Len Deighton - Violent Ward

‘I know, all my visitors tell me. But we got cops on every corner and great ethnic food. What can I do for you, Budd?’

A pause, a tightening of the jaw. ‘Would you get me a gun?’

‘A gun? What do you want a gun for?’ I said, keeping my voice very steady and matter-of-fact.

‘No special reason,’ he said, in that nervous way people say such things when they do have a special reason. Then came the prepared answer: ‘The way I see it, the law will be putting all kinds of new restrictions on gun sales before long. I want to get a gun while it’s still legal to purchase them over the counter.’

‘I guess you saw that TV documentary on the Discovery channel. But you don’t need a gun, Budd.’

‘I do. My place is very vulnerable up there. There have been two stickups in the doughnut shop since Christmas. My neighbors have all had break-ins.’

‘And having a gun will keep you from being burglarized? Listen, the chances of someone breaking in while you’re there are nearly zero. When you’re not there, a gun won’t be any good to you, right?’

‘It would make me feel better.’

‘Okay. So you made up your mind. Don’t listen to me; buy a gun.’

‘I’d like you to purchase it.’

‘Come on, Budd. What’s the problem?’

‘I’ll be recognized. My face is known. Maybe it will get into the papers. That’s not the kind of publicity I want.’

‘Buying a gun? If that was the secret of getting newspaper publicity, there’d be lines forming outside the gun shops and all the way to the Mexican border.’

‘The paperwork and license and all that stuff. You know about that, Mickey. You do it for me, will you?’

‘You mean within the implied confidentiality of the client-attorney relationship?’

He nodded.

I sat back in my swivel chair and looked at him. Just as I thought I’d heard everything, along comes a client who wants me to buy a heater without his name on it. Next he’s going to be asking me to file off the identity marks and make dum-dum cuts in the bullets. ‘I’m not sure I can do that, Budd,’ I said, very slowly. ‘I’m not sure it’s within the law.’

He caught at the equivocation. ‘Will you find out? It’s the way I’d like it done. Couldn’t you say it was for a well-known movie actor who wanted to avoid the fuss?’

‘Sure. And I’ll promise them signed photos and tickets for your next preview.’ As he started to protest, I held up a hand to deflect it. ‘I’ll ask around, Budd.’

‘A Saturday-night special or a small handgun would do. I just want it as a frightener.’

‘Sure, I understand: no hand grenades or heavy mortars. Can you use a gun? You were never in the military, were you?’

‘I was in ROTC,’ said Budd, the hurt feelings clearly audible in his voice. ‘You know I was, Mickey.’

‘Sure, I forgot.’

‘I can shoot. I’ve had a lot of movie parts using guns. I like to get these things exactly right for my roles. I do an hour in the gym every day. I jog in the hills, and sometimes I go to the Beverly Hills Gun Club.’ He slapped his gut. ‘I keep myself in shape.’

‘Right,’ I said. Well, wind in the target; he sure scored a bull’s-eye with that one. The only thing I could sincerely say I devoted at least one hour every day to was eating.

‘Am I keeping you too long?’ he said, consulting the Rolex with solid gold band that came with every Actors’ Equity card.

‘No rush. I’m going to see Danny: my son, Danny.’

‘Sure, Danny. You brought him and his girlfriend along to watch me on the set of that Western I did for Disney last year.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Give Danny my very best wishes. Tell him if he wants to visit a studio again I can always fix it up for him.’

‘Thanks, Budd. That’s really nice of you. I’ll tell him.’

Budd didn’t get up and leave. He reached out for his glass and took a sip, taking his time doing it, as I had seen so many witnesses on the stand do, buying time to think. ‘I haven’t told you the whole truth. There’s something else. And I want to keep it just between the two of us, okay?’

‘The client-attorney privileged relationship,’ I said.

He got to his feet and nodded. All my clients like hearing about the confidential relationship the attorney offers; I always remind them about it just before I give them my bill. Prayer, sermon, confession, and atonement: in that order. I figure the whole process of consulting an attorney should be a secular version of the mass.

‘How could I get a gun without anyone knowing?’

‘Without even me knowing? Buy it mail order under an assumed name, I guess.’

‘Could I have it sent to you?’ he said.

‘But then I would know,’ I said, keeping my tone real negative. I didn’t want him mailing guns to my office.

‘It’s like this,’ Budd said, making a futile gesture with his hand. ‘I have a friend who is being threatened. She needs a gun.’

‘Well, you tell her to order one through the mail and have it sent to a post office box,’ I said. I guessed we were into some kind of show-biz fantasy, and I wasn’t in the mood for that kind of crap. I looked at my watch. ‘I’m going to have to kick you out of here. I’ve got a heavy schedule.’

‘Sure, Mickey, sure.’

He reached for his hat and went to the mirror to be sure it was on exactly right. Then he turned to shake hands firmly and say a soft goodbye. There was something he still hadn’t said, and I plowed my brain to guess what it might be. What new bullshit was he going to hang on me now?

His dark, lustrous eyes focused and he said, ‘If an intruder was shot on my premises … what could happen?’

‘Stay out of it, Budd,’ I advised sincerely. ‘Buy your friend a subscription to Shooter’s Monthly and call it a day.’

‘Okay,’ he said, in a way that made it clear it wasn’t advice he was likely to heed. Then, hands raised Al Jolson style, he struck a pose. ‘What do you think of the snazzy outfit?’

‘You got a portrait painting somewhere in your attic, Dorian old buddy?’

‘Just termites,’ said Budd. He was in an entirely different mood now. Lots of actors are like that; they go up and down with disconcerting suddenness.

When Budd had departed I went and looked out the window. That was enough to make anyone want to buy a gun. It was indeed a lousy block. My neighbors were mostly immigrants who quickly became either entrepreneurial, destitute, or criminal. I shared this ancient office building with a debt collection agency, an insurance agent, a single mothers advisory center, and an architect. These law offices were the best in the building. Miss Huth’s reception area gave onto three rooms. Mine was the only one with a white carpet, but the others had two windows each. Equipped like that they could handle two suicides at a time.

I’d moved in right after my divorce, to share expenses with two Korean immigration lawyers who had a sideline in fifty-dollar flat-fee divorces. People all said we’d never get along together, they said Koreans were combative people, but I found Billy Kim and Korea Charlie to be congenial partners. We would share our business, each passing our most troublesome clients to the other. Then we’d compare notes and have some great laughs together. Korea Charlie was the founding member of the partnership. He was a fat old guy who knew everyone in the neighborhood and built up a colossal reputation getting green cards for local illegals. Then, just as everyone was saying that Korea Charlie was the richest, happiest lawyer in town, one of his grateful clients accidentally shot him dead during a drunken celebration in a bar in Crenshaw.

Now, apart from the token lawyer whom Petrovitch would assign to us to make the takeover legal, I had only one partner, Billy Kim, a thirty-year-old go-getter who was attending his brother’s wedding in Phoenix. He’d been due back this morning, but there was no sign of him so far and no message either. Either his brother had chickened out or it was one hell of a party.