“I’d rather not say.”
Tony tapped the top of the espresso pot. The sound of the dripping had stopped. “Check,” he said, and smiled; and then he said, “And the turmoil? Karen?”
Harry did not reply.
Tony poured the steaming brew into their cups. “Okay. With a guy like you especially, I dig that. The guilt, the whole bit. Interrogation closed. You’re a close-mouthed bastard, but just remember I’m a friend. For in case.”
“Pot calling the kettle black.”
“Come again?” Tony’s chin tilted up.
“I’m close-mouthed and you’re loquacious, a real garrulous guy. But what comes out? Nothing.”
“You’re losing me, baby.”
“There’s Karen.”
“So?”
“And there’s Karen’s husband.”
“So?”
“You know them a lot longer than I do.”
“So? So?”
“You know what you’ve told me about them?”
“What?”
“Nothing, that’s what. A lot of nothing, Tony.”
Tony sipped his espresso, frowning. “You worried about the old man?”
“Should I be?” Harry looked straight at him.
“No.” Tony Mitchell returned the look steadily.
“Why not?”
“Because he’s a smart old man. Because he’s a smart old man married to a young wife. So he’s permissive. He lets her run. He lets her enjoy. He’ll never interfere unless it gets wide open, a scandal.”
“How do you know?”
“I know the guy.”
“How well?”
“Well.”
“How long, Tony?”
“Ten years.”
“How long do you know her?”
“About three. I met her when she was managing a night club in Philly.”
“Managing a night club?” Harry gripped the cup.
“She never told you?”
“I never asked.”
“Well, then ask. You don’t have to pump me about her. But if you’re worried about the old man, don’t.”
Harry lit a cigarette, carefully. “Tony. Would you say Kurt could be... dangerous?”
The black eyes looked curious. “Dangerous?”
“Well, I’m... going with Karen.” What a stupid, callow way to say it. Especially since he had not meant that at all.
“I told you, Harry, he’s permissive. Yes, if you crossed him I think he’d be dangerous. But a little adultery... I think he thinks she’s entitled. Wide open, no. Discreet, yes. He knows she’ll always come home to Big Daddy.”
Harry inhaled cigarette smoke. “Where does he go?”
“What?”
“Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday evening. For a couple of hours. Without fail.”
“With fail. If he’s out of town, he doesn’t go.”
“But where?”
“Business.”
“Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday — even Sunday?”
“His business.”
“But you’re his lawyer—”
“That’s right. Not his partner.”
“You never asked?”
“Why should I ask?”
“How’d you meet him originally, Tony?”
“As a client.”
“Ten years ago?”
“Ten years ago, as a client.”
Harry drank coffee. He rubbed out his cigarette. “You’re a criminal lawyer.”
“That I am.”
“Is Gresham a criminal?”
Tony’s white teeth flashed in a smile. “That’s a phony syllogism, pal. I’m a criminal lawyer. I have clients. Therefore, all my clients are criminals. Nonsense.” Now Tony lit a cigarette. “As a matter of fact, I did meet him through one of my criminal-type clients. The guy was a broker who’d got into trouble with the SEC. They prosecuted, and I got him off. Gresham had done business with this guy, and he admired the job I did. So he retained me on certain civil matters, and that’s how I became his lawyer — on civil matters, pal, not criminal. It’s a pleasure to hear you talk, even if all you’re doing is asking questions. Anything else, Mr. District Attorney?”
“I am sorry,” said Harry.
“Sorry? For what?”
“For pushing.”
“Push any time, bud. It’s good finding out you’re alive.”
“You wish something?” said the waiter.
“Plenty,” said Dr. Harrison Brown. “But I don’t think I can get it here.”
“We’ll settle,” smiled Tony Mitchell, “for another pot of espresso.”
Seven
On Tuesday there were five patients. It was a hot day; summer had come early to New York, and he was thankful for the quiet, expensive air conditioning of his office. Between patients he sat with his ankles crossed and wondered what his receptionist thought about her employer’s “practice.” At twelve-thirty, Dr. Stone telephoned to apologize and request postponement of their meeting to seven P.M. Harry readily agreed; only when he had hung up did he remember his appointment with Karen for eight o’clock. He decided that he would tell the good doctor he had to make a house call at eight. He remembered, guiltily, Peter Gross’s admonition to “listen” to Dr. Stone. Hell, he thought, I can listen fast. He wondered what Dr. Stone could possibly want to talk to him about, and shrugged.
Promptly at two o’clock he left his office, telling his receptionist that he could not possibly be back before four-thirty. “If anybody calls,” he said, “don’t make any appointment before half-past four.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she said.
What a farce, he thought.
He went out, to nowhere.
He had lunch of roast beef, spinach and potatoes at the Automat. Tony Mitchell wouldn’t be caught dead in the Automat. The hell with Tony Mitchell.
Afterward, he walked over to his bank and cashed a check for two hundred dollars. He could never predict how much an evening with Karen would cost him; she was an expensive date. Then he strolled to Central Park and sat on a bench in the sun and thought about Kurt Gresham and Karen and Tony Mitchell. And himself.
What had he learned last night about his pal Tony? What actually had he hoped to learn? Two things: whether Mitchell knew of Gresham’s narcotics business; and, if so, was he party to any of it? Dr. Brown laughed, in the sun, on the bench. Lies beget lies: he was now even lying to himself. There had been a much more important question in his mind last night: was there, or had there ever been, anything between Tony and Karen?
And what had he learned? Nothing.
Perhaps because there was nothing to learn.
It was quite possible that in ten years Tony had learned nothing of Gresham’s real business, if, as he claimed, he had been handling ordinary civil matters arising out of Gresham’s legitimate import-export business. On the other hand, Gresham’s narcotics organization, with its complex of trusted key people, would certainly have to include lawyers. Was Tony one of them? If so, his coming to the rescue — introducing his old friend Dr. Brown to the Greshams, and everything that followed — made Mitchell Gresham’s recruiter. That meant that Tony knew the whole story of his involvement with Gresham and was deliberately playing dumb.
So Mitchell wasn’t involved, or he was involved. There was no way of telling.
Harry Brown sighed.
Tony and Karen?
Tony said he had known her for three years, which meant since before her marriage to Gresham... had met her while she was managing a night club in Philadelphia.
Karen had never mentioned that. Now that Dr. Harrison Brown came to think of it, his ladylove had never mentioned a word about her background.
A night club in Philadelphia! Where Kurt Gresham owned several clubs! And then, not long afterward, Gresham married her.
Coincidence? Dr. Brown squirmed and perspired on his bench in Central Park.