Steve Martini: The Judge

“I’m sure,” I say. “And besides, that way it’s all in the family. No inconvenient audit trails, or messy reports.”

The thought is not lost on Lano. He makes a face. “If you like. Tony did a real good job,” he says.

So professional that their books are now inscribed in fading ink on the back of barroom napkins. Just the sort of records of account Lano would favor.

“I don’t think you have to worry,” he says. “The grand jury is off on a giant circle jerk. They’ve got nothing. On this skimming thing-the union dues.” He waves a hand, loose-wristed across the surface of his desk, as if to sweep the allegations off the edge.

“You sound like the voice of experience,” I say. “Have you talked with the grand jury in their little room?”

He gives me a look like “Yeah, right. And I’m gonna tell you .” He leans forward in his chair, his eyes little slits, some moment of truth in the offing.

“Tell me, Counselor, what kind of a deal were you trying to cut with the judge-for Tony’s testimony?”

My moment of truth, not his.

“What kind of a platter were you serving us up on?”

“Chef’s secret,” I tell him. “Client privilege,” which Tony seems to have already waived by unburdening himself on Lano’s shoulder.

“Sounds to me like the blue plate special,” he says. “Fricasseed friends.” He looks up at his associates. “Lucky for us Tony has a higher sense of loyalty.”

“As you say, lucky for you,” I tell him.

“You’re getting into very deep water,” he says. “Much deeper than you realize.”

“Good thing I can swim.”

“Dog-paddling in a stream of shit can get awfully tiresome,” he says.

“I hadn’t noticed,” I tell him.

“Most people don’t until they drown.”

Death by immersion in fecal matter, just the sort of lofty allegory Lano would aspire to.

“I might be concerned, but in this place of your visions, I’m sure you’re the lifeguard,” I tell him.

One of the guys behind him actually catches himself laughing, until he looks at his boss and notices that Lano is not.

“Hey, why do we have to throw rocks?” he says.

Suddenly there’s a lot of grace here, a change of tone, like a break in the clouds on a stormy day. Broad sunshine expressions and gestures with the hands, as if he would pump this light up my skirts if he could.

“Paul. Can I call you Paul?” he says.

He doesn’t wait for me to answer.

“Listen, Paul. Why not a truce? I think if you take the time you’ll find that we have a great deal in common.” He tries to intone the wisdom of age in his voice.

This makes me want to search for a shower and a bar of soap.

“We can be friends,” he says.

He glances at Harry, the way he is dressed, something from Goodwill. He must figure that such a proposal, friendship, cannot cost too much.

“We could use some good representation,” he tells me. “And I hear tell you’re one of the best.”

Lano is the kind who can put a silk frock on a good bribe and make it walk upright.

“Who’s ‘we’?” says Harry.

“The union. The association,” says Lano. “This is for you, too,” he says. Bargain day. Two friends for the price of one.

Mouthpiece to the cops. Harry’s worst nightmare.

“What kind of representation?” I ask.

“What you sell. The legal kind. What else?”

“I thought you had all that covered. Remember? The grand jury circle jerk.”

He gives me a lot of consternation in the eyes, like I’m making this more difficult than it has to be. Why not just shut up, take the money, and go along? He would say it in so many words, but a lifetime of iniquity has taught him not to screw with the science of seduction.

“Paul. Let’s be reasonable. There’s no reason for all this hostility.” He offers us a drink and before I can decline, his minions are opening cupboards and pulling drawers. Glasses with ice clinking. Corks popping. Harry’s reaching out until I nudge his thigh with my knee. His extended hand suddenly goes up to preen what little hair he has left. He shakes his head to the offered booze, this with the resolve of someone falling off the wagon.

“You take clients. All I want to do is hire you. What’s the going freight? Simple as that,” says Lano.

He may be confident of Tony’s loyalty, but he’s not sure how much Arguillo has told me. Am I cheap bluster or expensive knowledge?

“Let’s say I represented you.”

“Let’s say that,” he says.

“What would you expect me to do?”

A wrinkled face. An expression that takes its color from the dark side of the soul.

“You take a retainer. Be available,” he says. “That’s all.”

What I thought. Visions of kissing his ring finger, ghostly echoes of a gravelly voice in my ear telling me that one day he will come to me and ask that I render some service.

“Think about it before you say no. We’d be a big client. Cover a lot of overhead.” He is big and hearty here, full of bullshit. What you get from a car salesman before he takes the deal to his boss.

“Hey, we’re all one big happy family. Tony. The association. Me. You can represent all of us. Like I say. What’s the tab? You name it.”

I could tell him his firstborn and he would pay it. You’ve heard of the devil’s advocate. What Lano is proposing is hell’s own class action.

“Gus. Can I call you Gus?” I say.

A big smile. “That’s my name.”

“You’ve been so nice, Gus, that I hate to tell you this. But I just can’t do it.”

“Why the hell not?” Friendship drips from his face like tallow on a hot day.

“Conflict of interest,” I tell him.

No sale. I get stern looks.

“Then you’re still representing Tony?”

The fly in their ointment.

“Until he fires me.”

He swings around in his chair. A conference. Hissing voices.

Lano’s underlings are discreet, cupping their hands to his ears as they confer. There are occasional glances in our direction by his men as they whisper to him.

Lano is not so cautious.

“What the fuck’s her name?” He says this out loud.

Another hand to his ear, and he swings back around to face me.

“This woman,” he says, “Goya. In the D.A.’s office. What’s her part in this?”

Now I am concerned; Tony has managed to compromise Lenore. If Lano knows about her involvement, the fact that she referred Tony, it is only a short skip to her boss’s office. Coleman Kline will know it shortly. Lano has found the soft underbelly.

“Who?” I am buying time.

“You can cut the bullshit, Madriani.” Lano knows it.

“From this I take it we’re no longer on a first-name basis.” More stall. He ignores me.

“We know Tony’s been talking to her,” he says.

“Who?”

“Goya,” he says.

“Ah, her.”

“Yeah. Her.” He’s thumping his fingers on the desk, waiting for an answer.

“Just friends,” I say.

“Right. And the three of you were just having afternoon tea in your office.”

“Why, Gus, I’m offended. Were you watching my office or just following Tony?” I ask.

Maybe Tony has not compromised her after all.

“People walk by. A public street,” he says.

“Right. Take a note”-I turn to Harry-“to sweep the office,” I tell him. “Something may have crawled in under the crack of our door when we weren’t looking.”

Harry smiles. Lano does not. I would not put it past him to know every intimate conversation I have had on my phone in the last month.

“You haven’t said what she was doing there.”

I’m out of my chair, rising to leave, Harry on my heels.

“You’re right. I haven’t.”