William Lashner - Falls The Shadow

“Even if the file was dumped on your desk and you’re not getting paid?”

“That’s the part that sucks.”

“I don’t know if I find you admirable or appalling.”

“When you figure it out, let me know. So what do you think about my client?”

“I think he’s a little kid living with a mother who doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing.”

“But do you think he’s in danger?”

“Of getting messed up by his mother? Sure, like every other kid in America.”

“I could tell you stories about my childhood that would leave you weeping,” I said.

“But I don’t see any reason to pull the mother and son apart. You do that, there are always scars, and good foster homes are scarce. But I want to keep an eye on her and the boy. It seems like a fragile situation. And you’re right, those teeth are a problem. We’ll have to get a dentist involved.”

“Which is always bad news,” I said. “And the boyfriend still troubles me.”

“Julia said they broke up.”

“Yes, she did, and she was so truthful about everything else there’s no reason to believe she wouldn’t be truthful about her boyfriend.”

“Did Daniel say anything about him?”

“He seemed like he was too scared to talk.”

“You’re going to have to learn more about him,” she said.

“How?”

“He’s your client,” she said. “You figure it out.”

Figure it out indeed. I thought about the boy, the mother, the boyfriend, Randy, thought how I could find what I needed to find out, when Isabel let out a gruff “Hrumph.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“That’s all right, Victor. I’ve heard a belch before.”

“I didn’t belch. You said something.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

I stopped, looked around, saw the front brim of a black porkpie hat peeking over the railing of a porch.

“Why don’t you go on ahead,” I said to Isabel. “I need to make a call.”

When she was far enough down the block, I took out my phone, wandered over to the edge of the porch, leaned against the brick, pretended to make a call.

“Was that you clearing your throat,” I said into the dead phone, “or was someone plunging a stopped-up toilet?”

“Watch your mouth afore I smack it closed,” said Horace T. Grant from behind me. “Although it sounds like someone else done that already. I see you found the place. How was your visit?”

“Fine.”

“Twenty minutes is all you give it and you come out saying, ‘Fine.’ You on a tight schedule, boy? Got you a pedicure appointment you don’t want to miss?”

“We were there for an hour,” I said calmly. “We set up parenting sessions and a doctor’s appointment, and I’m going to personally drive Julia and Daniel to the next court hearing. Does that meet with your approval?”

“It’s not up to me to approve, which is about the only reason you still breathing, other than a nose that could fit on Mount Rushmore.”

“Why, thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“She knows we’re all looking over her shoulder,” I said. “That should help things from here on in. Though there might be something else of concern. What do you know about the boyfriend? His name is Randy.”

“I know his name, fool. Which is more than I want to know.”

“That bad.”

“Like a bunion on the foot on the face of the world.”

“I get the idea. They’re still together, Randy and Julia?”

“Like shit and Shinola.”

“What does that mean, actually, not knowing shit from Shinola?”

“It means you’re a lawyer.”

“Horace, your wit is surpassed only by your pleasant manner. You know where this Randy works?”

“What am I, the Yellow Pages? You were inside for a so-called hour, why didn’t you ask that woman?”

“She wasn’t so willing to discuss her boyfriend.”

“Then maybe I’m not so willing neither. You mention my name in there?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

“Okay, I understand.”

“What do you understand? You understand less than a bloodworm on a hook, wiggling yourself free even as the largemouth bass comes looking for dinner. You understand? A thumb in my eye, you understand. I bet you didn’t even find out nothing about the daughter.”

“The daughter?”

“There you go, see? You’re like a jalopy without an engine, ugly and rusting on the outside, empty on the inside. What good are you?”

“Julia has a daughter?”

“You so lost, how you fall out of bed and don’t hit the ceiling is beyond me.”

“Where is she?”

“Now you’re getting to the root of it, boy. Now you starting to ask some questions.”

“You don’t know where she is?”

“You stupid sumbitch. If I knew where the hell she was, would I be dealing with the likes of you?”

“No, sir,” I said. “I don’t think you would.”

“First sensible thing you said all day. Now, get on going, there’s work to be done.”

I pushed myself from off the porch railing, started walking toward Isabel without looking back. He was such a pleasure to deal with, Horace T. Grant, and unfortunately, from what I could tell, he was almost always right, which meant there was more work to be done. So Julia Rose had a daughter somewhere, my client Daniel had a sister somewhere, and no one knew enough to even search for her. Which meant that I might have to.

If I had a dog, I would have kicked it just then. I was falling deeper into something that I didn’t understand, that I wasn’t qualified to handle, and that wasn’t going to pay me a cent.

Pro bono blows.

This is how I ended up flat on my back, mewing in agony, reaching for the white light in the distance.

We had gotten François his new trial, now it was time to devise some devious way to win it. The best route, I figured, was to ride François’s Gallic charm as if it were a surfboard on a six-foot swell. But to do that he’d have to testify, so it was time for him to finally answer our questions. It was hot in the prison interview room, Beth was quiet, I was sweating, and all the time François was answering, his eyes were saying, How can you doubt me, Victor? How could I? Because his tongue was moving. But it wasn’t the lying so much that got to me, I’m used to clients lying – what would I ever do with a client who told me the truth? – more it was the insouciance with which he told his lies, as if he was so charming he didn’t have to try too hard. It was all enough to send me sucking on my scab.

“Tell us where you met your wife,” I said.

“There is a place called Marrakech owned by Geoffrey Sunshine.”

“The guy whose name is always in the papers?”

“That is him, yes,” said François. “The second floor of the building was a club. It was fun, this club, a spectacle. There was a restaurant, too, and Geoffrey was a friend of sorts. He was always trying to get me to cook for his restaurant, which was why I was often there. He would invite me to the club, introduce me to the girls. Quite nice. One of the girls he introduced me to was Leesa. She had a bit of a reputation, but there was something in her that I admired. A spark of freedom, I think, and a sweetness. At first it was just, you know, playing around. But after a while it became something else, if you understand.”

“Why did you marry her?”

“Why else? I loved her.”

“So what happened to the marriage?”

“It is hard to say.”

“Try.”

“Things change with a child. Amber was a beautiful baby, yes, but things changed. It was a difficult delivery, and Leesa was in quite a bit of pain for a long time afterward. The baby was crying, shrieking, always seemed hungry, and Leesa was depressed. The doctor said it was a normal thing, the depression, but that did not make it easier. And I had my new restaurant. I was obsessed with starting it right and so could not be around as much as maybe I should have been. With Leesa’s pain and the depression getting worse, the doctor finally prescribed some medicine.”