The Client Read Online Free PDF Page B

peroxide blondes at a table near the door. Women had been plentiful since the indictment. He was famous.
    Reverend Roy’s case was weak all right, but it hadn’t slowed his nightly sermons in front of the cameras,or his pompous predictions of swift justice, or his blustering interviews with any journalist bored enough to quiz him. He was an oily-voiced, leather-lunged, pious U.S. attorney with obnoxious political aspirations and a thunderous opinion about everything. He had his very own press agent, a most overworked soul charged with the task of keeping the reverend in the spotlight so that one day very soon the public would insist he serve them in the United States Senate. From there, only the reverend knew where God might lead him.
    The Blade crunched his ice at the repulsive thought of Roy Foltrigg waving his indictment before the cameras and bellowing all sorts of forecasts of good triumphing over evil. But six months had passed since the indictment, and neither Reverend Roy nor his confederates, the FBI, had found the body of Boyd Boyette. They followed Barry night and day—in fact, they were probably waiting outside right now, as if he were stupid enough to have dinner, then go look at the body just for the hell of it. They had bribed every wino and street bum who claimed to be an informant. They had drained ponds and lakes; they had dragged rivers. They had obtained search warrants for dozens of buildings and sites in the city. They had spent a small fortune on backhoes and bulldozers.
    But Barry had it. The body of Boyd Boyette. He would like to move it, but he couldn’t. The reverend and his host of angels were watching.
    Clifford was an hour late now. Barry paid for two rounds of club soda, winked at the peroxides in their leather skirts, and left the place, cursing lawyers in general and his in particular.
    He needed a new lawyer, one who would returnhis phone calls and meet him for drinks and find some jurors who could be bought. A real lawyer!
    He needed a new lawyer, and he needed a continuance or a postponement or a delay, hell, anything to slow this thing down so he could think.
    He lit a cigarette and walked casually along Magazine between Canal and Poydras. The air was thick. Clifford’s office was four blocks away. His lawyer wanted a quick trial! What an idiot! No one wanted a quick trial in this system, but here was W. Jerome Clifford pushing for one. Clifford had explained not three weeks ago that they should push hard for a trial because there was no corpse, thus no case, et cetera, et cetera. And if they waited, the body might be found, and since Barry was such a lovely suspect and it was a sensational killing with a ton of pressure behind its prosecution, and since Barry had actually performed the killing, was in fact guilty as hell, then they should go to trial immediately. This had shocked Barry. They had argued viciously in Romey’s office, and things had not been the same since.
    At one point in the discussion, three weeks ago, things got quiet and Barry boasted to his lawyer that the body would never be found. He’d disposed of lots of them, and he knew how to hide them. Boyette had been hidden rather quickly, and though Barry wanted to move the little fella, he was nonetheless secure and resting peacefully without the threat of disturbance from Roy and the fibbies.
    Barry chuckled to himself as he strolled along Poydras.
    “So where’s the body?” Clifford had asked.
    “You don’t want to know,” Barry had replied.
    “Sure I want to know. The whole world wants to know. Come on, tell me if you’ve got the guts.”
    “You don’t want to know.”
    “Come on. Tell me.”
    “You’re not gonna like it.”
    “Tell me.”
    Barry flicked his cigarette on the sidewalk, and almost laughed out loud. He shouldn’t have told Jerome Clifford. It was a childish thing to do, but harmless. The man could be trusted with secrets, attorney-client privilege and all, and he had been wounded when