“Skipper?”
“I got a few pals who work for DeCarlo. I’ll set the ball in motion, see if I can shake anything loose for you.”
“I can’t ask you to go to the trouble—”
“It’s no trouble.” He thwacked Ben on the back. “If I find out something, who should I call?”
“Jones here takes my calls. He’s my secretary.”
A furrowed ridge formed over Loving’s eyes. “This guy’s your secretary?”
“That’s right.”
“Hey, you two ain’t, like, dating or something?”
“Definitely not,” Jones said. “He’s not my type.”
“I’m gettin’ out of here,” Loving said. “I’ll call you when I’ve got something.” He exited through the front door.
“Very funny there, Jones,” Ben said.
“I try to amuse, Boss. I mean, Skipper.”
“By the way, if anyone from the police department inquires, we did not ask Loving to investigate for us, and he is not our employee. In fact, we don’t know who he is.”
“Got it.”
Ben picked up his briefcase. “I’m out of here.”
Jones shook his head and pointed.
“What now?” Ben swung around and found himself staring at orange hair and a cookie dough nose. Clayton Langdell. That cinches it, Ben thought; I’m going to put a bell on that door.
“Mr. Kincaid,” Langdell said, “may I have a few moments of your time? I want to hire you.”
Ben’s eyebrows floated to his forehead. A client? A client who wasn’t wearing handcuffs? A client dressed in a suit? That hadn’t happened in a good long time. “Step into my office.”
Ben ushered Langdell from the lobby into his office. Ben sat behind his desk and let Langdell take the sofa.
“How can I help you?”
“Mr. Kincaid, I’m inviting you to act as legal counsel for the Society. We’ve needed ongoing representation for some time, but I’ve been stalling, hoping to find a suitable person. I think you’re our man.”
Ben stifled his grin. Acting as legal counsel for a high-profile charitable organization would definitely be a step up in the world. “What would my duties entail?”
“You would advise us on legal matters. Review our publications to keep us out of unnecessary trouble. File lawsuits to enjoin activities that are harmful to our other-than-human brethren. Help organize our lobbying efforts. For instance, I’d like you to be involved in our cockfighting campaign.”
“Cockfighting? Isn’t that illegal?”
“Not in Oklahoma, or five other states, for that matter. And in some states like Texas, it’s illegal, but only a misdemeanor. Oklahoma does have a statute prohibiting animal fights, but in a notorious case, Lock versus Falkenstein, the Oklahoma Supreme Court ruled that, although the chicken was an animal, people of ordinary intelligence were incapable of understanding that. Since those people wouldn’t know they were breaking the law when they fought chickens, to try them for that offense would be an unconstitutional denial of due process.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I knew you’d be outraged,” Langdell said. “I saw your pet chickens in the lobby.”
“Those aren’t—oh, never mind.” Ben pulled a legal pad out of his desk and started making notes. “Who runs these cockfights?”
“Professionals, mostly. Each season, October through June, breeders bring their birds to game clubs and set up fights. We’re talking about birds that for centuries have been selectively bred for aggression. Plus the owners equip their birds with ice-pick gaffs or razor-sharp knives, just to make the birds tougher and the fight bloodier.”
“That’s grotesque,” Ben said quietly.
“Precisely. And a lawyer like you should be able to turn some heads down at the capitol. I saw you on television the other day. I figure if you can push around reporters like that, you can arrange to be heard by the state legislators, too.”
“I’d be happy to work on this,” Ben said. “As you know, I’m neck-deep in a murder case at present, but as soon as that’s concluded…”
“I understand. Fit us in as soon as you can. Cockfighting is just the tip of the iceberg. After that, we’ll go after the puppy mills.”
Ben felt a hollow in his heart. “Puppy mills?”
“Puppies confined to filthy mesh cages, forced to stand on chicken wire, day in, day out. Bred like rabbits, without regard to congenital defects or disease, then shipped off to pet stores and sold at exorbitant prices. Again, Oklahoma has many of the prime offenders.”
“Clayton, I don’t want to seem rude, but this conversation is depressing the hell out of me.”
“Believe me, I know. I live with it every day.”
“Why don’t I give you a ring as soon as I get free of the McCall case? We can develop a systematic plan of action.”
“Sounds dandy to me.” Langdell rose and shook Ben’s hand. “So, does this mean you’re my lawyer now?”
“Well, it means I’m the Society’s lawyer. Why do you ask?”
Langdell laughed, a bit too heartily. “I just like to know who is and isn’t on my side.” He winked and left the office.
Leaving Ben to wonder exactly what that meant.
29
“COME ON, GISELLE. EAT!”
It was a fair compromise. He’d filled her bowl with one-fourth Feline’s Fancy and three-fourths regular Cat Chow. He figured it would smell enough like what she preferred to get her started, till she developed a taste for the other. Eventually, he would wean her off the expensive brand altogether. He thought.
Apparently, Giselle didn’t see it that way. She circled the food bowl a few times. Her face crinkled; her whiskers shook. She stared at Ben with what he could have sworn were eyes of betrayal. Then she curled up in his easy chair, now covered with black cat hair, and acted as if he didn’t exist.
“Look, Giselle. I just can’t afford to feed you that ridiculously overpriced gourmet cat food every single day!”
She licked her paws idly, entirely oblivious to him.
“I repeat—”
He was interrupted by a knock at the door. He opened it to find Mrs. Marmelstein standing in the hallway.
“Is something wrong?” Ben asked.
“I didn’t want you to take this case in the first place,” she said emphatically. “I knew what would happen. Policemen waving their guns around, chasing crazed drug pushers, tramping, through my garden.…”
Ben’s eyebrows rose. “There was a police officer here?”
“Yes.” She gave him an accusatory look. “Looking for you, of course.”
“Did you get a name?”
“No. But he left a note.”
Ben took the note from Mrs. Marmelstein and unfolded it. It said: Third base—8:00. He checked his watch. It was already 8:30.
“Gotta go,” Ben murmured. “I may be late tonight.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Socializing with police hooligans. You’ll probably go to the pool halls. Visit some ladies of loose morals.”
Ben smiled. “I’ll leave before the loose morals get out of control. Did he really tramp through your garden?”
Mrs. Marmelstein sniffed. “Well, no. But only because I stopped him.”
Ben hadn’t been to a Tulsa Drillers game in years.
Not that he was a jock, but he did enjoy watching the Drillers play when he could. Actually, his favorite part was the hot dogs. They were awful, but that was part of the charm. He’d bought two at the stand downstairs and was carrying them, the foil wrappings sweating in his hands.
The game was already into the top of the sixth inning when he arrived. The Shreveport Captains were four runs ahead of the Drillers. A Shreveport victory seemed inevitable, and the crowd was thinning. It didn’t take Ben long to find Mike up in the cheap seats on the third baseline.