office."
"Why, Phil, I'm offended. Were you watching my office or just following Tony?" I ask.
Maybe Tony has not compromised her after all. "People walk by. A public street," he says.
"Right. Take a note"--I turn to Harry--"to sweep the office," I tell him. "Something may have crawled in under the crack of our door when we weren't looking." Harry smiles. Mendel does not. I would not put it past him to know every intimate conversation I have had on my phone in the last month.
"You haven't said what she was doing there." I'm out of my chair, rising to leave. Harry on my heels.
"You're right. I haven't." I darken his door, leaving him to think the worst, that perhaps Lenore was there as an official emissary of the prosecutor's office, some part of a dark deal for Tony's testimony.
Better this than the truth. I will have to get to Tony before he does. "We oughta talk again sometime," he says.
"I'll bring the court reporter," I tell him, and I am gone.
Kerns is one of those overweight balding little men who would look like a gnome except for the perennial scowl on his face. I have known him for a dozen years, and he has worn that look for every one of them.
It comes with the turf, his job as a D.A.'s investigator, the place I once worked in another life, and where we were friends. Leo "Shoulda called. I woulda dressed," he says.
Leo is standing in the doorway to his apartment in a tank-top shirt, black hair bristling from both armpits like quills on a porcupine. He has a gut like Buddha. I can smell his last meal and beer on his breath.
"What's it been--a year?" he asks. At least," I tell him. "But you're looking good."
"Right, getting younger all the time," he says. "Except that now all the hair on my head is growing down, comin' out my ears and nose." I can't tell if anybody else is inside the apartment. Perhaps an inopportune moment for a visit. Leo is single and not a ladies' man, though he has been known to entertain a few barflies.
I'd invite you in but the place is a mess," he says.
"No reflection on its occupant," I tell him. We both laugh and finally he swings the door open.
"How bout a beer?" he says.
Saying no to Leo on this would be like refusing a peace pipe. He plucks the can from its plastic mesh and holds it up, label out.
"This okay?"
"My favorite. Warm," I tell him.
His own can in hand, he settles backward into the couch, a place where his behind fits like some oversize baseball in the pocket of a catcher's mit, a well-worn spot across from the television, which is on, spouting some nonsense game show.
All of this, sitting down, brings a lot of heavy breathing from Leo. Kerns is what the people who do actuarial work-ups for insurance companies would call "high risk."
"Take a load off." He gestures toward an armchair in the corner, its fabric so worn that if the thing moved I would attribute it to the molting season. The TV is in my ear. He says something but I cannot make it out.
He finds the remote and exercises his thumb on the volume. "Ever watch this?" he asks.
I look at the screen.
"A cultural watershed," I tell him.
"Yeah, and the hostess has good tits," says Leo. He mutes the sound but doesn't turn it off, his eyes glued to the set as if he's waiting for his two favorite peaks to appear.
"I take it you didn't come by for beer and conversation?" "How could you think that?" I tell him.
He smiles, and we talk about the D.A.'s office, changes in the investigative staff since Kline's ascendancy. Leo tells me there is a good deal of insecurity, people who were bosom buddies yesterday now willing to slip a shiv in your spine. Leo would know. He has his own carefully honed collection of these.
"It's no longer fun getting up and going to work," he tells me. Like this has always been a major pleasure point in Leo's life. "Sounds like good cause for disability," I commiserate.
"If safety retirement offered a presumption for working with assholes, I'd be out
"Why, Phil, I'm offended. Were you watching my office or just following Tony?" I ask.
Maybe Tony has not compromised her after all. "People walk by. A public street," he says.
"Right. Take a note"--I turn to Harry--"to sweep the office," I tell him. "Something may have crawled in under the crack of our door when we weren't looking." Harry smiles. Mendel does not. I would not put it past him to know every intimate conversation I have had on my phone in the last month.
"You haven't said what she was doing there." I'm out of my chair, rising to leave. Harry on my heels.
"You're right. I haven't." I darken his door, leaving him to think the worst, that perhaps Lenore was there as an official emissary of the prosecutor's office, some part of a dark deal for Tony's testimony.
Better this than the truth. I will have to get to Tony before he does. "We oughta talk again sometime," he says.
"I'll bring the court reporter," I tell him, and I am gone.
Kerns is one of those overweight balding little men who would look like a gnome except for the perennial scowl on his face. I have known him for a dozen years, and he has worn that look for every one of them.
It comes with the turf, his job as a D.A.'s investigator, the place I once worked in another life, and where we were friends. Leo "Shoulda called. I woulda dressed," he says.
Leo is standing in the doorway to his apartment in a tank-top shirt, black hair bristling from both armpits like quills on a porcupine. He has a gut like Buddha. I can smell his last meal and beer on his breath.
"What's it been--a year?" he asks. At least," I tell him. "But you're looking good."
"Right, getting younger all the time," he says. "Except that now all the hair on my head is growing down, comin' out my ears and nose." I can't tell if anybody else is inside the apartment. Perhaps an inopportune moment for a visit. Leo is single and not a ladies' man, though he has been known to entertain a few barflies.
I'd invite you in but the place is a mess," he says.
"No reflection on its occupant," I tell him. We both laugh and finally he swings the door open.
"How bout a beer?" he says.
Saying no to Leo on this would be like refusing a peace pipe. He plucks the can from its plastic mesh and holds it up, label out.
"This okay?"
"My favorite. Warm," I tell him.
His own can in hand, he settles backward into the couch, a place where his behind fits like some oversize baseball in the pocket of a catcher's mit, a well-worn spot across from the television, which is on, spouting some nonsense game show.
All of this, sitting down, brings a lot of heavy breathing from Leo. Kerns is what the people who do actuarial work-ups for insurance companies would call "high risk."
"Take a load off." He gestures toward an armchair in the corner, its fabric so worn that if the thing moved I would attribute it to the molting season. The TV is in my ear. He says something but I cannot make it out.
He finds the remote and exercises his thumb on the volume. "Ever watch this?" he asks.
I look at the screen.
"A cultural watershed," I tell him.
"Yeah, and the hostess has good tits," says Leo. He mutes the sound but doesn't turn it off, his eyes glued to the set as if he's waiting for his two favorite peaks to appear.
"I take it you didn't come by for beer and conversation?" "How could you think that?" I tell him.
He smiles, and we talk about the D.A.'s office, changes in the investigative staff since Kline's ascendancy. Leo tells me there is a good deal of insecurity, people who were bosom buddies yesterday now willing to slip a shiv in your spine. Leo would know. He has his own carefully honed collection of these.
"It's no longer fun getting up and going to work," he tells me. Like this has always been a major pleasure point in Leo's life. "Sounds like good cause for disability," I commiserate.
"If safety retirement offered a presumption for working with assholes, I'd be out
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