Client Privilege (4 page)

“And he seems to know more about her than I do,” I said.

“He knows nothing you don’t know, Brady, believe me. There’s nothing else to know, I told you.”

“Well, he seems to think it’s worth ten thousand dollars.”

“Sure. He would. Nice try, fella.”

“You were right. He wants to blackmail you.”

Pops hesitated. “Ten thousand bucks, huh? That’s the figure he mentioned?”

“Yes. Ten grand.”

“I hope you told him to fuck off.”

“Indeed I did. I don’t believe I used that expression. He said he’d be in touch with you.”

“You have any idea who or what he is?”

“Nope.”

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to see what happens.”

“You don’t sound worried.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Nothing to be worried about.”

“Pops,” I said, “I think it’s time to come clean with me.

“I did. I always have.”

“Reluctantly.”

“Granted.”

“Is there something else? Does this guy know something I don’t know?”

“Nothing else to know, Brady. It was what it was.”

“I got the feeling he was way ahead of me.”

“Look, Brady. I didn’t give you the locker-room version. I think you understand.”

“If you mean I don’t judge you, pass judgment on the things you do, things you’ve done, you’re right. I understand. If you mean I understand what this guy thinks he’s got, I’m not so sure.”

“A long time ago, something happened, and then it was over. Okay? Can we please just leave it there?”

“And that’s it?”

I heard a loud explosion of breath. “Christ,” he said. “That’s it, Brady. Leave it lay, will you?”

“This guy seems to think it’s worth ten grand.”

“It’s not. You told him that. End of story.”

“Okay,” I said. “If you say so. You going to need me for anything else?”

“You told the guy I’m not going to give him money, you did your job. I appreciate it. Would’ve told him myself, but the position I’m in, I can’t very well sit around barrooms meeting with strangers who want to blackmail me. Folks see me, they might get the wrong idea.”

“Ah, the price of fame.”

“It’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said.

“Ten grand, huh?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Ain’t worth a penny.”

“He seemed to think it was.”

“Trust me,” said Pops. “It ain’t.”

“Sure,” I said. “I trust you.”

After I finished talking with Pops, I dialed the familiar number in Wellesley.

My number two son, Joey, answered. “Hi, pal,” I said.

“Hey, Dad. How you doing?”

“Fine. You?”

“Terrific.”

“What’re you up to?”

“Not much. I watched the Bruins, worked out a little. Thinking of hitting the sack.”

“What about your homework?”

“Under control.”

“The Bruins, huh. The Boston Symphony played Beethoven tonight, you know.”

He chuckled. “Who won?”

“Dead even, same as the Bruins. Ozawa and his orchestra ended at the exact same time. Always amazes me, how they do that. Your mother still awake?”

“I’ll check. Hang on.”

I heard him yell, “Hey, Mom. The old man’s on the phone.”

A moment later I heard a click, and Gloria said, “I’ve got it, dear.”

“Night, Dad,” said Joey.

“Good night, pal.”

I heard him disconnect.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi, there.”

“The old man, he calls me. God.”

Her laugh tinkled in my ear. “You want maybe he should call you the young man?”

Gloria has a husky voice on the telephone. Gloria’s voice exudes intimacy. It promises ecstasy. But I suppose that’s me. The ear of the beholder. Gloria’s voice conjures up a whole kaleidoscope of memories whenever I hear it. It makes my bachelor apartment seem sterile and alien to me. Fortunately, the feeling passes quickly. It would be worse if I talked with Gloria more frequently, which is one of the reasons I don’t.

“So what’s up, hon?” I said. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, sure. Everything’s fine.”

“Whenever you call, I always worry that something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I don’t do that, do I?”

“Do what?”

“Call you to lay my problems on you.”

“No. It’s me. I think about you and the boys, that’s all. Wondering if everything
is
okay. Imagining that it’s not, and then wondering why you didn’t call me. And then when you do call, I think… I mean, if something
was
wrong, you would call me, wouldn’t you?”

“Sure.”

“So. That’s how I think.”

“Jesus, Brady.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I mean, if you’re worried all the time, you can always call me, right?”

“Not really,” I said. “It’s not that simple.”

I heard her sigh. “It was almost easier being married to you, know that?”

“I don’t think you mean that.”

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t. Anyway, nothing’s wrong. This is something good. I’ve got a line on a magazine job, and I’m going to be in town on Friday, and I just wondered if you might want to meet me for a drink.”

“Friday,” I said. “Let me check my calendar.”

She laughed. “You’re such a bullshitter, Brady.”

“No, really. I’ve gotta check my busy schedule.”

“Hey, forget it, then.”

“Nope. You’re in luck. It’s clear Friday.”

“Oh, lucky me,” she said.

“I can squeeze you in.”

“The hell with it,” she said.

“Aw, it’s just a joke, Gloria.”

“I don’t always think your jokes are that funny.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Look,” I said. “I’d like very much to meet you Friday for a drink, okay? I was just fooling around, about my busy schedule.”

She paused. I heard her sigh. “Well, okay. So I’m lucky.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“You name it.”

“Skeeter’s,” I said. “He’s got a new drink. A Whitey Ford.”

“What’s a Whitey Ford?”

“Oh, boy. No wonder we didn’t make it. Whitey Ford was a very great left-hander for the Yankees. Always gave the Sox fits. Skeeter has concocted a drink in his honor.”

“I’ll probably have a glass of wine. If the interview goes well, maybe a Scotch. Say eight o’clock?”

“Eight’s good. Will you have eaten?”

“No. Skeeter still have those great hamburgers?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I’ll let you buy me one.”

“What’s the job, Gloria? Something exciting?”

“Very. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

I hung up with Gloria, had one last cigarette, and went to bed. I had a date with my former wife. February no longer seemed like such a shitty month. Perhaps that little groundhog in Pennsylvania hadn’t been frightened by his own shadow after all.

I
WAS IN MY
office on the telephone at three o’clock the next afternoon when Julie scratched at my door and poked her head in. She flashed a complicated set of hand and facial signals at me that I interpreted to mean either the building was burning down or my fly was open. I sniffed the air and glanced downward and knew that I had failed to translate her meaning. I beckoned her to come in.

She sat in the chair opposite my desk and drummed her long nails on the glass desktop while I finished my conversation. She crossed and recrossed her fine legs impatiently.

When I hung up, I said, “What’s wrong?”

“There’s two men out there to see you. They’re cops.”

“Christ. I thought there was a problem.”

“They’re policemen, Brady.”

“We lawyers deal with the police now and then, you know.”

She shrugged. “I don’t like them.”

“Cops?”

“Not cops in general. These two. They don’t smile.”

“They’re trained not to smile. It probably gets easy for them. They hardly ever do happy business. Am I free now?”

She nodded.

“Well, you might as well show them in, then.”

She cocked her head and arched her brows.

“Please, I mean.”

She nodded and smiled. Then she went to the door and looked out into the waiting room. “Mr. Coyne can see you now,” she said.

She stood aside and the two cops came in. Both stood around six feet tall, give or take a couple inches. One wore a brown topcoat. He was a bearish, rumpled guy, mid-fifties, I guessed, with thinning silver hair, big jowls, and small rheumy eyes. He reminded me of Walter Matthau. The other wore a black leather flight jacket with a fur collar. He was younger and trimmer, with short dark hair and a flattened nose. Robert De Niro.

I came around from behind my desk. Julie hesitated, then closed the door behind her. I extended my hand to the two men and shook hands with each of them. “Brady Coyne,” I said.

The cop in the shapeless topcoat flipped open a leather folder showing me his shield. “Sylvestro,” he said. “Boston cops. Homicide.”

“Homicide,” I repeated.

Sylvestro shrugged. “This is Finnigan. State police.”

Finnigan showed me his detective’s shield, too.

I gestured to the sofa. They sat beside each other, not bothering to take off their coats. I took the chair across the coffee table from them.

Sylvestro leaned toward me. “Sorry to barge in on you like this, Mr. Coyne. Hope maybe you can give us a hand.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

Sylvestro was carrying a large manila envelope. He reached into it and extracted an eight-by-ten glossy black-and-white photograph. He put it onto the coffee table and turned it around to face me. “I wonder if you recognize this man, Mr. Coyne?”

It was a studio portrait of a very handsome man who was smiling comfortably into the camera lens. He was perhaps thirty, with a high smooth forehead and a thick mane of light hair, worn modishly long. His features were regular and ordinary. A movie star, I guessed. His looked like hundreds of faces I had seen on television. One of the romantic leads in
The Young and the Restless,
maybe.

I looked up at the cops. Sylvestro had his eyebrows arched. He was smiling apologetically. Finnigan was frowning.

I shrugged. “He certainly looks familiar. But I can’t place him.”

They exchanged glances. “You sure, Mr. Coyne?” said Sylvestro. “Take another look.”

I looked at the picture again. “It’s a face I’ve seen somewhere. But I can’t place it.” I lit a cigarette, then looked at Sylvestro. “This man kill somebody or something?”

“Wayne Churchill. That name mean anything to you?” said Sylvestro.

I nodded. “Yes, it does. But I can’t place it. Showbiz? Movies? A singer or something?”

Finnigan sat back in the sofa and folded his arms. Sylvestro scratched his neck.

I looked at Finnigan, then Sylvestro. “I think you should tell me what this is all about. You’re obviously showing me a picture of this Wayne Churchill. It’s a face I’ve seen, a name I’ve heard. That’s the best I can do for you.”

“You ever watch Channel Eight?” said Sylvestro to me.

“I hardly ever watch television,” I said. “Sports now and then. Sometimes the eleven o’clock news. I generally watch Channel Four for the news, don’t ask me why. Habit, I guess. I like the sports guy. I suppose I’ll watch something on Channel Eight once in a while.”

“Wayne Churchill’s on Eight,” said Finnigan.

I snapped my fingers. “Right. Newsman. You usually see him interviewing a fire chief at an arson scene in Lynn or a cop at a shooting in Dorchester.” I glanced down at the photo that still rested on the coffee table. “That’s why he looked familiar, and why his name rang a bell.” I looked up at the cops. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Do you mind telling us where you were last night, Mr. Coyne?”, said Sylvestro.

I frowned. “Yeah,” I said. “I think I do mind. I think you better tell me what’s going on.”

“Of course,” said Sylvestro. “I apologize.” He glanced at Finnigan, who looked up at the ceiling. “This man—this Wayne Churchill—he was, ah, killed last night.”

“Murdered?” I said.

Sylvestro nodded.

I whistled. “Jesus!”

“It would help if you would tell us where you were last night, please, Mr. Coyne,” said Sylvestro.

“I don’t get it. What’s this got to do with me? I mean, you show me this picture of some guy I’ve seen on television, you tell me he got murdered, you want to know what I was doing last night. I don’t get it.”

Sylvestro smiled. He looked like a basset hound when he smiled. He reached across the coffee table and touched my knee. “Relax, Mr. Coyne. Take it easy. Come on. Trust me. We’re just a couple cops trying pull some facts together. It’d really help us if you could tell us where you were, what you might’ve seen last night, okay?”

I shrugged. “Okay. I guess so. I got home—that’s my apartment in the Harborside down near Commercial Wharf off Atlantic Avenue, apartment 6E, hell, you probably already checked that out—I got home from work around six, six-fifteen. Could’ve been six-thirty. Changed my clothes. Opened a can of Friend’s pork and beans. Listened to Mozart and read
Field & Stream
while I ate. Left a little after eight-thirty. Walked to Skeeter’s. You know Skeeter’s Infield, down off State Street? Had a couple drinks there. Probably stayed no more than half, three-quarters of an hour. Got home, I don’t know, ten, around there. Showered. Went to bed.”

“What were you doing at Skeeter’s?” said Finnigan.

I hesitated. They noticed it. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t violate the privileged status of Chester Y. Popowski by telling these cops my business at Skeeter’s. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t tell you that.”

They nodded, as if they knew I was going to say that.

“Why can’t you tell us?” said Sylvestro.

“Look—”

“You protecting a client?” said Finnigan.

I nodded. “I suppose you could say that. If
protect
is the word. I was at Skeeter’s for a client. You know I can’t tell you about that.”

Finnigan turned to Sylvestro. “Come on, Jack. I mean—”

Sylvestro held up a hand and Finnigan stopped. Then Sylvestro turned to me. “Mr. Coyne, would you mind going over those times for us again.”

“Last night, you mean?”

He nodded.

“I really wasn’t paying much attention. Like I said, I got home maybe six-thirty. Left at eight-thirty, I’m quite sure of that, because…”