“Obviously?”
“If he was as smart as he thought he was, he would never have gotten caught. Why are you taking his case anyway?”
“He’s paying me,” I said.
“Of course, what better reason is there? I’m sure you two will work fine together, though I wouldn’t start racking up the billables until the money is in the bank. After the trial I ended up prosecuting his appeals pro bono. By then he had no funds left, as far as I could tell.”
That was interesting and disheartening both. How did François get the five hundred he had paid me for the meeting, and how was he going to get me my retainer? I hadn’t asked in the prison – he’d said he could pay me, so I just assumed he could – but as always, when it came to money, it was wrong to assume anything.
At that moment, still thinking about the money, I glanced behind me, to the rear of the stone house. Ivy was climbing the walls, digging into the crumbling mortar for purchase. And framed by a tiny square window was a face, long and pale, with a white nurse’s cap pinned atop its dark hair. The mouth was a thin, straight gash, the eyes were black and staring, staring at me. When I cocked my head out of curiosity, the face disappeared.
“So, Victor,” said Whit, dragging my attention away from the window, “what grounds are you considering for the new trial?”
“I don’t know yet. We’re still looking into it. I’ll of course want to talk to the witness.”
“That might be difficult. He died a few years back.”
“How?”
“A tragedy, really. Shot during a drug deal, apparently.”
“Was he on drugs at the time of the trial?”
“Not that I knew of, and like I said, we asked for any information the police had on him. He came back clean. Quite the wholesome young man, so we all thought.” He glanced over his shoulder for a moment, as if to that window. “Not much there, I’m afraid.”
“I suppose then I’ll have to comb through the record for something else to hang our hat on. And my partner, who’s also working on the case, thinks we should, well, you know…”
“Blame me,” said Whit, nodding with a touch too much enthusiasm. “Of course she’s right, you should. Anything for the client. I’ll help out, too, if you want. Put me on the stand, I’ll have a senior moment for the judge. You can claim me as senile.”
“Some things, Whit, are too beyond belief for even me to argue.”
“Oh, Victor, I doubt that.” He laughed. “I doubt that very much.”
On our way out, we passed again through the faded hallway of his house. The medicinal smell leaked from the side room like a dark secret. With the front door open and the two of us in the entranceway, he put his hand on my shoulder. “Victor, really now, you must take care of that tooth. Let me give you the name of a dentist.”
“I’m not much for dentists,” I said.
He took a card and pen from his jacket pocket, scribbled a name and a number. “He’s a miracle worker, trust me.”
I reached for my tooth with my tongue as I looked over what he had written. A name, Dr. Pfeffer, and a phone number.
“Give him a call.” He smiled at me and nodded, and just then a scream came from the back room, and the sound of something crashing to the floor. I glanced at Whit. Some strange emotion played itself on his face, something fearful, shameful.
“My daughter,” he said. “I should go to her.”
“Of course you should. Thank you, Whit,” I said, shaking his hand. “Thank you for everything.”
“Keep me informed of Mr. Dubé’s status.”
“I will.”
He started away and then stopped, turned toward me, almost lunged as he grabbed my shoulders and leaned into me. I recoiled from him, thinking for a moment he was going to kiss me for some reason, but that’s not what he did. He grabbed my shoulders, leaned close, and whispered in my ear as if cadres of eavesdroppers were close by.
“Leave him where he is, leave it be. For your own sake. You can’t imagine the price.”
Then he let me go and lurched off down the hallway and was gone.
5
You know that stuff they sell in drugstores, the goop you put into your mouth to stop your toothache? Well, it doesn’t work. I know this because I slathered three times the recommended dosage onto my throbbing tooth, hoping for just a moment of relief, but the pain was getting worse. It was as if a mole were burrowing into my gum, digging and chewing. But the goop, all it did was numb my tongue, leaving me to talk as if sky high on paint thinner.
So I was sprawled on the couch, a towel full of ice on my jaw, drooling from my numb tongue, looking every inch the suave man-about-town, when the phone rang.
“He likes you,” said Beth from the other end.
“Who likes me?”
“François. He called me from the prison today while you were out at Whit’s. He said he’s very grateful you agreed to take the case and that he likes you.”
“That makes my day.”
“What’s wrong with your voice? What are you, drunk?”
“Hardly. I’m having a situation. Remember when that thug socked me with his gun on that old boat? My teeth have never quite been right since.”
“You should have them looked at. I know a dentist-”
“Yes, it seems everyone knows a dentist.” I took out of my pocket the card Whit Robinson had given me and thumbed over the name. “If it gets any worse, I have someone to see. I hear he’s a miracle worker. But I’m sure it will take care of itself.”
“A bit of dentophobia, Victor?”
“Hey, nothing wrong with a healthy fear of men with hairy forearms who want to stick sharp metal implements into your gums. What did Shakespeare say, ‘First thing let’s kill all the dentists’?”
“I don’t think that’s quite it. Anyway, I called to remind you that you have that hearing in family court tomorrow.”
“I know. I talked to the boy’s mother on the phone and arranged to meet up with her before we go to the judge.”
“Good. You’ll be in and out. Judge Sistine told me the case shouldn’t take much time.”
“And it pays so well, too. Pro bono, Latin for ‘no cable.’ ”
“Doing a little good in the world will do wonders for your soul.”
“My soul’s fine, it’s my wallet that’s a little thin. Since you spoke to your boyfriend-”
“Stop it.”
“Did he say when he was going to get us our retainer?”
“He said soon.”
“Because the word is, he couldn’t pay for his appeals. The word is, François Dubé doesn’t have a cent to his name.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Whit.”
“Did he say anything else of interest?”
“Not really, though our meeting ended a little strangely. But he did mention that François ran out of money at the end of the trial. So I’m naturally wondering how the jerk is going to pay us.”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“Be a dear and find out next time he calls, won’t you? It would be nice if we got paid for something some time this month. The landlord has been leaving notes.”
I hung up the phone and looked again at Whit’s card. Dr. Pfeffer, miracle worker. Just then things weren’t going so well in my life. My business was precariously perched on the brink of bankruptcy, my anemic love life was the stuff of a Sartre treatise – Being with Nothingness – my car could use a tune-up, my apartment could use a scrubbing, my body could use some exercise, though who would give it that was a mystery to me. I was too young to feel old, and yet there it was, the despair of middle age, hanging around my neck like a noose. And now I had a client who couldn’t pay me but who was calling my partner from prison to say how much he liked me. Let me tell you, hearing from a convicted murderer serving a life sentence in an all-male prison that he likes you doesn’t exactly make your day. And on top of it all, there was a mole digging a burrow into my jaw. My life could sure use a miracle. If my tooth didn’t get any better soon, I was going to have to give that Dr. Pfeffer a call.