William Lashner - Past Due

“Joey,” I said. “You owe me money.”

“Yeah, I knows. I’m working on it. It was genius, what you pulled in court. I owe you.”

“Yes, you do. You owe me thirty-five hundred dollars.”

“Well, you know, Victor, some things you can’t put a price on.”

“But I can put a price on what I did for you, Joey. And you know what the price is? Thirty-five hundred dollars.”

“Hey, you know me, Victor. I’m good for it.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know you.”

“Listen, Victor. I got something going on what’s going to make me flush, going to take care of everything. But before I does anything I got a question, a legal question.”

“Then you should find a lawyer.”

“That’s why I called you. Just do me the favor, all right, Victor? I’m asking as a friend.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“We’re not no friends?”

“I was your lawyer, you were my client. And now you owe me money. That makes me your creditor.”

“Victor, the way my life is now, the only friends I got is my creditors. Everyone else I owes too much money. But I’m thinking of coming clean. I’m thinking of paying what I owes and starting new. Right after this thing. And I got reason to. I found someone.”

“Joey.”

“Shut up.”

“Joey in love. Who is she?”

“Shut up, it don’t matter. But first we needs to talk, I needs to talk. To someone.”

A line of desperation like an ominous riff of bass, rose from beneath the rough melody of his voice. I thought about it. I wanted to say no. My accountant, had he been in my office, would have insisted I say no. But there was that line of desperation in his voice that to a lawyer is as seductive as a purr. “What’s it about, Joey?”

“I needs you to tell me, Victor, about that statue of limitations.”

“Are we talking art or crime.”

“What do I know about art?”

“Considering your record, Joey, you don’t know much about crime either. What you are asking about is the statute of limitations. The law doesn’t want you running scared your whole life about something you might have done wrong years ago. If the prosecutor doesn’t bring the case within a set amount of time, then he can’t bring it at all.”

“How long he got?”

“Depends on the crime.”

“Let’s say drugs or something?”

“Possession only? Two years.”

“How about theft?”

“Simple theft? Same two.”

“How about with a gun?”

“Robbery? Five.”

“How about you beat some moke with a baseball bat?”

“Aggravated assault. Still five.”

“And what if the moke you beat with the baseball bat goes ahead on his own and dies?”

“Joey.”

“Just answer the question, Victor.”

“There’s no statute of limitations for murder.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“But it was twenty years ago.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Double shit. We needs to meet.”

“How about Thursday?”

“How about now, Victor? La Vigna, you know it?”

“Yeah, I know it. But why the rush?”

“Now, Victor. Please. I’ll pay you to show up.”

“You’ll pay me?” I said.

“I’m scared,” he said. “I’m scared to death.”

And he was, was Joey Cheaps, scared enough to offer to pay me, which for him was scared as hell, and I suppose, based on what I saw beneath the blue sheet of plastic, he had every right to be.

BUT THAT WASthe morning and now, in the deep of the night, I sat on a curb at the crime scene, about twenty yards from Joey Cheap’s corpse, and held my head in my hands. I held my head in my hands because it felt like it was breaking apart.

I had already given a full statement, identifying the victim, identifying myself as his lawyer, indicating I had seen him that very afternoon at a restaurant on Front Street. I told what I knew of his vital statistics, age, place of birth, rap sheet. And before I sat down on the curb I told the police where his mother lived. I could imagine the scene, the police detective stepping inside the dark house, the near blind woman offering coffee, offering cake, offering to heat up a piece of veal. The officer declining, asking the old woman to sit down, telling the old woman he has terrible terrible news. The way her face collapses as she learns the truth. If I had courage I would have done it myself, but I’ve never been accused of having courage.

“You look like a sick puppy” came McDeiss’s voice from in front of me.

“He was a client,” I said.

“Why don’t you stand on up so we can talk some more.”

“If I stand I’m going to puke.”

“You keep on sitting, then.” He hitched up the pant fabric at his knees and squatted beside me and I couldn’t help but wince.

“Your knees sound like walnuts cracking in a vise.”

“I’ve been younger, I admit it,” said McDeiss.

We didn’t get along so swell, McDeiss and I. We’d had a piece of business together in the past which had turned out poorly: a couple of dead bodies and a bad guy who in the end had gotten away. Still, I couldn’t help but admire McDeiss. He was Ivy-educated but he didn’t show it off, he was a righteous cop but he didn’t preach, he was better at his job than I was at mine. And to top it off, he knew all the best restaurants.

“The first cops on the scene found your card on him,” he said. “When the captain called out the case your name was prominently mentioned.”

“And because of that you volunteered?”

“We picked straws. Mine was seriously short. Mine was the runt of the litter, the jockey of straws. So lucky me, here I am to interview you. This afternoon you were with this Parma at a restaurant?”

“That’s right. La Vigna.”

“When?”

“About eleven.”

“What did you have?”

“The cheesecake.”

“Ricotta?”

“Absolutely.”

“Any good?”

“Not good enough that I want to taste it twice.”

“When did you last see him?”

“It was about eleven-thirty when we left.”

“You and Parma just met up for an early lunch?”

“Something like that.”

“Simply a friendly chat?”

“Sure.”

“What did you two boys chat about?”

“He was a client.”

“You’re claiming privilege,” said McDeiss, nodding his head. “I have a great respect for constitutional privilege, yes I do. I would never do anything to trample on privilege.” Pause for effect. “But your client is dead.”

“It doesn’t make a difference.”

“Don’t be a dickhead.”

“Tell it to the Supreme Court.”

“We already know they’re dickheads. But, see, I’m a little puzzled with you claiming privilege. We checked his record. You had just gotten this Parma off the burglary rap, some sleazy trademark Victor Carl maneuver from what I understand. But Parma wasn’t up on anything else. No pending charges, no parole violations. What I’m wondering is what kind of trouble was he in which required him to consult with his criminal defense attorney at eleven in the morning?”

I didn’t answer, I just lifted my head out of my hands and stared at the detective.

“Anything that might have gotten him hurt?”

I said nothing.

“The killing was apparently done somewhere else, a knife through the throat, in a car maybe, and then he was dropped here. Forensics will check him for fibers, see if we can match a make and model. Wherever he was killed, there’ll be a whole lot of blood. And it looks to us like he was beaten too. His eye, for example, was pretty busted up. How’d he look when you saw him?”

“His eye was busted up already when I met him.”