Lawrence Block - A Long Line of Dead Men

"And?"

"And I did what I could to conceal my own ignorance, which at the time was all-encompassing, and told her I'd see what I could find out. I made the obvious phone calls, and when I felt I'd learned enough about you I called you up myself." He smiled engagingly. "And here you are."

"And here I am."

"Who's your client?"

"I can't tell you that."

"You're not an attorney, you know. It's not privileged information."

"And we're not in court."

"No, of course we're not. I have to assume your client is one of the other surviving members. Unless you've been hired by a widow or some other survivor." He watched my face as he spoke. "You're not giving anything away," he said after a moment.

"My client may be willing for you to know who he is. But I'd have to check with him first."

" 'He, him.' Hardly a widow, not with those pronouns. Although I think you might be a subtle man, Matt. Are you?"

"Not very."

"I wonder. Still, it almost has to be a group member, doesn't it? Who else would know the names of all the other members? Although I suppose some of us may have talked openly about the club with our wives." A smile, this one a little darker at the corners. "Our first wives," he said. "If your first divorce teaches you nothing else, it teaches you discretion."

"Does it matter who hired me?"

"Probably not. I like to know everything about people- jurors, witnesses, the lawyer on the other side. Preparation's everything, you know. The courtroom thearics may make me a hot ticket on the lecture circuit, but it's the pretrial prep work that wins the cases. And I like to win cases."

He asked if I wanted more Perrier. I said I was fine.

He said, "Well, what's your best guess, Matt? Is someone killing us off? Or is that confidential, too?"

"The club's had a lot of deaths."

"I don't need a detective to tell me that."

"Several murders, several suicides, a few accidents that could have been staged. So it looks as though more than coincidence would have to be involved."

"Yes."

"But it's impossible. The killer would almost have to be one of you, and there's no motive, no financial incentive, at least none I'm aware of. Or am I missing something?"

"No," he said. "There was some talk early on about laying down a case of good Bordeaux for the last man to drink. We decided whoever was left would be too old to enjoy it. Besides, it seemed inappropriate, even frivolous."

"So the killer would have to be crazy," I said. "And not just sudden-impulse crazy, because he'd have been at it for years. He'd have to be long-term crazy, and all fourteen of you look to have been leading sane and stable lives."

"Ha," he said. "I've got two ex-wives who would give you an argument on that point, and I could name a few other people who'd be quick to tell you I'm only eating with one chopstick. Maybe I'm the killer."

"Are you?"

"How's that again?"

"Are you the killer? Did you kill Watson and Cloonan and the others?"

"My God, what a question. No, of course not."

"Well, that's a load off my mind."

"Am I a suspect?"

"I don't have any suspects."

"But did you seriously think-"

"That you might have done it? No idea. That's why I asked."

"You think I would have told you?"

"You might have," I said. "Stranger things have happened."

"Jesus."

"What I was taught to do," I said, "was ask all the questions, including the stupid ones. You never know what somebody'll decide to tell you."

"Interesting. In a trial it's the exact opposite. There's a basic principle, you never ask a question of a witness unless you already know the answer."

"You'd think it would be hard to learn anything that way."

"Education," he said, "is not the object. I'm going to have another drink. Join me?"

I let him top up my Perrier.

I said, "I'll tell you this much. I was surprised to see your name on the list of members."

"Oh?"

"It seemed to me," I said, "that it was an unusual group for you to join."

He snorted. "I'd say it's an unusual club for anybody to join. An annual celebration of mortality, for God's sake. Why would anybody want to sign on for that?"

"Why did you?"

"It's hard to remember," he said. "I was much younger then, obviously. Undefined personally and professionally. If Karp's widow- what was her name, Felicia?"

"Yes."

"You name a child Felicia and you're just daring the whole world to call her Fellatio, aren't you? If Felicia Karp had seen my name on a list in 1961, she wouldn't have looked at it twice. Unless she thought Gruliow was a typographical error. I ran into that years ago, you know. People thought it must be Grillo."

"Now they know the name."

"Oh, no question. The name, the face, the hair, the voice, the sardonic wit. Everybody knows Hard-Way Ray Gruliow. Well, it's what I wanted. And that's a great curse, you know. 'May you get what you want.' Hell of a thing to wish on a man."

"The price of fame," I said.

"It's not so bad. I get tables in restaurants, I get strangers saying hello to me on the street. There's a coffee shop on Bleecker Street named a sandwich after me. You go in there and order a Ray Gruliow and they'll bring you some godforsaken combination of corned beef and raw onion and I don't know what else."

His second drink was darker than the first, and he looked to be making it disappear faster.

"Of course it's not all corned beef and onions," he said. "Sometimes they break your windows."

My eyes went to the front window.

"Replaced," he said. "That's high-impact plastic. It looks like glass, unless the light hits it just right, but it's not. It's supposed to stop bullets. Not high-velocity rounds, concrete won't stop them, but your run-of-the-mill gunshot ought to be deflected. It was a shotgun last time around, and I'm told shotgun pellets will bounce right off of my new window. Won't even mar the finish."

"They never caught the guy, did they?"

He cocked his head. "You don't really think they knocked themselves out trying, do you? I think the shooter was a cop."

"I think you're probably right."

"It was right after twelve public-spirited citizens of the Bronx gave Warren Madison judicial absolution for his sins, and that rubbed a lot of cops the wrong way."

"And a few ordinary citizens, too."

"Including you, Matt?"

"What I think's not important."

"Tell me anyhow."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"I think Warren Madison is a homicidal son of a bitch who ought to spend the rest of his life in a cell."

"Then we agree."

I looked at him.

"Warren," he said, "is what some other clients of mine might characterize as a stone killer. I'd call him an utterly remorseless sociopath, and I'd like to see him live out his days as a guest of the state of New York."

"You defended him."

"Don't you think he's entitled to a defense?"

"You got him off."

"Don't you think he's entitled to the best possible defense?"

"You didn't just defend him," I went on. "You put the whole police department on trial. You sold the jury a bill of goods about Madison being a snitch for the local Bronx precinct, in return for which they let him deal dope and supplied him with stash confiscated from other dealers. Then they were afraid he would talk, though God knows who he would talk to or why, and they went to his mother's house not to arrest him but to murder him."

"Quite a scenario, wouldn't you say?"

"It's ridiculous."

"Don't you think cops use snitches?"

"Of course they do. They wouldn't make half their cases if they didn't."

"Don't you think they allow snitches to pursue their criminal careers in return for the help they provide?"

"That's part of how it works."