The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [78]
The judge tapped his fingertips together for a few seconds, then said, “All right, Mr. Glass. One hundred thousand dollars bail it is.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
Ben took David by the arm and, with the bailiff close behind, led him from the courtroom. “You’re almost home, David,” he said. “My friend the bondsman will want ten thousand dollars. Have you got it?”
“I … don’t think so,” David said.
“Family. Can you get it from your parents or someplace?”
“My parents are dead. I … I have two brothers and … a … oh, an aunt who might help. What if I can’t come up with the money?”
“Believe me, you don’t want to have that happen. The place you stayed last night is a palace compared to Charles Street, where they’ll send you now. Tell you what. Maury Kaufman, the bondsman, has gotten so fat off my clients that he owes me. He’ll agree to cuff this one for a day rather than risk losing my trade. Today is Wednesday. I’ll get you until Friday morning to come up with the cash. Okay?”
“Okay,” David said as the bailiff removed his handcuffs and motioned him back into the tank. “And Mr. Glass—thank you.”
“David, I hope this doesn’t shake your confidence too much, but while you were taking Godliness one-oh-one in medical school, I was one of those hippie weirdo flower children getting pushed around at antiwar demonstrations. It’s Ben. You can only call me Mr. Glass if it makes it easier for you to come to grips with the fee you’re going to have to pay me.” He turned and headed down the hall as the bailiff clanged the tank door shut.
“Hey, David, is that Glass dude your lawyer?” A toothpick had replaced the cigarette in the corner of Reggie Lyons’s mouth.
“I … I guess he is,” David said, pleased with the bit of animation that had returned to his voice.
“Well, then. I guess I can stop gettin’ all worked up ’n’ worried about you. He don’t look like much, but I seen him prancin’ around in court a few times. The dude’s a tiger. I mean he is the man.”
“Thanks for telling me, Reggie. It helps.” David actually grinned. “You’ve really been great to me. Say, what are you here for anyway?”
Lyons smiled and winked. “Jes’ bein’, pal,” he said. “I is here jes’ for bein’.”
* * *
The sign over the bar said, “Paddy O’Brien’s Delicatessen: Home of the world’s best chopped liver, and the most famous Irish Jew since Mayor Briscoe.”
“I’ve never even heard of this place.” David smiled as he slid onto the wooden bench across from Ben. Shamrocks and Stars of David were everywhere. On the wall over their booth the photograph of a ragamuffin group of Irish revolutionaries hung side by side with one of a spit-and-polish Israeli tank unit.
“Are you Jewish?” Ben asked.
“No.”
“Are you Irish?”
“No.”
“I rest my case. It’s no wonder you’ve never found your way here. Sooner or later, though, most people do. And here you are.”
“Thanks to you.”
“It’s what I do,” Ben answered matter-of-factly. “If my appendix bursts someday, then I might end up here savoring the chopped liver, thanks to you. That’s the way it all works, right?”
“Right,” David said. He knew that the easy talk they’d shared since leaving the courtroom had been as carefully orchestrated by Ben as his choice of this gritty, vibrant restaurant. He also knew they were wise choices. Bit by bit, he was relaxing. Bit by bit, he sensed the resurgence of hope.
Ben ordered a “sampler of delights” that easily could have fed ten. They ate in silence for a while, then he said, “It’s probably unfair to have waited until after you’ve eaten to discuss my fee, but it is how the wee ones at home get fed. It’s ten thousand dollars, David.”
David startled momentarily, then shrugged and took a sip of water. Suddenly finding himself $20,000 in debt was little more than a gnat on his nightmare. “I don’t have it,” he said flatly.
“I’m a bit more lenient in my payment schedule than Maury the Bondsman,” Ben said, “but