Small Town

“It would be one-sided.”



“But you’d still want to pet it,” he said, “and stroke it behind the ears.”



“So why did you call me? Old times’ sake?”



They’d had an affair, if you wanted to call it that, a dozen years ago, not long after her marriage came apart. They’d already known each other—her ex was an assistant district attorney whom Maury had befriended after excoriating him in court, and who had since crossed the aisle and set up as a defense attorney, and you could bet she’d never call him for free legal advice, the asshole.



He hadn’t taken her to L’Aiglon, but it had been something comparable, Le Cirque or La Côte Basque, something French and fancy, and over Drambuie he told her he kept an apartment in town, for when he had to stay over, and he’d like nothing better than to show it to her.



She’d said, “You’re married, right?”



“Absolutely!”



“Good,” she’d said. “Because you’re a very attractive man, Maury, and I’d love to spend a little quality time in your apartment, but I don’t want to get involved any more than you do.”



“What I figured,” he said. “The fellow who introduced me to Drambuie told me you had to sip it and savor it and make it last, but you know what?” He tossed off his drink. “Turns out he was full of crap. Drink up, Susan. I’ve had a yen for you for the past hour. Well, longer than that, but you were married. C’mon, how long are you gonna keep an old man waiting?” Now, twelve years later, he said, “Why did I call you? For the pleasure of your company. And because it doesn’t hurt for the world to see me now and then with a woman of substance instead of an adorable airhead. A woman like that, she could be with anybody, and she’s with him? What’s he got?”



“What’s he got? He’s got an awfully good line.”



“My stock-in-trade. This silver tongue has kept a lot of worthy young men out of prison. Of course”—he showed her the tip of it—“that’s not all it’s done.”



She felt herself blushing. “Dirty old man.”



“C’est moi, chérie.”



“Speaking of prison . . .”



“Oh, is that what we were speaking of?”



“I see they made an arrest in my friend’s murder.”



“She showed you an apartment. It’s not like you were sorority sisters in Chi Zeta Chi.”



“My acquaintance, if you like that better, but—”



“Now that was one joke you didn’t get. Chi Zeta Chi? In Yiddish that means Chew, Grandpa, chew.”



“They arrested a writer. The name’s familiar, but I’ve never read anything of his. Blair Creighton?”



“John Blair Creighton, but he drops the John on his books. And that’s as much as we’re going to talk about him, or your late lamented real estate person.” And, when she looked blank, he added, “Because I’m representing him, sweetie, and I can’t talk about the case.”



“You’re representing him? But he . . .”



“Killed somebody, except we don’t know that, do we? And that’s what I do, darling. People kill each other, and I represent the survivors.”



W H E N T H E C O F F E E W A S poured, Irv Boasberg wondered aloud if anyone had dessert anymore. “My granddaughter turned down a piece of Shirley’s chocolate cake last week,” he said, “announcing that she had to watch her weight. A, she’s not fat to begin with, and B, she’s all of eleven years old.”



“I don’t know what it is, society or the parents,” Avery Davis said. “If they’re not obese you find yourself worrying that they’re anorexic. Life doesn’t cut a person much slack nowadays, does it?



Fran, you could have dessert. I’ll bet you haven’t put on an ounce since you walked a beat.”



“If he hasn’t,” Hartley Saft said, “maybe that’s why he hasn’t.



How’d you escape the cops-and-doughnuts syndrome, Fran?”



“Just dumb luck,” he said. “I never had a sweet tooth.”



“That’s luck, all right,” Davis said. “I don’t have dessert because if I did I’d want six of them. Now there’s a man who’s not skipping dessert, and he looks as though sometimes he has the whole pie.



And, unless we’re supposed to believe that’s his niece, the pleasures of the table aren’t the only sort he enjoys. Do I know him?



Because he looks familiar.”



“All fat men look alike,” Saft said, “but I know what you mean.



I don’t know him, but I’ve seen him before.”



“Probably in restaurants,” Boasberg said.



“I think you’re right, Irving, and if it’s the man I’m thinking of he’s always got something young and fluffy across the table from him. As a matter of fact, they’re usually younger and fluffier than the current example. She looks as though she actually has a thought in her head from time to time.”



“Less of a tootsie and more of a trophy wife,” Avery Davis suggested.



“His name’s Maury Winters,” Buckram told them. He’d spotted the lawyer when he first sat down, and would have said hello if he’d caught his eye. “He’s a criminal lawyer, a good one, and like most of them he’s something of a character.”



“Of course,” Davis said. “I’ve seen him on television. He was on Larry King, along with three or four other experts, talking about that little girl in Colorado. You never had anything to do with the Boulder Police Department, did you, Fran?”



“I taught them everything they know.”



They laughed. “He had one great line, Winters did. I think he must have used it before, because he sort of shoehorned it in. It didn’t particularly fit, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He prefers murder trials, and do you know why?”



“I know the line,” Buckram said, “and you’re right, he’s used it before.”



“One less witness,” Davis said.



“That’s it.” He took a sip of coffee. The others had ordered decaf, but his was the real deal. He told himself decaf never tasted right to him, but maybe that was only true if he knew it was decaf.



Maybe he just plain wanted the caffeine.



Either way, L’Aiglon d’Or’s coffee was delicious, a richly aro-matic French roast you could sip like a tawny port. He put his cup down and said, “Maury must be feeling good. Great food and attractive company, and he’s got a murderer to defend.”



“Oh?”



“That writer, I forget his name. The one who strangled that woman in the Village.”



“Crichton,” Boasberg said.



“That’s a different writer, but now I remember, and you’re close.



It’s Creighton.”



“And you figure he did it?”



“I don’t know enough to have an opinion,” he said, “but they’ve evidently got enough to charge him. That doesn’t necessarily mean they’ve got enough to convict him, far from it, but it shows you they believe he did it, and they’re usually right.”



“Anybody read anything he’s written?”



Nobody had.



“Well, now he’s got something new to write about,” Avery Davis said. “You ever think about writing a book yourself, Fran?”



“I’ve thought about it.”



“And?”



“I’ve been approached a few times.”



“I should think so. It’d sell a few copies.”



“I don’t know, Avery. In this town, maybe, but would anybody out in Idaho give a rat’s ass? And what do I know about writing a book?”



“Would you have to write it yourself?”



“Oh, everybody was quick to tell me I’d never have to touch a keyboard or look at a computer screen. I’d work with a writer.” He rolled his eyes. “God knows there’s enough of them in this town.



Of course most of them are loaded down with work. That’s why it’s standing room only every night in Stelli’s.”



“There’s one I can think of who’s going to have some time on his hands,” Saft offered. “Unless our fat friend over there gets him off the hook in a hurry.”



“There you go. I’ll collaborate with the Charles Street Strangler.



Maybe that’ll get their attention in Pocatello.” They laughed, and Boasberg said, “You could just tell some stories like the ones you told tonight.”



“War stories? No, they’d expect more than that. Some personal history, the story behind the story, and how much of that does a man want to get into? Plus what what’s-his-name would call ‘the vision thing.’ ”



He’d intended that as an opening, and they seized it as such; he caught Avery Davis shooting a glance at each of his companions before leaning forward and narrowing his eyes. “The vision thing,” he echoed. “You know, Fran, a lot of people are looking at you with more than the bestseller list in mind. I’m sure you’re happy living where you are, but I’d be surprised if you haven’t thought now and then of moving a few blocks uptown and closer to the river.”



In other words, Gracie Mansion.



“And you’ve probably thought about some of the changes you’d like to implement if you found yourself living there.” He considered this. “Be hard not to,” he acknowledged.



“Impossible, I should think.”



“You pick up a paper or turn on New York One, you hear speculation. Not so much now, but a year or two ago, say.”



“A lot of people thought you might take a shot at it last fall.”



“The timing was wrong,” he said. “I’d have been running against Rudy, and he wouldn’t have been running, and you just look like you’re kicking a guy when he’s down, between the prostate cancer and the divorce. Of course that was before anyone knew he’d turn out to be a national hero, which made running against him completely impossible.” He grinned. “So now they’re talking about 2005, and it’s way too early for that, but even so you have to think about it. Whether it’s what you want, and what you’d do if you got it.”



“And?”



“And what do I see myself doing? Or at least championing?” He let the moment stretch, then looked off into the middle distance. “Landmark areas,” he said. “Every time an older building gets pulled down, a piece of the city’s history is lost forever. It’s vital that we protect what we’ve got by designating more landmark areas, and that doesn’t mean only the remote past, the obviously historical. What about the white-brick apartment buildings that went up in the sixties? They’re not building any more of them, and once they’re gone they’re gone forever. Fortunately there’s still time to save them.”



“Landmark areas,” Hartley Saft said.



“Hand in hand with that,” he went on, “is rent control. A noble experiment, as I’m sure you’ll agree . . .”