“Mr. Kincaid,” he said, aghast.
Ben realized he must look awful. He ran his lingers through his oily, matted hair and felt his stubbled chin. “Decided to grow a beard,” he mumbled.
“I see.” Reynolds glanced briefly at Christina, then returned his attention to Ben. “I thought I made it clear to you we had nothing further to discuss.”
“We didn’t come here to see you.”
“Oh?”
Ben saw Reynolds’s eyes roam to the documents he was cradling. He held them upright so Reynolds couldn’t see what they were. He hoped. “We were visiting my broker in another office.”
“Indeed,” Reynolds said dryly. “Rather early to be checking your investments. Your financial status must have improved markedly.”
“As a matter of fact, it has,” Ben said.
“No doubt. Well…if you’ll excuse me.”
Ben stepped aside and let him pass. As soon as Reynolds was out of sight, they ducked into the stairwell. Ben closed the door behind him just as he saw Marjorie step out of the elevator, an extremely irritated expression on her face.
“We made it,” Ben whispered, wiping his forehead. “Assuming Reynolds didn’t suspect.”
“I think he suspected you were a king-size slob.” Christina started down the stairwell. “Now his suspicions are confirmed.”
28
BEN STROLLED TOWARD HIS office feeling renewed and invigorated. It was amazing what a difference a shower and a shave could make. Especially when you’ve spent the night in a closet.
He grabbed a copy of the World on his way in. Naturally, the impending trial of the so-called Drug Princess was the page-one story. How could any juror claim to be unbiased, he wondered, after reading a daily deluge of articles characterizing this case as “instrumental to the federal government’s quest to shut down the Cali drug cartel”?
He stepped into his office and stared at the floor. “Jones,” he asked, “what is this?” He pointed at several plastic margarine tubs filled with gray pellets.
“That’s Barbara’s feed bowl.”
“Okay, I’ll play along. Who’s Barbara, and why are we feeding her?”
“Barbara is the chicken you just scared away.”
“I suspected as much.”
“And we’re feeding her because she was hungry. And because you told me to.”
“I did not—” But why bother? He tried a different tack. “Why do you call her Barbara?”
“Because that’s her name.”
“Barbara is a name for a human being, Jones, not a chicken.”
“Is that a rule? What would you call her, Chicken Little? Foghorn Leghorn?”
“I told you to get rid of the chickens, Jones, not adopt them. I thought you were going to build a coop out back.”
“I did. They hated it. All twelve of them, confined in a tiny area, staring at the world through chicken wire. How would you like to live like that? Sorry, Boss, but until we find them a nice home, they’re staying right here.”
Ben realized it would be pointless to argue. “Any luck getting the trial postponed?”
“None. I’m facing a brick wall. Derek’s clerk keeps pleading the Speedy Trial Act.”
“That’s ironic. The Speedy Trial Act was supposed to benefit the accused. Instead, it’s become a tool prosecutors use to hang them. The U.S. Attorneys can take their time, wait until they have all the evidence they need, then file charges whenever it suits them. And the hapless defendant has perhaps as few as thirty days to prepare his defense.” Ben noticed something new on Jones’s table. “What’s with the TV and VCR?”
“I rented them from Burris. He’s charging me by the minute, by the way, since I work for you. I wanted to show you something.” Jones turned on the television and pushed the play button on the VCR. It creaked and groaned into action. “Not exactly quality equipment.”
“Feel fortunate if it works at all.”
The picture flashed on and Ben saw himself, gritting his teeth and shaking the lapels of a decidedly intimidated blond reporter.
“Oh God.”
“I figured you wouldn’t want to miss this,” Jones said, grinning.
Ben watched himself lecture the reporter on the evils of tainting the jury pool. His face was flush red; veins throbbed across his temples.
“I look like a maniac,” Ben said. “I’ll probably be tossed out of the bar for this.”
“I don’t think so.” Jones reached under his table and withdrew a thick rubber-banded stack of mail and phone messages. “All this came for you after that clip was broadcast. They’re congratulating you for standing up to that obnoxious reporter.”
Ben ran his fingers through the mail. “All this?”
“Yes. Read it for yourself—they love you. Letters from lawyers, private citizens, bar committees. Two of them are from judges.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Face it, Boss. You’re a folk hero. A new urban legend.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Now, remember, when you sell the TV-movie rights to your story, I want to be played by—” He froze, then completed the sentence in a whisper: “Kevin Costner.”
“What’s the problem?” Ben asked. “Jones?” He turned to face the door.
He immediately realized what the problem was. It was Loving, the disgruntled divorcé.
Ben dove behind Jones’s table. “Call the police!” he shouted. Jones started dialing.
“Wait a minute,” Loving said. “I ain’t here to hurt nobody.” He opened his windbreaker. “Look. I ain’t carryin’. Not even a pop gun.”
Ben poked his head out from behind Jones’s chair. “Then why are you here?”
“I just wanted…” He looked embarrassed, shuffled his feet. “I just wanted to say thank you.”
Ben slowly crawled out from behind the table, an inch at a time. “You wanted to thank me? For what?”
“For not pressin’ charges. After that little pop gun incident.”
“Oh. That.”
“I don’t know what got into me. I’d had a little too much to drink, tell you the truth. I had all this mad inside of me, beggin’ to get out. So I let it out on you.”
“Well,” Ben said slowly, “it could happen to anyone.”
“Aww, you’re just bein’ nice. You had every right to send me to the slammer. And with my record, I would’ve been there a good long while. But you didn’t. ’Cause you’re a nice guy.”
Actually, Ben thought, it was because I was too embarrassed to tell anyone what happened.
“I admire that,” Loving continued. “Especially in a big-shot like you.”
Jones gave Ben a seriously arched eyebrow.
“Bottom line is, I owe ya,” Loving continued, “and I know it. And Frank Loving doesn’t let a debt stand unpaid. So you just tell me what I can do for you, and I’ll do it.”
“Well,” Ben said, “that’s very kind of you, but…”
“You need any heads busted?”
“Uh, not today, thank you.”
“How about women? I could fix you up with a babe so hot she’ll put you in traction.”
“Really, no…”
“Identical twins. Blondes.”
“I’m terribly busy right now.”
Loving folded his arms across his chest. His frustration was evident—and scary. “Busy with what?”
“Well…my secretary is trying without much success to interpret some financial information.”
“Some deadbeats holdin’ out on ya, huh? Just give me the names. I’ll soften ’em up for ya.”
“Not deadbeats. These are business records of transactions between Tony Lombardi—”
“I don’t know him.”
“And Albert DeCarlo.”
“Whoopee!” Loving whistled. “Him I know. You really play with the big boys, don’tcha, Skipper?”