensory overload. The place is a fire marshal’s nightmare. People are forming up and adhering in tight little circles like grease in detergent, some of them turned sideways just in order to move. Standing bodies everywhere, most of them holding cocktail glasses, some of them shimmying to the beat of the music.

The lighting theme from the building’s exterior is intensified here. Black light transforms flesh into shades of bronze. Smiles become blinding.

The crowd, mostly in their twenties and early thirties, is an assortment. Business types in suits mingle with the more casually dressed. Some of them have joined me in ditching their suit coats. Two young women, their backs to me, cocktail glasses in hand, block the way. One of them, wearing a short white shirtdress, seems to glow with incandescence as she gyrates in place to the music. She is shouting at the top of her voice in order to be heard by a young guy standing next to her.

Off to my right is a bar that spans the room, all the way to the back. Behind it is a wall of mirrored glass and shelves of bottles. I count at least three bartenders pulling stemmed glasses from the overhead rack and juggling bottles to mix drinks, their hands moving at the speed of light.

To my left, through an occasional parting of bodies, I can see people sitting at a few low tables. These are arranged like toadstools around a dance floor that is covered by humanity, standing room only.

In the distance, on the other side of the dance floor, two terraced areas are set off behind a railing: booths and tables, all of them occupied.

It isn’t hard to find Herman. When he stands up from the booth in the far corner to wave, the two people sitting at the table in front of him turn to see if the wall behind them isn’t moving. The size of a small house, tonight Herman is wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, prints of tropical foliage covering enough cloth to outfit the sails on a schooner.

I raise a hand to let him know I’ve seen him. Then I sidle and slither across the dance floor, slipping through the crowd and up the two steps to the raised area.

The man sitting with Herman is also African-American. He’s busy scanning the rest of the crowd as I approach, looking the other way. By now Herman should have had a chance to feed him a couple of drinks and, if I am lucky, to put him in a talkative mood. He turns to look at me just as I reach the table. The light is disorienting. Above the collar of my shirt, my face is probably an orange blob. I don’t think he recognizes me.

Herman is waiting for me with an outstretched arm. “Paul, I want you to meet a friend of mine.” He’s shouting into my ear to be heard over the music, then turns away so I can barely make out the rest of it. “Harold, this is Paul. Paul, Harold.”