Bury the Lead - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,22
Two of the three cable news networks are discussing Daniel’s prospects, and their collective opinion seems to be that the only question is whether he will get a lethal injection or a public beheading. One of the talking heads refers to me as Daniel’s “flamboyant attorney” and warns that my skills are not nearly strong enough to carry the day.
Sam pulls up outside and beeps the horn. I wave that I’ll be right down, then go through my departure ritual with Tara. Just before I leave, she always jumps up on my bed and I pet her for a short while. Then I put a biscuit on the bed, but she pretends to be uninterested in it. Of course, it’s always gone when I return home.
Sam Willis is my accountant and friend, not necessarily in that order. He is brilliant when the subject is money, but lacks the ambition to match. As a result, I am probably his only rich client, and when I came into my fortune, he acted like a five-year-old in a toy store.
As I approach the car, I realize with a small jolt that I have not prepared for what constitutes the competitive aspect of our friendship. We have come to call it song-talking, which basically means smoothly fitting song lyrics into what is otherwise a normal conversation. Sam is an absolute master of it, and the gap between our skills has grown steadily.
“Hey, Sam, let’s get a move on it, okay?” I say as I get into the passenger seat. “We’ve got a ticket to ride.”
It’s such a weak opening that I cringe as I say it, and Sam just shakes his head sadly. He knows that true greatness is measured by the stature of one’s opponents, the “Ali needed Frazier” theory. What I’ve just said is further proof to Sam that I’m not exactly his lyrical “Smokin’ Joe.”
Sam doesn’t even bother to respond in kind, holding his big guns back until later. Instead, he mentions that he saw coverage of the Cummings case on television and that it was mentioned that I’m his lawyer.
“You gonna need my help?” he asks.
In addition to being a financial genius and an amazing song-talker, Sam is a computer wizard. I used him to help me on Laurie’s case, and he and his assistant made such great progress that the criminals came after them. Tragically, the assistant, Barry Leiter, was killed in the process, and I will never get over the intense guilt that I feel about it.
“I don’t think so, Sam.”
I say this in a tentative way, and Sam immediately understands what is behind my answer. “Because of Barry?” he asks.
I might as well answer semihonestly, since he’ll see through it if I don’t. “Partly. I just can’t take a chance.”
“That wasn’t your fault, Andy. We’ve been over this a thousand times.”
He’s right about that, so I avoid number one thousand and one by not bothering to answer. Instead, I change the subject. “Where is this place we’re going?”
“Well, I was looking at this map,” he says, holding up the map he’s talking about, “and according to this, it’s only just out of reach, down the block, on a beach, under a tree . . .”
My heart sinks, not because Sam has chosen West Side Story, but because lately he has elevated his song-talking game to a new level. He hammers me with themes, using different but related songs throughout an entire evening. Recently, we were discussing vacations, and in the course of an hour he welcomed me to the “Hotel California,” promising that I would get a taste of “life in the fast lane” in a “New York Minute.”
He’s still looking at the map. “Wait a minute . . . on second thought it looks like it’s around the corner . . . or whistling down the river.”
Our destination turns out to be nowhere near the river. It’s a culinary institute in lower Westchester, and we are two of about eighty people there to taste wine for charity. We’re divided into groups of twenty and put into what seem like typical classrooms. The only difference is that on tables in front of each chair are five glasses of wine.
“This is gonna be great,” Sam says.
“Yeah. Yippie,” I say, not quite sharing his enthusiasm.
Sam lifts up one glass in a toast. “Come on, Andy, cheer up. We’re gonna rock it tonight. We’re gonna jazz it up and have us a ball.”
“Do me one favor, will you, Sam? Just