Long Lost - James Scott Bell Page 0,76

last night?”

“A mud tried to mess up Neal, but Neal was too quick for him.”

“Cut the mud stuff,” Steve said.

“Anything else?”

“Why didn’t you try to help Neal?”

“He didn’t need my help. He was doing fine.”

“Uh-huh. What did this kid do to make you think he was attacking?”

“He had a chain in his hand. What’s that tell you?”

“Maybe he was fixing a bike.”

Rennie’s eyes narrowed. “You know what I think? I think you don’t really believe me.”

Steve said nothing.

“Now why is that?” Rennie said. “I thought you worked for the family.”

“You sound like Michael Corleone.”

“Who?”

“The godfather.”

“You got it wrong, friend. Eldon LaSalle is the godfather.”

“Then I don’t have it wrong at all.”

Pulling himself up to his full height, half a head taller than Steve, Rennie said, “You tell me to my face that I’m lying.”

“I’m not going to tell you a thing.”

“You just did.”

“What’s your head made of? Foam? I’m just listening right now, because you may have to tell this story under oath. And a jury isn’t going to be impressed with your natural charm.”

For a moment Rennie looked like he wanted to wrap his massive hands around Steve’s throat and make like a two year old with a squeeze toy. Steve managed to keep his gaze steady, though not without effort.

“You got what happened,” Rennie finally said. “We were walking down the street minding our own business when this gangbanger comes out and—”

“What do you mean gangbanger?”

Rennie took in a snort of air. “Well, what else?”

“Is there gang activity in Verner?”

“They come up from LA, genius. When the heat’s on. They try to blend in.”

“Now you sound like Joe McCarthy.”

“Who? What do you keep dropping these names for?”

“Why don’t you crack a book sometime?”

“You want me to crack something? I’ll be happy to.”

And he looked about to do it, too. Then Johnny’s voice piped in from behind Rennie. “You boys get it all straightened out?”

Rennie leaned away from Steve and said nothing, waiting for Steve to give the word.

“Oh sure,” Steve said. “I think we understand each other.”

Rennie turned and walked toward the garage.

“That guy’s trouble on wheels,” Steve said to his brother.

“Relax. You’re doing a good job. We’re taking care of you.”

“What exactly does that mean, Johnny? Taking care of me how?”

Johnny smiled and put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Every which way. Just have a little faith in me, huh?”

53

Steve wondered about faith all the way to the hospital. What did he actually have faith in? Anything?

Even himself?

It was good, yes, to be going through the motions of being a real lawyer again. But the case stank to high heaven.

Curls and Red greeted him at the front desk. Didn’t they ever take a day off?

“Well hello there,” Curls said.

“Nice to see you,” Red said.

“I’m here about a kid who came in last night, got severely beaten. I’m a lawyer. You know what I’m talking about?”

“We know several lawyers,” Red said.

“I mean about the kid who was beaten,” Steve said.

Curls looked at Red and Red at Curls, as if they knew exactly what it was all about.

“If you will wait just a moment,” Red said.

“I’ll do it,” said Curls.

Red had the phone in her hand. “I’m doing it right now.”

Curls looked at Steve. “She always wants to do it.”

“Do what?” Steve said.

“A young man is here,” Red said into the phone. “A lawyer. Yes. He’s inquiring.” Red listened. She put her hand on the mouthpiece and whispered, “What is the nature of your request?”

“I’m representing the suspect,” Steve said.

“Oh my,” Curls said.

Red returned to the phone. “He says he is representing the suspect.” Red’s eyes grew wide. “I’ll tell him.” She hung up the phone. “Mr. Meyer will be right down.”

“Meyer?”

“He’s a prosecutor,” Curls said.

“I was going to tell him,” Red said.

“I’m perfectly capable,” Curls said.

“I’ll wait over here. “ Steve shot to one of the blue chairs on the other side of the reception area. Sat and picked up a Time magazine. Only four months old. He read a story about the presidential campaign, about a candidate who was no longer a candidate.

“You repping Cullen?”

Steve looked up at a short and doughy guy with springy black hair and a fuzzy mustache. He wore a rumpled brown suit with a loosened tie. In his black-rimmed glasses he reminded Steve of a young version of that film critic on TV, what was his name, Shalit?

“That’s right,” Steve said.

“Mal Meyer.” He stuck out his hand. Steve stood up and shook it.

“You working on Sunday?” Steve said.

“Same as you apparently, come