Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [16]
"Yep."
"I got a piece coming."
"How so?"
"Goldstein referred it to you, right?"
Davidson shrugged.
"Simpson came to me too. Same day as Goldstein. I guess he didn't like the fee—so he went shopping."
Davidson raised his eyebrows.
"I quoted him seventy–five. Too rich for his blood—he went for the lower–priced spread—that's how Goldstein got called."
"So you figure…he doesn't go to Goldstein, I don't get the case?"
"That's about it." The guy smiled, looking over at me, including me in his slice–of–the–pie bullshit. One lawyer to another.
"How much you figure it's worth?" Davidson asked him.
"Well, Goldstein gloms a third, right? I figure I should…How much is he paying you anyway?"
Davidson puffed on his cigar. "A buck and a quarter."
The guy's face went white. "A hundred and twenty–five fucking thousand dollars?"
"Yep."
"Why?"
"That's what I charged him."
The guy sat down, wondering what went wrong with the world. His ruby ring dimmed.
Davidson ignored him, turned to me. We have something to discuss? Some new matter?"
"No rush," I told him. "I got plenty of time."
We smoked in silence for a minute.
The other guy made a face. "You ought to start working out," he said to Davidson. "Give up those weeds."
"I can kick your ass on the basketball court," Davidson sneered at him.
"Please! You got to be fifty pounds overweight."
"A little bulk's good for you." Davidson truly believes that. His son is two years old—kid looks like a sumo wrestler.
The drug lawyer shot his cuffs, looked at his watch. Total self–absorption was the one commitment he never failed to keep. "I was thinking…maybe being married isn't such a bad thing. Ever since I got divorced…this AIDS thing…really puts a damper on your social life. You ever read the Personal ads…like in the Voice?"
"No," Davidson said.
"I read them all the time," I told him.
"Yeah? You think it's a good idea?"
"What?"
"Putting an ad in…maybe meet something really good?"
I shrugged.
"You ever met anybody you wanted to meet that way?"
"Sure," I said.
Davidson smiled. He knows what I do.
The guy rubbed his chin. "The wording…that's tricky. I mean, you don't want to say too much, but…"
"I got the ad for you," I told him.
He looked up, waiting.
"Got a pencil?"
He whipped out a fat Montblanc pen, like doctors use to write prescriptions.
"Take this down: Woman wanted. Disease–free. Self–lubricating. Short attention span."
His face went blotchy–red. Davidson raised his hand above his head. His silent partner looked up from a law book, slapped him a high–five. The drug lawyer gave me what he thought was a hard look and walked out.
I ground out my smoke. Handed Davidson a business card. Mitchell Sloane. Private Investments. Address, phone number, fax number too. Clean engraved printing, very classy. The address and the numbers were Davidson's.
"I need a corporation formed," I told him. "Just like it says on the card."
"How long is this corporation going to be in business?"
"A month, maybe two. No more."
"You need a sign on the door?"
"I thought, maybe a nice brass plaque."
"Un–huh. And the phones?"
"The number on the card, I can bounce it to anywhere I want. Say to one of your dead–end lines?"
"I'll have Glenda pick it up during business hours. You want a tape on the machine for evenings and weekends?"
"Yeah."
He spread his palm out before me. Five. I counted out the cash.
"It's done," he said. "Glenda will sweep the tapes every morning when she comes in, okay?"
"Okay. You licensed to practice in Indiana?"
"I'll get a local guy to do the paperwork," he said. Davidson took cases all over the country.
We shook hands. He was dictating the incorporation memo as I walked out the door.
18
BACK AT THE office, I tried to hustle Pansy into a vacation at the Mole's junkyard. She acted like she didn't know what I was talking about, so I let her out to her roof while I fixed her a snack. A half gallon of honey vanilla ice cream with a couple of handfuls of graham crackers mixed in. It was waiting for