you were a licensed veterinarian I'd be more concerned with your references to equine anatomy. As it is, you're getting the talking part right now. If you want what comes out of the other end we can go to trial." I can now hear the guy coming over Lenore's receiver six feet away, loud and clear. I think I recognize his voice. If she can reduce him to this on the phone I'm left to wonder what she might do in court.
"Fine. You go ahead and talk to him. I already have, and he's approved the offer. Just say the word and it's off the table." The litigator's cocked pistol.
There's a lot of shouting on the phone, more haggling, Lenore holding firm.
"Take it or leave it," she says, and finally hangs up, then utters some mild profanity under her breath.
"Can't blame him for shopping til he drops," I tell her.
"Yeah, he's trying it in the bargain basement." She nods a little toward the membrane that is the office wall she shares with Kline. The woman seated next to me doesn't catch this, or it goes over her head. I can't tell which.
I start to talk, edging toward the article in today's paper, but Lenore cuts me off.
"Paul Madriani, I'd like to introduce Brittany Hall. Paul is a friend. He's come by to take me to coffee," she says.
This is news to me. But clearly whatever Lenore has to say she does not want to say in the office. I play along.
"You work here?" I'm looking at the woman called Brittany, trying not to ogle.
"In a manner of speaking." Lenore speaks before she can. "Brittany does some work with the police department from time to time. She's a police science major at the university, and a reserve deputy."
"Undercover," says the girl. "Oh."
"Maybe you read about her latest outing, in this morning's paper?" Lenore can see it in my hand. u remember
"The judge who was arrested," she says. Lenore gives me a look, a face full of wink, like shut up.
"Brittany is our key to the case. A very important witness," says Lenore.
"Oh." The decoy. Vice in this city has a history. They have been known on occasion to use some police groupies, women who hang out with the cops the way others shadow ballplayers. In the past they have hired a few beauty contestants to pose as hookers: "Miss. Tomato" and a "Daisy Princess" or two, girls in their twenties with curves that would stop traffic on the Grand Prix circuit. Reduce them to sheer panties in a little dim light and I could think of some popes who might suffer a moral lapse. I do another take, catching the well-turned knees and a tangle of legs pressed against the front of lenore's desk, better than a drag net for snaring a bottom feeder like the Coconut.
"Nice job," I tell her. There's a definite tone of enthusiasm to my words.
She returns a million dollars in enamel, a broad smile. "Gee. Thanks." There's an instant of reflection, then the judgment.
"I guess he was a pretty bad guy." She's trying to gauge the dimension of her contribution. I think she mistakes my felicitations for a genuine interest in good government.
"Reprehensible," I tell her. "Man's lower than dirt."
"And a judge, too," she says. She makes it sound as if only presidents and governors are higher on the ethical food chain. A real notch in the old handle. She's all smiles, loosening up. After all, I am not some starched tight-ass from one of the big firms, resentful other activities as holding the law up to disrepute, victimizing a brother of the cloth.
My view of the Coconut is not unlike the partisan's view of Mussolini.
To haul him up by the heels and shoot him could be construed as an act of sportsmanship.
"Guy has the morals of a garter snake," I tell her. Building on the image. I would ask exactly how far this particular serpent went. But Lenore is eyeing me. Looks to kill.
"I've done this before and all. But, well, being that he was a judge. I had no idea. He just looked like a businessman to me." She sounds like some kid who just realized she's decked the block
"Fine. You go ahead and talk to him. I already have, and he's approved the offer. Just say the word and it's off the table." The litigator's cocked pistol.
There's a lot of shouting on the phone, more haggling, Lenore holding firm.
"Take it or leave it," she says, and finally hangs up, then utters some mild profanity under her breath.
"Can't blame him for shopping til he drops," I tell her.
"Yeah, he's trying it in the bargain basement." She nods a little toward the membrane that is the office wall she shares with Kline. The woman seated next to me doesn't catch this, or it goes over her head. I can't tell which.
I start to talk, edging toward the article in today's paper, but Lenore cuts me off.
"Paul Madriani, I'd like to introduce Brittany Hall. Paul is a friend. He's come by to take me to coffee," she says.
This is news to me. But clearly whatever Lenore has to say she does not want to say in the office. I play along.
"You work here?" I'm looking at the woman called Brittany, trying not to ogle.
"In a manner of speaking." Lenore speaks before she can. "Brittany does some work with the police department from time to time. She's a police science major at the university, and a reserve deputy."
"Undercover," says the girl. "Oh."
"Maybe you read about her latest outing, in this morning's paper?" Lenore can see it in my hand. u remember
"The judge who was arrested," she says. Lenore gives me a look, a face full of wink, like shut up.
"Brittany is our key to the case. A very important witness," says Lenore.
"Oh." The decoy. Vice in this city has a history. They have been known on occasion to use some police groupies, women who hang out with the cops the way others shadow ballplayers. In the past they have hired a few beauty contestants to pose as hookers: "Miss. Tomato" and a "Daisy Princess" or two, girls in their twenties with curves that would stop traffic on the Grand Prix circuit. Reduce them to sheer panties in a little dim light and I could think of some popes who might suffer a moral lapse. I do another take, catching the well-turned knees and a tangle of legs pressed against the front of lenore's desk, better than a drag net for snaring a bottom feeder like the Coconut.
"Nice job," I tell her. There's a definite tone of enthusiasm to my words.
She returns a million dollars in enamel, a broad smile. "Gee. Thanks." There's an instant of reflection, then the judgment.
"I guess he was a pretty bad guy." She's trying to gauge the dimension of her contribution. I think she mistakes my felicitations for a genuine interest in good government.
"Reprehensible," I tell her. "Man's lower than dirt."
"And a judge, too," she says. She makes it sound as if only presidents and governors are higher on the ethical food chain. A real notch in the old handle. She's all smiles, loosening up. After all, I am not some starched tight-ass from one of the big firms, resentful other activities as holding the law up to disrepute, victimizing a brother of the cloth.
My view of the Coconut is not unlike the partisan's view of Mussolini.
To haul him up by the heels and shoot him could be construed as an act of sportsmanship.
"Guy has the morals of a garter snake," I tell her. Building on the image. I would ask exactly how far this particular serpent went. But Lenore is eyeing me. Looks to kill.
"I've done this before and all. But, well, being that he was a judge. I had no idea. He just looked like a businessman to me." She sounds like some kid who just realized she's decked the block
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