“Just a change of heart?”
Ross shrugged.
“Maybe. Anway, we’ll worry about that later. Right now we’ve got a job to do. Let me know when Steve gets back from Court. I’ve got a real job for him. I want a complete abstract of the entire Dupaul court transcripts. Both trials — the one that sent him up for assault and battery — the Neeley case — as well as the one that made him a second-offender.”
Sharon nodded, her fingers relaying the information to her desk pad with lightning pothooks.
“I’ll also want as much background material on Billy Dupaul as possible, but Steve can have Mike Gunnerson’s office work on that.”
Sharon nodded and added the instruction to her pad.
Ross grinned and rose from his chair.
“And here’s the catch,” he said. “I want it by Monday, which gives him exactly two and a half days. On second thought, let Molly give him the good news; I hate to see a grown man cry. And besides, you and I are going out for lunch.” His smile broadened. “It’s been a long time since I’ve taken anybody to a meal except a trout.”
Chapter 2
Jeannot, maître d’ of the Sign of the Dove at sixty-fifth and Third Avenue, smiled happily at Ross and Sharon as he ushered them to a corner table. He flicked his hand majestically, waving aside the waiter who had appeared, making it quite evident that he considered it an honor to handle the requirements of these favored customers himself.
“It has been a long time, M’sieu Ross!” Jeannot’s heavy French accent did not obscure his meaning as he chided Ross for his extended absence. “And Miss McCloud! And we have had your favorite dish every day this week, too.” He raised his head dramatically, daring Ross to challenge his statement. “Trout!”
Ross laughed.
“Not today, Jeannot. I’ve eaten enough trout the past two weeks to last me a lifetime. Or, anyway, for at least several months. The next mistake I make in court, the District Attorney’s office will have to scale me instead of skinning me.”
He saw the hurt look that crossed Jeannot’s plump, handsome face and hurried to explain that he had not been unfaithful to his favorite restaurant.
“Not in New York, Jeannot. In Maine. Over a campfire.”
“Ah!” Jeannot understood and was satisfied. He raised a finger in the direction of the bar; the waiting bartender had been expecting it. He instantly began to prepare a very cold, extra-dry martini for Sharon; in the refrigerator beneath the bar he had, for Mr. Ross, a particularly chilled bottle of Cerveza Schneider, Argentinian beer, and the world’s best.
“But I haven’t,” Sharon said calmly. She laid aside her menu and smiled at Jeannot. “So I will.”
The maître d’ was puzzled. “Ma’am’selle?”
“I haven’t been eating trout over a campfire in Maine,” Sharon explained, “so I’ll have it here.”
“Much better,” Jeannot assured her, and smiled. “And for M’sieu Ross, in that case, a thick steak, très succulent, with pommes de terre hash brown and two salads of the house, n’est-ce pas?”
He beamed at the two of them, never doubting for a moment that his selection had been both accurate and gastronomically wise, motioned imperiously to a waiter to hustle the waiting drinks from the bar, and strode away, shoulders back and mustache alert, prepared to do battle in the kitchen for these special patrons, if need be.
Ross accepted his beer from the waiter and raised the chilled glass.
“Here’s luck. It’s good to be back in civilization — if you want to call it that — again.”
“It’s good to see you back,” Sharon said, and smiled at him over the rim of her martini. “You’ve spoiled me, taking me on so many business trips. Now I feel left out of things when I’m not invited along on a nonbusiness trip, like camping.”
“You could have done the cooking,” Ross admitted. “I might still like trout. Except that without you in the office, there wouldn’t be any business left to come back to. Steve’s a good boy and one day he’ll be a fine lawyer, but he couldn’t run the office. Any more than I could.” He smiled and raised his glass. “Here’s to the indispensable Miss Sharon McCloud—”
There was a slight tap on his shoulder. Ross looked up to find himself facing a rather excessively thin man, whose lined cheeks were clearly the result of excesses rather than age. At one time he might have been handsome, but he appeared as if he had aged faster than usual. He was wearing clothes more suitable for a person much younger than himself, and he could have used a shave. Ross looked at the man without expression, masking his irritation with the interruption.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Ross?” The question was clearly redundant, nor did the tall, thin man make the slightest effort to hide the fact.
“Yes, I’m Mr. Ross.”
“Press.”
The folder in the man’s hand appeared for an instant and then disappeared into an inner pocket of the flashy sports jacket before Ross had a chance to properly examine it or even to verify its authenticity. Sharon looked at the man curiously and then brought her eyes down to Ross’s face. Ross frowned up at the tall man.
“How did you know I was here?”
“I was at your office,” the man said easily. “Your telephone operator said you’d just left for lunch. I asked her where, but she denied knowing. That’s probably your idea of a good telephone-receptionist—”
Ross said evenly, “It is.”
“—but in any event, when I came down the elevator I saw you and your young lady crossing the street, and I simply followed.”
“I see. Well, I appreciate the Press, of course, but I’m sorry. At the moment I’m about to have my lunch.”
“I hate to disturb you,” the man said smoothly, “but your paragon of a telephone operator also said she didn’t know if you’d be returning after lunch, and it was important that I see you.”
“I’ll be back in the office after lunch,” Ross said, his dislike for the thin man growing by the minute, “but I’m afraid I have a rather busy schedule today...”
It was clearly a rejection, but the thin man didn’t seem to notice.
“Too busy to find out why you’d be better off talking to me before taking on the Dupaul case?” The skeletal face broke into a smile that looked like a rictus. The teeth were huge blocks of white, out of proportion to the sunken cheeks and narrow jaw. He winked broadly at Ross and started to turn away. “I’ll be looking for you in your office in an hour or so. Don’t rush your lunch on my account.”
“Hold it! Could I see that press card again?”
The thin man almost sneered.
“Of course. Be my guest.”
He reached into his inner jacket pocket and brought out the folder, opening it and placing it face upward on the table before Ross. The lawyer picked it up and studied it carefully; his eyes came up, matching the photograph behind the shiny plastic with the gaunt face smiling down at him so sardonically. The blocks of teeth were bared in a grin.
“Satisfied?”
“Your name is Jerry Coughlin?”
“That’s what it says, doesn’t it?”
“A stringer in sports for the Daily Mirror?”
“Among other papers,” Coughlin said calmly. “We can’t all work for U.P.I. or be staffers on the Times, you know. Everybody can’t make like Hildy Johnson in The Front Page.”
He reached out. Pencil-like fingers removed the folder from Ross’s hand and tucked the press card away in a pocket again. Coughlin looked down at Ross with a faint smile on his face.