Client Privilege by William G. Tapply Read Free Book Online Page A

would.”
    “Well,” I sighed, “anyway, that’s the story. That’s who sent you the note. Wayne Churchill.”
    “Unbelievable,” he muttered.
    “Look on the bright side,” I said.
    “There’s a bright side?”
    “Sure. This Churchill’s the guy who wanted to blackmail you. He’s dead. So you don’t have that to worry about anymore.”
    “Christ, Brady. What kind of a thing is that to say?”
    “I’m always on the lookout for bright sides.”
    “Boy, I’m sorry about this, friend.”
    “Me too.”
    “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
    “I will, Pops.”
    After supper that evening I walked to Skeeter’s. I had to get out of my apartment. I felt a compulsion to do something, and I didn’t know what. I was beginning to feel like a character in a Kafka novel. In retrospect, it seemed to me that Detectives Sylvestro and Finnigan had not questioned me as if I were simply a witness. The deeper we had gotten into the interrogation, the more I had begun to feel as if I were a suspect. I had to admit that I must have sounded suspicious. They probably thought I was hiding something, copping out behind the client privilege plea. Why did I meet Churchill at Skeeter’s? Sorry. Can’t say. Client privilege, don’t you know. So what’d you talk about with this guy who was about to get snuffed? Terribly sorry, gentlemen. Client privilege, of course. What about phone calls when you got home, help us know you were there when somebody was shooting Churchill? Sure. Talking with a client. Can’t tell you who, you understand.
    Christ, it sounded bad.
    It was ridiculous, of course. The product of my own overwrought imagination. It’s what I do when I spend too much time by myself. I invent troubles for myself that don’t exist. I visualize my boys speeding around the back roads at high speeds, colliding with telephone poles. That’s one of my standbys.
    I tried to console myself with the thought that cops were trained to deal with everyone as if he were a suspect. Wayne Churchill probably had plenty of enemies. Everybody does. I had happened to cross his path at an unfortunate time.
    But I didn’t kill him. Someone else did.
    None of this succeeded in consoling me very much.
    Skeeter’s was crowded, and it was several minutes before he noticed me. He came at me with a grin, brandishing his rag. “Hey, Mr. Coyne. Two nights in a row, huh?”
    “How are you, Skeets?”
    “Good. Busy. More of that Rebel Yell?”
    I nodded.
    “Can’t talk you into trying an Early Wynn?”
    “I hesitate to ask,” I said.
    “Old Early was one tough son of a bitch,” said Skeeter. “I faced him plenty of times. Felt lucky if I fouled off a couple. Actually, I had it easy, being as how I wasn’t much of a hitter. The good hitters he always knocked on their ass. He’d give ’em this high-riding fastball. It’d explode inside on you. Whoosh! Old Early’s fastball, you could hear the seams hissing when it went under your chin. Loosen you up quick. Set you back on your heels, believe me. Then he’d tuck that curve over the outside corner. Most hitters, though they wouldn’t admit it, were scared to face Early Wynn in a close game with somebody on base. Early used to say, ‘I got the right to knock down anybody holding a bat.’”
    “So what’s in an Early Wynn?”
    “Blackberry brandy, champagne, and vodka,” he said. “Knock down anybody holding a glass.”
    I smiled. “I’ll stick with a shot of Rebel Yell, I think.”
    He was back in a minute with my drink. He watched me while I sipped it. Then he said, “I hope I didn’t get you in trouble, Mr. Coyne.”
    “How’s that?”
    “There were a couple cops in here this morning. I wasn’t even opened up. They pounded on the door while I was out back working on my accounts. They showed me a picture of that guy you were with last night.”
    “You recognized him?”
    “Sure. That fake mustache fooled me last night when he was here. Like I told you then,