That’s right, she lived in Washington Township, on the way opposite side of the city of Detroit. I heard the dumbbells clank, and the young man left the room. Micki hit some buttons on the treadmill console. It slowed down to a brisk walking pace that she seemed relieved to adopt, pacing along smartly, bare arms swinging. She wore snug charcoal shorts with white piping and a matching V-neck sleeveless racerback. With all the mirrors in there, every available angle offered an eyeful. I kept my thoughts pure, my gaze from lingering. She was way too young, way too spoken for, and — just as important — a regular client.
“This isn’t exactly a case,” she said.
“Okay.” I wished I’d brought coffee with me. I hadn’t had my morning gallon yet.
“I’m litigating a wrongful death matter,” she said. “My client’s husband was killed in an industrial accident.”
“Ouch.”
“Crushed in a twenty-thousand-ton hydraulic press.”
“Sorry to hear.” We’d had such behemoths at Ford’s, way back when. The image sickened me. I eyed Micki. “And the widow wants her dough.”
Micki glanced at me. “What she wants,” she said evenly, “is justice.”
“In the form of large amounts of legal tender.”
“That’s the mode by which people extract justice from corporations that are negligent.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t getting into it with her. But I’ve found that when they say it’s not about the money, it’s about the money. “How can I help?”
“I remember you saying once... didn’t you used to do work for Coyne Cose?”
“Long time ago, when the old man ran it.”
“I miss Arnie,” she smiled, and shot me a look. “I heard you and Arnie Junior didn’t bring out the best in each other.”
“Ted. He insists on being called Ted. You know his TV jingle? ‘Call Ted Instead’?”
“To which of your traits did he object?” Micki asked with a puckish smile. “Your irreverence, your investigatorial exuberance, or your abrupt and alarming attacks of ethics?”
“Let’s just say, we went our separate ways.”
“So who replaced you?”
“Huh?”
“Who handles their investigations now?”
“Last I heard, uh... Del Laing.”
“You know him?”
I shrugged. “Seen him around.”
She hit the stop button and stepped off the treadmill. I handed her a towel. “Excellent,” she smiled, patting her dampish blond hair.
“Why?”
“Well. In my wrongful death matter, Coyne Cose represents the employer. Stone Automotive.”
Ah yes. Deep pockets. “And?”
“And, I’ve picked up rumors that the defense will allege that the victim, at the time of his death, was having an extramarital affair.”
“Um,” I fumbled, “I’m no lawyer — and my degree is from Hard Knocks U. But say they prove the victim was stepping out. How does that help their defense?”
“An element in calculating damages is loss of consortium for the wife, who is my client. She lost the companionship and comfort of her husband,” Micki said delicately. She led me toward the exercise room door. In the floor-to-ceiling mirrors we presented quite a contrast: The rosy, slight, almost elfin attorney in shorts, and the taller, darker, broad-shouldered hombre wearing polo shirt and jeans, and a weathered, battered, quizzical look — a poster boy for Huh? “If the defense can show that the husband was, uh—”
“Doin’ the comfort thing elsewhere?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes. Whatever. If they can prove that, it could significantly mitigate damages.”
“Meaning less dough for the widow,” I translated.
“Precisely.”
“Not that it’s about the dough.”
She tossed the towel into a hamper, raised a hand, flattened the other, miming an oath on an invisible Bible. “She’s that one-in-a-million instance where it’s absolutely true, Ben.”
“Okay. So what do you need from me?”
“Well, Coyne Cose uses Del Laing for investigations. And you know Del Laing. So it stands to reason that you might perhaps—”
“Reach out to him?”
“Yes. And dig up — if you can — details about this alleged affair.”
“Details.”
“Just get me the identity of the other woman. So we can be prepared for whatever they throw at us.”
“Okay. Can I ask another question?”
“Of course.”
“What does the widow say about the, uh, affair rumor?”
“Quote ‘not in a million billion years would he do that to me,’ unquote.”
Another rarity, I thought.
Micki eyed me. “How about it?”
In most situations like this my answer would have been sorry, no. But Micki was a client, and one of the better ones. And I liked her. So what if she hung her hat in collegial, high-cotton Oakland County? She worked and won cases in smash-mouth Wayne County too — native good cheer and dewy looks notwithstanding — sticking up for people without means, clout, or friends. My kind of folks. Micki believed the widow was acting more on principle than on greed. She also believed that the late husband, having been unjustly killed, was now having his reputation trashed. And that was good enough for me.
Plus which, I did know Del Laing.
Well enough to know that timing things right was the key to having my way with him. He was rather predictable, you see.
And sure enough, I found him when expected — three P.M. — as well as where — Jugg’s Astro Lanes down in Ecorse, not far from the Detroit and Shoreline Railroad tracks. He occupied the same corner black leatherette booth, smoked the same Tareytons, and drank the same Stroh’s Dark that I remembered. Judging from the empties, he was just finishing his third. And, as I also recalled, he was more than happy to accept a free refill. By five or six, I figured, he’d be walking on a slant.
“Ben Perkins! I’ll be damned. Slide on in, man,” he said genially, taking the fresh mug in his two big paws. Del was a blousy, pear-shaped middle-ager with thinning dark hair combed straight back and a sad-eyed, hang-dog face that was always ready with excuses. He wore a navy Local 600 jacket that I knew good and well could never have been issued to him. His white shirt had an open collar that showed a bouquet of grayish black hair. “What’re you doing these days?”
“Little of this, little of that.” I lighted a short cork-tipped cigar, glad to be smoking somewhere other than my apartment or my car or the great — and, it being March, frigid — outdoors. Clearly the no-smoking rules hadn’t made it this far downriver. “You’re still with Coyne Cose, I hear.”
“Come on, Ben, you know I can’t talk about that.”
“Jeez, Del. What’s the big state secret? I just asked where you work.”
He looked at me, away, at me again. “Yeah yeah, you’re right.”
Bowling pins thundered in the distance. Two women laughed at the bar. Excellent, I thought. After all these years, Del’s squishy as ever. “Nice gig. Been at it a while.”
“You know, it’s, y’know,” he said, and took a hit off his cigarette. “It goes like it goes.”
“You get along all right with Arnie Junior?”
Del flinched. “His name’s Ted,” he said, lowering his voice.
“Is it my imagination, or did he just get another face-lift?”
“Oh.” Del grinned. “You musta saw the new commercials.”
“Who could miss them? They’re on Law & Order reruns every night, right after the first wisecrack. Still using that ‘Liti-Nation’ jingle and 1-800-SUE-THEM.”
“Keeps working,” Del grunted, “so they stick with it.”
“The go-go girls, though — that’s something new.”
“Keeps the slobs watching.”