The Guardians - John Grisham Page 0,108

cane and falls into an ancient, dusty pile of leather. I sit on the sagging sofa and shove a quilt out of the way. I assume he naps here each afternoon as he snores off his liquid lunch. With both hands on the heel of his cane, and his chin resting on his knuckles, he smiles wickedly and says, “I can’t believe Pfitzner’s really in jail.”

“Neither can I. It’s a gift.”

“Tell me about it.”

Assuming again that anything I say will be repeated at the coffee shop in the morning, I breeze through the quick version of the FBI’s fine work nailing an unnamed prison guard and his unnamed contact with the prison gang. This led to an operative working for the drug dealers, and he led to Pfitzner, who stepped into the trap with all the naivete of a small-time shoplifter. Now he’s facing thirty years.

Bea brings our drinks and we say, “Cheers.” His liquid is brown and there isn’t much ice in his glass. He smacks his lips as if parched, and says, “So what brings you to town?”

“I’d like to meet with the sheriff, Wink Castle, tomorrow if I can find him. We’re having conversations about reopening the investigation, especially now that we know Pfitzner tried to kill Quincy.” There is enough truth in this to explain why I’m in town. “Plus, I am curious about you. Last time we met in Gainesville you seemed to be having a good time digging through the case. Any more surprises?”

“Not really, been busy elsewhere.” He waves an arm at the landfill on his desk as if he’s pulling eighteen-hour days. “Any luck with the Kenny Taft angle?”

“Well, sort of. I need to retain your services for a bit of legal work.”

“Paternity, DUI, divorce, murder? You name it, you’re at the right place.” He roars at his own humor and I laugh along. He’s been using that same line for at least fifty years.

I get serious and explain our contacts with the Taft family and our plans to search the house. I hand him a $100 bill and make him take it. He’s now my lawyer and we shake hands. Everything is now confidential, or should be. I need a simple one-page lease that will impress the Taft family, along with a check drawn on Glenn’s trust account. I’m sure the family would prefer cash, but I prefer paperwork. If evidence is found in the house, the chain of custody will be hopelessly complicated and documentation will be crucial. Sipping our drinks, Glenn and I discuss this like a couple of seasoned lawyers analyzing a unique problem. He’s pretty savvy and sees a couple of potential problems I haven’t thought of. When his glass is empty, he summons Bea for another round. When she brings them, he instructs her to take notes in shorthand, just like in the old days. We hammer out the basics and she retires to her desk.

He says, “I noticed you staring at her legs.”

“Guilty. Something wrong with that?”

“Not at all. She’s a dear. Her mother, Mae Lee, runs my house, and for dinner every Tuesday prepares the most exquisite spring rolls you’ve ever tasted. Tonight’s your lucky night.”

I smile and nod. I have no other plans.

“Plus, my old pal Archie is coming over. I may have mentioned him before. Indeed, I think I did over sangria at The Bull. We’re contemporaries, practiced here decades ago. His wife died, left him some dough, so he quit the law, big mistake. He’s been bored for the last ten years, lives alone with little to do. Retirement’s a bad gig, Post. I think he has a crush on Mae Lee. Anyway, Archie loves spring rolls and is good for tall tales. And he’s a wine snot with a big cellar. He’ll bring the good stuff. You do wine?”

“Not really.” If he could only imagine my balance sheet.

His last ice cube is down to a sliver and he rattles it around, ready for more. Bea returns with two copies of a rough draft. We make a few changes and she leaves to print the final draft.

* * *

GLENN’S HOME IS on a shady street four blocks off Main. I drive around for a few minutes to kill time, then park in the drive behind an old Mercedes I assume is owned by Archie. I hear them laughing around the corner and head to the backyard. They are already on the porch, reared back in overstuffed wicker rockers while

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