“I was in the neighborhood,” I said. “Thought I would drop by and see how you are. All this fuss about Charles Conklin has a lot of people upset.”
“You want a drink?” he asked.
“Okay,” I said. I didn’t want a drink, but it seemed to me that if I accepted I was entitled to a reasonable amount of time to down it, time to talk. When Jerry was out of sight in his small kitchen, Guido made a show of dusting one of the folding chairs before he would sit on it.
Jerry came back with three nearly full tumblers of what I found to be straight scotch, a single ice cube clanking in each glass.
“Cheers,” Jerry said, tipping his glass to us. “Have a seat. I won’t say make yourself comfortable, ‘cause these chairs aren’t much to sit on. Never bought any real furniture. I don’t get much company unless it’s poker night. Besides, I don’t plan to be here long.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Oregon. Bought a lot up there. Soon as I get things squared away, get my financing together, I’m going up to build. Won’t be long now. L.A. used to be one hell of a city, but it’s a cesspool now. And getting worse.” He raised his glass. “Getting worse.”
Guido sipped his scotch. After the first taste, I only held mine. Jerry drank heavily from his, but seemed to pace himself, put himself on a timer. He was mentally spacey, but steady-handed. A lot of long-time drunks keep themselves just on the edge all the time without slipping over into sloppy inebriation. I thought that was what I was seeing.
“So,” I said, “how do you feel about Charles Conklin getting out?”
“Who did you say you are?”
“Mike Flint introduced us, remember? I’m a friend of Mike’s.”
“Oh, yeah. The new squeeze.” He took another long drink. “Mike and I go way back.”
“Mike talks about you all the time,” I lied. Mike had had a lot of partners over the years. When he referred to his partner he usually meant the person he was currently working with or someone close from the old days, like Hector or Manny Tenwolde, a partner who was shot by a suicidal neighbor a dozen or so years ago. To Mike, Jerry was nothing more than a man he had worked an early case with. There was no bond there.
I milked that tenuous tie. “Mike tells me stories about the old days in Southeast, about moving from patrol to detectives.”
“Yeah?” He smiled into his glass. “We were a good team. Solved all of our cases, mostly. I mean, some you never get. Transient comes in, commits a crime, moves on. Or the mob. Can’t get a handle on those guys. Some people you just never get.”
“If I remember,” I said, “Wyatt Johnson was the first murder assigned to Mike after he made detective. Nice to begin with a collar.”
“Uh huh. Not much of a case. Matter of knowing which heads to thump, but we brought it in. Mike ever tell you about the time we found a mummy in the trunk of some old guy’s car? We worked on him for a good week before we got him to tell us it was his wife. Been dead six or seven years, just riding around town in the trunk all that time.”
“What do you mean, you worked on him?” I asked.
“Persistence, that’s all.” Jerry grinned. “Shit, he was older than dirt. I was afraid if we touched him or moved too fast the old guy’d croak on us.” He’d raced his ice to the bottom of his glass, and won. He reached for Guido’s half-full glass. “Can’t wait for her to catch up. Let me freshen that for you.”
On his way to the kitchen, he winked at Guido. “She as slow on the uptake as she is with that drink?”
Guido gave me a sidelong, horrified glance. When Jerry had trotted out of sight and was rattling ice cubes in the next room, Guido leaned into me, reeking of booze. “This is a bundle of laughs. You’re not going to get anything out of him. Let’s go.”
“Don’t be in a hurry,” Jerry said, coming back into the room. The scotch had put a funny bounce in his step, but obviously hadn’t impaired his hearing. I couldn’t figure him out. I decided he was lonely and needed some company. Any company.
Jerry and Guido talked about the ball game without much energy. I excused myself to use the bathroom, took a quick look at the untidy single bedroom while I was gone. Overall, it was a sad place for a man to end up, barren of evidence of attachments or accomplishments. Transient.
When I got back to the living room, I was ready to leave. Guido was intent on a double-play in progress on the big-screen, so I sat down again to wait it out.
A knock on the fakey-wood front door was a welcome interruption. Jerry got up from his recliner and went to answer, but he left his eyes on me, as if I might evaporate or something if I got out of his sight. Even when he opened the door, he kept watching me. He pushed open the door and came back to his chair without so much as greeting the person standing on the stoop.
I stood up when I saw who it was. Jennifer Miller, Conklin’s pro bono attorney, looking cool and professional in a navy-blue suit. On television she had looked taller. I pegged her live as five-two in heels, max.
“This is cozy,” I said.
She gave me a stern appraisal. “Who are you?”
“An old pal,” I said. “The real question is, what the hell are you doing here?”
“She screens my company,” Jerry said. “She’s my adviser.”
“She can’t be. She’s Charles Conklin’s lawyer.” I set my glass on the floor and stood up to tower over her. “When the Bar Association hears about this, Miss Miller, you’ll be disbarred for egregious breech of ethics.”
Miller seemed struck dumb.
Jerry Kelsey chuckled as he reached for my drink. “You sound like a lawyer your own damn self. I thought you was some kind of decorator or something.”
“Close enough,” I said. “I suggest, Jerry, that if you’re expecting some sort of gratuity from Miss Miller so you can move out of town, you should take your payment up front, before she’s indicted. I have to leave now. I have a complaint to file.”
Guido thought this was pretty funny and giggled inanely, but I felt heartsick. When we walked out, the lovely Jennifer Miller was right behind us. I hung back, waiting for Miller to catch up while Guido, his step none too steady, went straight to the car.
As she picked her way across the gravel, Miller tottered on her heels like a kid playing dress-up. She did seem young. Certainly undercooked to have been handed such a high-profile, media-rich case by a major law firm. Someone had to be keeping close tabs on her. Real close, like a puppet with a fist up its bottom.
“I am not his legal adviser,” she called out to me.
I wheeled on her, startled her. “You should have said that in front of Jerry. He thinks you’re his adviser.”
She tried to take the offensive. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“None of your business. How did you know we were here? Did George Schwartz call you?”
She leveled a poker player’s stare at me, an I’m holding at least a full house but I won’t let on to you blank gaze. “George Schwartz?”
“Right.” I folded my hand because I was fed up with her bluff. I turned and started to walk away again. “Whatever you’re up to, kiddo, it looks bad.”
“Let me explain.” Miller started after me, but had to stop to dump a pebble from her shoe. I liked the visual when I glanced back to check on her, took a camera out of my bag, and got a quick shot of Miller with Jerry Kelsey’s trailer in the background, and Jerry Kelsey’s face in the window watching her.
I went on to my car. She limped after me, calling, “Miss MacGowen, just a moment, please.”
I gave her time, leaning against my open car door. Guido was trying to get his seatbelt buckled, but he couldn’t seem to get tab to meet slot.
Miller pleaded. “I’m afraid that you have the wrong impression.”