Sidney Sheldon - If Tomorrow Comes

The food was delicious. Usually Orsatti enjoyed the free midnight snack, but this evening he was impatient to get back to the table.

“You're not eating, Tony,” Perry Pope said.

“I'm not hungry.” Orsatti reached for the silver coffee urn at his side, poured coffee into a Victoria-patterned Herend-china cup, and sat down at the poker table. He watched the others eat and wished they would hurry. He was impatient to win his money back. As he started to stir his coffee, a small particle fell into his cup. Distastefully, Orsatti removed the particle with a spoon and examined it. It appeared to be a piece of plaster. He looked up at the ceiling, and something hit him on the forehead. He suddenly became aware of a scurrying noise overhead.

“What the hell's goin' on upstairs?” Anthony Orsatti asked.

Perry Pope was in the middle of telling an anecdote to Inspector Newhouse. “I'm sorry, what did you say, Tony?”

The scurrying noise was more noticeable now. Bits of plaster began to trickle onto the green felt.

“It sounds to me like you have mice,” the senator said.

“Not in this house.” Perry Pope was indignant.

“Well, you sure as hell got somethin',” Orsatti growled. A larger piece of plaster fell on the green felt table.

“I'll have Andre take care of it,” Pope said. “If we're finished eating, why don't we get back to the game?”

Anthony Orsatti was staring up at a small hole in the ceiling directly above his head. “Hold it. Let's go take a look up there.”

“What for, Tony? Andre can —”

Orsatti had already risen and started for the stairway. The others looked at one another, then hurried after him.

“A squirrel probably got into the attic,” Perry Pope guessed. “This time of year they're all over the place: Probably hiding his nuts for the winter.” He laughed at his little joke.

When they reached the door to the attic, Orsatti pushed it open, and Perry Pope turned on the light. They caught a glimpse of two white hamsters frantically racing around the room.

“Jesus!” Perry Pope said. “I've got rats!”

Anthony Orsatti was not listening. He was staring at the room. In the middle of the attic was a camp chair with a packet of sandwiches on top of it and two open cans of beer. On the floor next to the chair was a pair of binoculars.

Orsatti walked over to them, picked up the objects one by one, and examined them. Then he got down on his knees on the dusty floor and moved the tiny wooden cylinder that concealed a peephole that had been drilled into the ceiling. Orsatti put his eye to the peephole. Directly beneath him the card table was clearly visible.

Perry Pope was standing in the middle of the attic, dumbfounded. “Who the hell put all this junk up here? I'm going to raise hell with Andre about this.”

Orsatti rose slowly to his feet and brushed the dust from his trousers.

Perry Pope glanced down at the floor. “Look!” he exclaimed. “They left a goddamned hole in the ceiling. Workmen today aren't worth a shit.”

He crouched down and took a look through the hole, and his face suddenly lost its color. He stood up and looked around, wildly, to find all the men staring at him.

“Hey!” Perry Pope said. “You don't think I —? Come on, fellas, this is me. I don't know anything about this. I wouldn't cheat you. My God, we're friends!” His hand flew to his mouth, and he began biting furiously at his cuticles.

Orsatti patted him on the arm. “Don't worry about it.” His voice was almost inaudible.

Perry Pope kept gnawing desperately at the raw flesh of his right thumb.

“That's two down, Tracy,” Ernestine Littlechap chortled. “The word on the street is that your lawyer friend Perry Pope ain't practicin' law no more. He had a real bad accident.”

They were having cafй au lait and beignets at a small sidewalk cafй off Royal Street.

Ernestine gave a high giggle. “You got a brain, girl. You wouldn't like to go into business with me, would you?”

“Thanks, Ernestine. I have other plans.”

Ernestine asked eagerly, “Who's next?”

“Lawrence. Judge Henry Lawrence.”

Henry Lawrence had begun his career as a small-town lawyer in Leesville, Louisiana. He had very little aptitude for the law, but he had two very important attributes: He was impressive-looking, and he was morally flexible. His philosophy was that the law was a frail rod, meant to be bent to suit the needs of his clients. With that in mind, it was not surprising that shortly after he moved to New Orleans, Henry Lawrence's law practice began to flourish with a special group of clients. He went from handling misdemeanors and traffic accidents to handling felonies and capital crimes, and by the time he reached the big leagues, he was an expert at suborning juries, discrediting witnesses, and bribing anyone who could help his case. In short, he was Anthony Orsatti's kind of man, and it was inevitable that the paths of the two should cross. It was a marriage made in Mafia heaven. Lawrence became the mouthpiece for the Orsatti Family, and when the timing was right, Orsatti had him elevated to a judgeship.

“I don't know how you kin nail the judge,” Ernestine said. “He's rich an' powerful an' untouchable.”

“He's rich and powerful,” Tracy corrected her, “but he's not untouchable.”

Tracy had worked out her plan, but when she telephoned Judge Lawrence's chambers, she knew, immediately, that she would have to change it.

“I'd like to speak to Judge Lawrence, please.”

A secretary said, “I'm sorry, Judge Lawrence is not in.”

“When do you expect him?” Tracy asked.

“I really couldn't say.”

“It's very important. Will he be in tomorrow morning?”

“No. Judge Lawrence is out of town.”

“Oh. Perhaps I can reach him somewhere?”

“I'm afraid that would be impossible. His Honor is out of the country.”

Tracy carefully kept the disappointment from her voice. “I see. May I ask where?” .

“His Honor is in Europe, attending an international judiciary symposium.”

“What a shame,” Tracy said.

“Who's calling, please?”

Tracy's mind was racing. “This is Elizabeth Rowane Dastin, chairwoman of the southern division of the American Trial Lawyers' Association. We're having our annual awards dinner in New Orleans on the twentieth of this month, and we've chosen Judge Henry Lawrence to be our man of the year.”

“That's lovely,” the judge's secretary said, “but I'm afraid His Honor won't be back by then.”

“What a pity. We were all so looking forward to hearing one of his famous speeches. Judge Lawrence was the unanimous choice of our selection committee.”

“He'll be disappointed to miss it.”

“Yes. I'm sure you know what a great honor this is. Some of our country's most prominent judges have been chosen in the past. Wait a minute! I have an idea. Do you suppose the judge might tape a brief acceptance speech for us — a few words of thanks, perhaps?”

“Well, I — I really can't say. He has a very busy schedule —”

“There'll be a great deal of national television and newspaper coverage.”

There was a silence. Judge Lawrence's secretary knew how much His Honor enjoyed media coverage. In fact, as far as she could see, the tour he was presently on seemed to be mainly for that purpose.

She said, “Perhaps he might find time to record a few words for you. I could ask him.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Tracy enthused. “It would really make the whole evening.”

“Would you like His Honor to address his remarks toward anything specific?”

“Oh, definitely. We'd like him to talk about —” She hesitated. “I'm afraid it's a bit complicated. It would be better if I could explain it to him directly.”