One couple looked to be pretty drunk, the woman suddenly sat up straight, raised her voice and slurred, “Don’t you tell me what to do.”
The guy she was with ran a hand through his hair and looked like he was incapable of telling anyone anything.
“Coffee, sir,” a waitress said, she was in her mid-fifties with a voice that had a two-pack-a-day-rasp. She sort of wrinkled her nose as she stood over me, then took a slight step back. She poured my coffee and I heard her exhale after she turned to walk away.
At nine I called Louie on his cell phone, it sounded like I woke him up. I hung on for about an hour while he coughed and cleared his throat.
“Lo,” he said.
“Louie, Dev.”
“Oh, yeah, Dev, what the hell time is it?”
“A little after nine, I…”
“Shit, gotta boogie man…”
“Louie, wait, wait, don’t hang up. You get that autopsy report?”
“You mean from Manning?”
“I don’t know where you were getting it from I thought the Medical Examiner would send it to you.”
“Hmmm, yeah probably,” he said, like he hadn’t thought of that.
“So, did you get it?”
“No, I called Manning, left a message, he was going to get back to me, but I never heard anything. Ended up closing the Coal Bin last…”
“Closing the Coal Bin? I left you there before three. You mean you stayed there drinking for the next eleven hours?”
“I had some dinner.”
“They don’t do food there.”
“Had a bag of pork rinds, look I…”
“Louie, get that autopsy report will you? If Manning doesn’t have it or you can’t reach him, the Medical Examiner will have it. In fact maybe try there first, they should have sent the thing to your office automatically.”
“Yeah, I’m on it, look I gotta fly, man.”
I hung up not really flushed with confidence.
I parked the Fiesta out on the street, just for a change of pace, then sat back and watched absolutely nothing happen in the KRAZ parking lot. Farrell’s car was there. I guessed that it had never left. I dozed off a couple of times for no more than a few minutes, then turned the radio to seven-forty to catch Farrell’s droning rant over the noon hour.
I was trying to remain focused, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. Farrell was describing the international banking conspiracy KRAZ had uncovered and was about to bring public if only you could send in a cash donation, no checks. Send the donation to their Post Office Box. He had just finished giving the mailing address a second time, in mid sentence he suddenly launched into a coughing jag that went on for at least a half minute, then simply picked where he’d left off. I’d heard it all before, the coughing. A few days back, the same thing, the exact same thing.
Whatever I was listening to I’d heard before, it was being replayed, so where was Farrell?
I remained parked on the street until late in the afternoon. The only thing I learned was the front seat of a Ford Fiesta can become damn uncomfortable. I phoned Louie, but his mail box was full, again. I phoned his office and left a message. My phone rang about an hour-and-a-half later.
“Mister Haskell.” The voice was icy coming through the phone and I cringed when I heard the Ivy League accent.
“Yes.”
“Mister Haskell, this is Daphne Cochrane, Ramsey County Public Defenders office.” I pictured her wearing a sneer and sitting up ramrod straight at her clean desk, a sharpened pencil and a blank legal pad in front of her, shuddering when she heard my voice.
“Yeah.”
She cleared her throat, then said, “Mister Haskell, your case has been reassigned to me.”
“Where’s Louie?”
“Mister Laufen is no longer with the Public Defender’s Office. I’ve been…”
“What happened?”
“That is a private matter between Mister Laufen and Ramsey County.”
“Sounds real private. Look no offense, but I don’t want you to represent…”
“I can assure you, Mister Haskell, whatever protestations you may elicit, they could not possibly be greater than mine in this whole, sordid situation.”
“I want to talk to Louie, Mister Laufen.”
“It’s really not a matter of what you want, Mister Haskell. Rather it has become a matter of what you must do. As your court appointed attorney, I’m advising you to admit your crime and surrender yourself to the proper authorities, immediately. This office…”
“Would you please have Louie call me?”
“I have absolutely no way of contacting Mister Laufen, and I certainly have no…”
“I haven’t done anything wrong, Daft.”
“Please, don’t use that tone with me, Mister Haskell. You are in serious violation of a number of…”
I had a feeling where the rest of the conversation was going so I hung up. I wondered about Louie, but didn’t have to wonder long.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
He was in the back booth, just behind the one I’d sat in yesterday. I wasn’t sure, but I thought he was wearing the same clothes, only they looked a lot worse. He needed a shave and a very long, very hot shower. What a pair we made. Close to a dozen empty beer mugs and a half dozen shot glasses littered the table in front of him. There were maybe eight customers in the Coal Bin, every one of them staying clear of Louie. Marge, with the nuclear red hair, was pouring a shot of Sambuca as I walked in. She brought the shot, along with another mug of beer over to Louie.
“I’ll have a Summit and better get a black coffee for Louie,” I said, once she waddled back behind the bar.
“He ain’t gonna like that.”
“Humor me.”
I walked to the back booth and sat across from Louie. He looked at me with glazed, bloodshot eyes, but I wasn’t sure he could see me. He gulped down a fair portion of beer, slammed the mug down harder than he intended. Beer dribbled down the corner of his chin it wasn’t like him to waste alcohol.
“So counselor, seems you’ve had a busy day.”
He attempted to focus for a brief moment, then his head rolled from side to side and he belched.
“Just doing the public’s biding,” he said. Then grinned idiotically and lurched a hand toward his mug. He missed the handle, just pushed the mug across the table in my direction as it clanged off the empties scattered around, he seemed not to notice.
“Here Louie, compliments of your friend,” Marge said, then sneered at me.
“Love me?” Louie asked her.
At this point I had real concern for him.
“Louie, drink this,” I said, placing the coffee mug in front of him.
He took a sip, and another, after the third sip he said, “Jesus, that’s coffee. I need a beer.”
“I know the feeling, but I think we should probably just go home, drink some there, what do you think?”
We sat for another year or two. I got two more cups of coffee into him.
“Louie, what do you say we head back to your place, crash for the night?”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said, then attempted to get to his feet and immediately fell back into the booth.
“Here let me give you a hand,” I said. I almost threw my back out wrestling him into the Fiesta.
“What the hell’s your address?” I was attempting to buckle him into the seat, the car was leaning toward the passenger side at close to a forty-five degree angle and I wasn’t sure the seat belt was long enough to reach around him.
“Damned if I can remember.”
I’d been here before with people, usually dates I’d deliberately over served, which was something that never seemed to work in my favor.
“Louie, Marge sent over a gallon of Sambuca to your place, she wants us to go get it, what’s the address.”