Steve Martini - Undue Influence

He smiles. No relief here.

Finally I offer Jack my sympathies, tell him I’m sorry for whatever has happened, but that he’s making a lot of assumptions, jumping to conclusions.

‘Bullshit.’ Vega jumps me verbally. I have given him what he wanted — a target of defense for Laurel.

‘The bitch killed Melanie,’ he says. ‘She’s got a loose screw. You saw her in court,’ he tells me. ‘Threats and violence. Went after Melanie in the hallway like an animal.’ He’s trying to persuade now.

‘She was emotional,’ I say. ‘An argument, that’s all.’

‘An argument!’ says Jack. His eyes are glazed over with anger. ‘What do you want, Kodachrome?’ he says. ‘You want it in living color? Laurel pulling the trigger on videotape?

‘Oh, you’d love that,’ he says. ‘Like all the rest of the lawyers, you’d chop it up into suey. A lotta freeze-frames and lies,’ he says. ‘So you could charge Melanie with impeding the flight of a bullet. Well, it ain’t gonna happen here,’ he says. ‘Laurel’s going down,’ he tells me. ‘If I have to pull every fucking lever in the state.’ He stands there for several seconds, waiting to see if I want to offer another line of reasoning.

I want to ask him where he was tonight, whether he saw anything, whether in fact there is a videotape or if all of this is merely the wrath — filled ravings of Jack’s imagination. But discretion overtakes advocacy. I stand silent.

There’s some mumbling under Vega’s breath, finally a victory in a bad day. He passes behind me. The next thing I hear is the tinkling of ice cubes in a tumbler, bourbon splashing on rocks. I would ask him for a drink, but I’m afraid he’d throw the bottle.

Lama’s waiting to see if Jack can spray any more bile on me. One of Jimmy’s joys in life, spreading pain. He senses that it’s over.

‘You got pictures?’ I turn this on Lama.

‘You’re here to answer the questions,’ he says. ‘I’ll ask them.’

‘We’ve got nothing to say.’ Hemple chimes in.

‘Who invited you?’ he says.

‘I’m Laurel Vega’s lawyer.’ Hemple pulls a business card from her jacket pocket. Hands it to Lama. He looks at it, smiles, then begins to pick his teeth with one of the card’s sharp little corners.

‘Oh, good,’ he says. ‘Then you can tell us where your client is?’

‘I don’t know,’ she says.

‘Write that down,’ says Lama. ‘Her lawyer has no idea where the suspect is.’ Another detective across the room scribbles in a little notebook.

‘Maybe you know where she was earlier this evening about eleven-thirty?’ says Lama.

Silence from Hemple.

‘Seems she doesn’t. Write it down,’ says Lama. ‘Got anything else you want to tell us?’ he says. A shit-eating grin on Lama’s face.

Hemple doesn’t respond.

‘Gee, thanks for coming.’ He smiles, Mr. Duplicity, then motions to one of the uniformed cops, who escorts Hemple to the door.

Lama turns his venom back on me. ‘And where were you at eleven-thirty tonight?’

‘Gee, Jimmy, do I need a lawyer?’

‘Not unless you know something we don’t.’

‘Could you write that down,’ I say this to the dick across the room, who offers up a little hiccup of a laugh.

‘Always the smart-ass,’ says Lama. ‘I understand you been playin’ guardian angel for your sister-in-law. Guess you kinda blew it tonight,’ he says.

I don’t give him a response.

‘Guess you’d know her better than most people?’

A concession from my look.

‘Then you’d probably know if she has a gun?’

I give him bright eyes like maybe he’s hit something.

‘What kind?’ I say.

‘Nine millimeter, semiautomatic.’

‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ I tell him.

Lama gives me a sneer. Now he’s given up information with nothing in return. My guess is they don’t have the gun. If they did, Lama would have made a make and model. I assume they have loose cartridge casings and whatever ballistics survive when lead meets tissue or bounces off bone.

‘When’s the last time you saw her?’ he says. Now he’s pissed.

‘Who?’ I ask.

He gives me a look, ‘like don’t fuck with me,’ snaps the toothpick in half, and spits the broken piece on the floor.

I make a face, think a couple of seconds like maybe it’s a strain to consider back that far. ‘This afternoon — the courthouse.’

‘And you haven’t seen her since?’

I shake my head.

The cop with the little book is making notes.

‘Then you wouldn’t have any idea where the kids are?’

‘I assume with their mother.’ God’s own gift, I think. Two walking, breathing little alibis, for whatever they’re worth.

‘Goddamn,’ says Jack. He’s shaking, hand with the glass outstretched, booze all over the rug. ‘She’s murdered my wife, now she running with my children. What the hell are you guys waiting for?’ It was one thing when Jack was chewing on my ass, now he’s getting on Lama’s case.

A head signal from Jimmy and suddenly Vega is being quietly hustled from the room. Condolences from the cop, but he’s got to go, official business being done here.

Vega turns to look at me on the way out. ‘She’d better let ’em go,’ he says. He’s talking about the kids. Jack has visions of Laurel in Rio. I know better. She has no money.

‘You hear me,’ he says. ‘I’ll leave no stone unturned.’ He says this like he honestly believes I can deliver a message. Then he’s history, out the door, straining to get a last look at me over the cop’s shoulder.

Lama smiles, puts another toothpick in. ‘Angry man,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t want him mad at me.’

‘One of life’s battles,’ I tell him.

‘Yeah. Talkin’ about battles. I understand you broke up a good fight in the courthouse this afternoon?’ says Lama.

‘Me?’ I say.

‘Yeah. Laurel Vega attacked the victim — the deceased?’ He says this with all the emphasis on the ‘d’ word.

‘Like I said, a minor disagreement. Custody matter. A difficult situation. She got a little emotional. I wouldn’t call it an attack.’

‘Geeze — I heard she nailed the woman with her fucking purse?’ says Lama. He snaps his fingers a couple a times, and his colleague with the notebook is fanning pages. The guy finds what he’s looking for.

‘ “Laurel Vega said she wished it was a sledgehammer,” ’ the cop reads from his notes.

‘Maybe she found something better than a hammer,’ says Lama.

‘Nice thought,’ I say, ‘but if that’s all you’ve got, I think maybe you should get up off your honkers and start looking for whoever actually killed Melanie Vega.’

‘Oh, I think we are,’ he says. He chews on what is left of the little stick in his teeth, then gives a wicked smile.

‘Are we finished?’

‘For the moment,’ he says. He gets out of his chair like he’s going to escort me personally to the door. He touches me at the elbow. I nearly recoil from the contact. Lama looks at me. If I didn’t know better I’d think he was offended.

‘Now, you will tell us if you see her — won’t you?’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘You bet.’

I know that I won’t have to. Vega will have me tailed by his minions.

‘We appreciate the cooperation,’ he says. He’s almost giggling to himself. I can sense the joy building inside of him, the knowledge that I am now tangled in this mess.

We get to the door. He sees me out onto the portico. Lama steps off the welcome mat and into some dirt, potting soil, and broken shards of clay. He’s wearing black boots with low heels — what they call Wellingtons — with little zippers on the side. I have seen these on the CHP and a few drill sergeants, his heroes. He scrapes the dirt off the bottoms on the mat.