Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [9]
I went down the stairs to the garage, put the gun back next to the transmission hump—at least I knew where this Cobra was—and hung the suitcoat neatly in the back so it wouldn’t wrinkle. I wanted to get to the Criminal Court before they started doing heavy business with the night arraignments.
It’s lucky the court’s not far from my office. I parked the car illegally in the back, put my PBA card that says “Attorney” on its embossed silver police shield on the dashboard, and flipped the switch in the glove compartment that would keep the car from moving even if some skell tried to steal it. Then I walked around to the front entrance, looking for Blumberg, Artuli or any of my regulars.
As I walked inside the marble-floored slime pit I spotted Blumberg in his usual position. He was leaning up against the information booth that hasn’t been occupied in years and trying not to look like what he is—a fat slob is what he is, but he isn’t any worse than Legal Aid for night court. Blumberg won’t try a case—but he’ll plead you fast and, all things being equal, plead you pretty well. His doughy face arranged itself into a smile when he saw me. “So, Burke, how’s the boy?”
“Got anything on tonight, Sam?”
“Well, my boy, I’m not sure. I did have this client call me and ask me to meet him here, but he didn’t give a name. He said he would recognize me.”
“From the front-page coverage of your last big trial, no doubt?”
“There’s no profit in hostility, Burke. You want to work tonight?”
“That’s why I’m here, Sam. The usual twenty-five percent?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, son. There are guys working for twenty now, and there’s one Spanish kid who works for ten, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. Listen, you want a yard in front, right? Okay, I’ll get you the whole yard, no percentage, and I keep everything over that. How’s that for a deal?”
“Burke, you’re sure you’re not Jewish? How about twenty-five percent up to two hundred, and a third after that?”
“Right. Look, I got to go to work. Try and at least look like a real lawyer for a couple hours, okay?”
He didn’t answer and I went to work.
You have to know who to look for—that’s always the game. Forget the hookers. They never have a dime anyway, and if they’re not already in the pens waiting for arraignment, they’re carrying some scumbag pimp’s money to pay another girl’s fines. And real poor people are a waste of time too, for obvious practical reasons. What you want is some lame who thinks a private lawyer is going to do more for him than Legal Aid—someone who thinks he’s got an image, even if he was busted for stealing welfare checks. But the best is some parent whose kid has just been arrested. Tonight I couldn’t wait for the best, just a fast hundred and out the door. Breaking my ass to get back to zero. The people inside the big building were all worried about getting a sentence—and here I was, already serving mine.
My first customers were a black couple—the man about forty-five, still wearing work clothes, and his wife, dressed up her Pentecostal best. I stood there looking like one hell of a lawyer, but they didn’t move. So I did. “Pardon me, sir, are you here for your son’s arraignment tonight?”
“Yes—yes, I am. Are you the man from the Legal Aid?”
A slightly sardonic laugh, “No sir, you’ll be able to recognize them easily enough. They’ll be the kids wearing blue jeans with the long hair. Just pick out the first one you see who doesn’t even look like a lawyer.”
From the woman, “Oh my God. Harry, do you . . .” As I turned and acted like I was walking away to some important business, the man lightly touched my sleeve: “Sir, excuse me, are you a lawyer?”
“No, I’m a private investigator. I work for Mr. Blumberg. You know, Sam Blumberg,”—like the fat man’s name should