The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy by Jeremish Healy Read Free Book Online Page B

and not the weekly?' And the Mick
says, 'Hey, Vinnie, I'm sorry, really.' And he reaches into his
pants, pulls out this wad of cash, and pays the two Fridays he owes
and the next four as well."
    "Wait a minute. He paid you the whole
arrearage—"
    "Right."
    "—and a month's advance?"
    "Right, right."
    "All at once?"
    "Like I just said."
    I thought about it. "Do you remember when this
was, too?"
    The same canting of the head. “A Monday. I remember
thinking, 'He didn't have two weeklies three days ago, and he's got
six for me now?' "
    "So, a Monday, a month ago."
    "Right."
    About the time that . . . “Mr. Dufresne, was this
before or after Alan Spaeth moved out?"
    Dufresne got angry. "Right before. I remember
thinking about what my mother used to say, eh?"
    "Your mother?"
 
"Yeah,
she'd tell me, 'Remember, Vincennes, God gives with one hand and
takes away with the other.' "
    "Meaning?"
    Dufresne looked disappointed in me. "Meaning I
get money I'm owed plus upfront from the Mick, but this asshole
Spaeth is in my face about me stealing his gun and says he's leaving.
Which also means I got five empty rooms, and the mortgage bank don't
care about—"
    "Please, Mr. Dufresne, this could be very
important."
    He stared at me.
    I said, "A month ago, Mantle gives you six
weeks' worth of rent, all in cash at the same time."
    "Right. What he owed me, plus the advance."
    "Just before Spaeth accuses you of stealing his
revolver."
    "I don't know what kind of gun it was."
    "You don't?"
    "Hell, no."
    "You never saw it?"
    A new cocking of the head. "I never even knew
the fucking thing existed, eh? When Spaeth come to rent from me, I
told him the house rule was 'no guns.' Then, after he's lived here
for a while, the asshole claims I went into his room and stole the
thing. Says he's moving out to an apartment three blocks over because
of that."
    The version Spaeth told me at the Nashua Street jail.
Which might be just a good setup by him for why Woodrow Gant could
have been killed by a gun with Spaeth's prints on its shells.
    But then why wouldn't the guy just have taken the
revolver with him from the crime scene and pitched the thing where it
wouldn't be found and linked with the shooting?
    Dufresne gave me a new angle of his head. "Eh,
you okay?"
    "Sorry." I moved around the room, more to
think than to look. "You said you helped Mantle up here last
week on Monday or Tuesday."
    "Right."
    "When did you see him last?"
    "Last?"
    "Yes."
    Dufresne stared at the hardwood floor. "I think
that was it."
    I stopped. "You haven't seen Mantle for a full
week?"
    "Yeah, but that's not so unusual, you know. I
mean, the guy does his carpentry, he's got to be on the job by seven
in the A.M. sometimes."
    "I thought you said he hadn't been working for
the last month?"
    "Yeah, but I don't really know that. Besides,
the guys here drift in and out at all hours. I try to get them to
lock the front door, but they're not exactly the most responsible
people on God's earth, eh?"
    "How long has Mantle lived here?"
    "Two, three years. More like three."
    "He ever pay you in advance before?"
    "Once. His uncle died, left him some kind of
inheritance."
    "But other than that . . . "
    "The Mick's strictly hand-to-mouth."
    Adding things up, I said, "You think he might
have gotten the advance money this time by stealing Spaeth's gun and
selling it?"
    "No." Dufresne shook his head. “No, the
Mick's got his faults, but he's no thief. And he's loyal, too."
    "Loyal?"
    "He wouldn't screw a friend, even just a
drinking buddy like your Spaeth."
    "They drink here?"
    "Here and around here. Couple of bars up
Broadway, and another on L Street toward the beach."
    "These places have names?"
    A shrug. "Not that matter."
    Growing up in Southie, I knew what he meant. "Well,
thanks for your help."
    As I moved into the hall, Dufresne said, "It's a
good rule, eh?"
    I stopped and looked back at him. "What is?"
    "My thing about guns. Can't have them in the
house, not with these losers."
    "Mr.