he talked to Jerome Clifford before Clifford killed himself. We know the kid was in the car. Maybe I don’t blame him for lying. He’s just a kid. He’s scared. But dammit, we need to know what he saw and heard.”
“What do you suspect he saw and heard?”
The nightmare of explaining this to Foltrigg suddenly hit Trumann, and he leaned against the wall. This is exactly why he hated lawyers—Foltrigg, Reggie, the next one he met. They made life so complicated.
“Has he told you everything?” McThune asked.
“Our conversations are extremely private.”
“I know that. But do you realize who Clifford was, and Muldanno and Boyd Boyette? Do you know the story?”
“I read the paper this morning. I’ve kept up with the case in New Orleans. You boys need the body, don’t you?”
“You could say that,” Trumann said from the end of the table. “But at this moment we really need to talk to your client.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“When might you reach a decision?”
“I don’t know. Are you boys busy this afternoon?”
“Why?”
“I need to talk to my client some more. Let’s say
we’ll meet in my office at 3 P.M.” She took her briefcase and placed the recorder in it. It was obvious this meeting was over. “I’ll keep the tape to myself. It’ll just be our little secret, okay?”
McThune nodded his agreement, but knew there was more.
“If I need something from you boys, like the truth or a straight answer, I expect to get it. If I catch you lying again, I’ll use the tape.”
“That’s blackmail,” said Trumann.
“That’s exactly what it is. Indict me.” She stood and grabbed the doorknob. “See you boys at three.”
McThune followed her. “Uh, listen, Reggie, there’s this guy who’ll probably want to be at the meeting. His name is Roy Foltrigg, and he’s—“
“Mr. Foltrigg is in town?”
“Yes. He arrived last night, and he’ll insist on attending this meeting at your office.”
“Well, well. I’m honored. Please invite him.”
The Client
10
1 HE FRONT-PAGE STORY IN THE MEMPHIS PRESS ABOUT
Clifford’s death was written top to bottom by Slick Moeller, a veteran police reporter who had been covering crime and cops in Memphis for thirty years. His real name was Alfred, but no one knew it. His mother called him Slick, but not even she could remember the nickname’s origins. Three •wives and a hundred girlfriends had called him Slick. He did not dress exceptionally well, did not finish high school, did not have money, was blessed with average looks and build, drove a Mustang, could not keep a woman, and so no one knew why he was called Slick.
Crime was his life. He knew the drug dealers and pimps. He drank beer at the topless bars and gossiped with the bouncers. He kept charts on the who’s who of motorcycle gangs that supplied the city with drugs and strippers. He could move deftly through the toughest projects of Memphis without a scratch. He knew the rank and file of the street gangs. He had busted no less than a dozen stolen car rings by tipping the police. He knew the ex-cons, especially the ones who returned to
crime. He could spot a fencing operation simply by watching the pawnshops. His cluttered downtown apartment was most unremarkable except for an entire wall of emergency scanners and police radios. His Mustang had more junk than a police cruiser, except for a radar gun, and he didn’t want one.
Slick Moeller lived and moved in the dark shadows of Memphis. He was often on the crime scene before the cops. He moved freely about the morgues and hospitals and black funeral parlors. He had nurtured thousands of contacts and sources, and they talked to Slick because he could be trusted. If it was off the record, then it was off the record. Background was background. An informant would never be compromised. Tips were guarded zealously. Slick was a man of his word, and even the street gang leaders knew it.
He was also on a first-name basis with virtually every cop in the city, many of whom referred to him with great admiration as the Mole. Mole Moeller did this. Mole Moeller said that. Since Slick had become his real name, the added nickname did not bother him. Nothing bothered Slick much. He drank coffee with cops in a hundred all-night diners around town. He watched them play softball, knew when their wives filed for divorce, knew when they got themselves reprimanded. He was at Central Headquarters at least twenty hours a day, it seemed, and it