“Hey, Sidney, it’s Charley Sloan.”
“Not the Charley Sloan, the defender of little rich girls who pop their fathers?”
“The very same.”
“Hey, Charley! I saw you on the tube.” He paused. “You looked like shit.” Then he laughed.
“That’s my usual way of looking, pal. How have you been?”
“You mean in addition to the excruciating pain and the lingering sense of dread due to my trauma-induced depression?”
I had represented Sidney before the pension board and I had used those words, among others, to get him benefits.
“Yeah, besides that.”
“Couldn’t be better. Ford Motor is outraged over the amount they pay out in workmen’s comp, so they are investigating everybody on their rolls to see if anyone is working someplace else. Lots of people, lots of investigation. Bad for them, good for me. My work has tripled and the checks are coming in like snow in a blizzard. On the downside, my wife is a nympho who wants it at least once or twice a year, and my kids are ungrateful little farts who think I’m made out of money. Other than that, life is just great.”
“Sidney, I want you to do some work for me.”
“Whoa, didn’t you just hear me? I got more on my plate than I can handle. I appreciate you thinking of me, but I got too much to do now.”
I paused for effect. It seemed to work.
“Wait a minute, Charley,” he said, “if you’re thinking of bringing up that business with the pension board or my kid, forget it.”
I didn’t reply.
“Not that I’m not ungrateful. I know you didn’t charge me for getting me the pension. And, hey, that business with the kid was a big deal, I know that. You got the little shit off clean. Maybe smoking a little dope is no big thing, eh? Of course, a conviction would have kept him out of Yale. He’s doing good there, by the way.”
It was his turn to pause.
It was a long pause. He sighed, then spoke again. “Okay, Charley, what the fuck is it you want me to do?”
“It’s this Harwell case, Sid. I’m going to need a major effort. I’ll need a background check of all the leading players, plus hospital records, financial stuff, not only here but probably in several other states. In other words, I’m going to need the works.”
“I’ll have to hire people, Charley.”
“Okay. There’s an open checkbook on this one. These people have money and are willing to spend it.”
There was another pause before he spoke. “No offense, Charley, but I’ll need something up front if I have to bring in other people.”
He knew I didn’t have money; if something went awry, he wasn’t about to risk his own cash.
“What are we talking about here, Sid?”
“For what I think you want, very heavy money.”
“Like what?”
“Ten thousand retainer. After that’s used up, payment on presentment of bills. I’m honest, Charley, you know that. I’m not going to clip your client, but I don’t want to run up big fees and find the bag has suddenly gone empty.”
“Sounds reasonable. You’ve got a deal.”
“You going to handle this yourself, Charley, or what?”
“Angel Harwell wants me to try it. She insists on it.”
Again, the pause.
“You don’t sound like you share her enthusiasm,” he said.
“I haven’t tried a major jury case in a long time, Sid.”
“You still off the stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“A lot of us used to think you were the best around, Charley. That kind of talent just doesn’t go away. You got nothing to worry about. You’ll do fine.”
He chuckled. “Of course, a lot of your brethren at the bar will smell that Harwell money and try to grab the case away from you.”
“That’s been tried already. I anticipate a whole lot more of the same.”
“Fuck ’em. Don’t let them screw you out of it, Charley. How do you want to handle this?”
“Can you come up here, say, Monday?”
“Jesus. I’ve got —”
“It’s important we get started quickly, Sid. I’ll need to go over a lot of things with you.”
“Up there?”
“Pickeral Point isn’t all that far.”
Sid Sherman chuckled. “No, it isn’t. What is it, an hour’s drive, maybe less? We used to drive the kids up years ago. It’s swell up there. You can get an ice cream, stroll the boardwalk, and watch the big boats go by.”
“I’ll buy the ice cream.”
He sighed. “I don’t think this is one of the smartest things I ever did, but I’ll be there.”
*
I CONTINUED to skip through the Rolodex. It was a few years out of date. Some of the people were dead. I’d have to toss those cards. Some were in prison, or on the run for various reasons. Some addresses had changed. Those with good luck went upscale economically. Those with bad luck drifted out of sight.
Robin and Angel had agreed to my proposal to hire a public relations expert. A celebrated case is often decided before it ever gets to the courtroom. Jurors may say they aren’t influenced by pretrial publicity, but a phrase, a word, can set an impression in their minds as permanently as a footstep in cement. We needed an expert to make sure there were no such damaging footsteps.
I looked for the home phone of the Owl. No one ever called him Owl anymore. Millionaires usually inspire awe and not nicknames. He was no exception. Harry Richmond had been a reporter for the Free Press. He had been known there as the Owl for two reasons. One, he possessed an uncanny wisdom about what was news and what wasn’t. Two, he looked like one.
Harry had left the Free Press, started his own public relations firm, and magically attracted big-time clients the way the Pied Piper gathered rats. In only a few years his billings looked like the national debt and a German firm had bought him out for millions, allowing him to continue as the head man. Then, after a bitter disagreement, they fired him.
I hoped for Angel’s sake that he was available.
Harry was at home and for a while we did the usual routine that people do when they haven’t talked for years. Half gossip, half history. Then we got down to business.
“I’m sorry to hear about the thing with the Germans,” I said.
“Screw them. They’ll run the agency into the ground and in five years I’ll buy it back for peanuts.” There was a momentary pause. “I saw your client on television. I presume that’s why you’re calling. I don’t know what you can do for her legally, but she’s going to be convicted in the great court of public opinion unless things change drastically.”
“Will you help?”
“Does this vile murderess really have money, or is that just an illusion?”
“She has money. Lots of it.”
“Under those circumstances, and at my usual rates, I shall be glad to help.” His chuckle was dry, mirthless. “When can I talk with this poor innocent child?”
“Is Monday all right?”
“As the actors say, I am at liberty. Monday will be fine.”
*
I HAD heard the tapping while I was on the phone with Harry but I thought it was just another effect of rain and wind.
As I hung up, the door opened and a tiny person concealed in a huge raincoat stepped in.
“Christ, didn’t you hear me?” a voice demanded from somewhere within the wet folds of plastic. The figure reached up and pulled off the large rain hat, exposing a mop of clipped blonde hair and two very large and indignant blue eyes set in a pleasant, round little face. For a moment I thought she was a young schoolgirl but on closer examination, I saw she was a mature woman. Maybe forty, maybe fifty, it was hard to tell.
The wet raincoat was whipped off. She was a cute little thing, a well-formed miniature woman, dressed in a sensible sports dress but adorned with a spectacular display of bangles, belts, and bracelets.
“Where can I hang these?”
“Just drop t
hem right there. Whatever could happen to this carpet has.”
She cocked her head toward the door. “Who is Simon Matthews?”
“The former tenant. What can I do for you?”
She walked over, pulled a chair up close to my desk, and sat down. Those big eyes remained fixed on me.
She produced a cigarette from her purse and lit it with a small lighter, all in one swift and graceful motion. “Do you mind?” she asked, blowing smoke at the same time.
“No.”
“Some people equate smoking with pederasty. I’m glad you don’t.” She again inhaled deeply, paused for a moment, and blew out a stream of smoke from her pursed lips, which showed age in the adjacent crinkling skin.
“The question,” she said, “to paraphrase the late president, isn’t what you can do for me, but what I can do for you.”
“If you’re selling something —”
She shook her head as if trying to dry her hair. “I’m not.” She shrugged. “Well, perhaps in a way I am. Do you know me?”
“Should I?”
She nodded. “Do you read?”
“If the words aren’t too big.”
She smiled wryly. “Books, magazines?” She gestured at the shelves of law books. “I’ll bet you don’t read that junk for relaxation.” She took another quick pull from the cigarette. “How about last week’s People? Did you read that?”
“Look, if you’re selling magazines, I’m —”
“I’m featured in that issue,” she snapped. “I’m Mary Beth Needham.”
When it became obvious that I didn’t know the name, her eyes narrowed.
“People calls me the blonde pit bull,” she said.
“Do you consider that a compliment?”
“In my line of work, yes.”
“What’s your line of work?”
“I write books. My last one, The Queen from Colorado, was on the Times bestseller list for almost four months.”
“I’m not much on women’s fiction, to tell you the truth. I like mysteries, that sort of thing.”
She sighed and shook her head in disgust. “I do nonfiction books,” she said crisply. “The queen in that title is Hector Farber, the actor, the guy some people think is the new John Wayne. My book straightened out a few things about Hector, so to speak. If you hadn’t just dropped in off the moon, you’d know that. I’m here to do a book on the Harwell murder.”
Now her name and that of the actor evoked a foggy memory of headlines and accusations.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Miss Needham. Lawyers can’t talk about their clients, as you may know. It’s a confidential relationship.”
“Unless the client agrees, right?”
“Well, sometimes even —”
“Angel sent me over here,” she said. “Does that tell you anything? You can call her if you like.”
“I just arranged for someone to handle press relations. As soon as he’s set up, I’ll have him contact — ”
She interrupted again, with easy arrogance. “I’m not interested in talking to some spin-control expert. I need access to the players themselves.” One eyebrow rose slowly like a bridge going up. “Sloan, you got two ways to go here. You can cooperate with me and everyone in America will read about what a smart, clever, and honest lawyer you are. Or, if you go the other way, you’ll come across as the country’s greatest asshole. People believe what they read. The choice, pal, is entirely up to you.” She looked around the office. “I know you’re an ex-drunk, but do you have anything to drink around here?”
“Have you ever thought about a career as a diplomat? I really think you have the touch.”
The smile was completely unexpected. She laughed. “I have a fearsome reputation. Sometimes it helps if I live up to it.” Then she shrugged. “But, sometimes, it doesn’t. Are you sure you have nothing to drink around here?”
I thought about the French brandy concealed in the old desk but I said nothing, since producing it would have sent the wrong signal.
“Here’s the way this goes,” she said. “This trial, like any other big newsy courtroom circus, is money in the bank for people like me. I’m small. You probably didn’t see me in the courtroom yesterday, but I was there. Not only me, but Jacky Cannon and J. Booth Smith. Do those names ring a bell?”
They did sound vaguely familiar.
She grimaced. “They write the same kind of thing I do. Not as successfully, but they do all right. Sloan, this is going to be a horse race. Cannon, Smith, and me are here to gather material for books about the murder. Whoever gets to the printer and out to the stores first will win the race. It’s not a small-stakes race either, pal, we’re talking at least half a million here. It’s a race I plan to win.”
“Good luck.”
She snorted. “Jesus, Sloan, I want more from you than best wishes. I want cooperation. And it’s not a one-way street, either.”
“Miss —”
She waved a miniature hand. “Call me Mary Beth.”
“Mary Beth, I can’t cooperate, not without risking my license.”
She shrugged. “How about a teaser?”
“What do you mean?”
“You help me, I help you. I’ll give you a small taste. What do you know about the happy Harwell family?”
“A little.”
“I just came from their home base in Florida. Pal, I dig up gossip the way dogs dig up bones. I know where to sniff and where to dig. As soon as I heard about the killing I hopped on the first plane to Sarasota. The Harwell’s have more palaces than the Queen of England, but the main one is on Sheridan Key. Ever been there?”
“No.”
“It’s a spit of very expensive land set out in the Gulf of Mexico. Pretty, a palm-tree paradise for millionaires, but it looks as if a good storm could wash the place away. Anyway, the Harwells have a boat factory in Sarasota and a house on this little tropic isle a couple of miles away. I went there and dished with the neighbors. Lots of wonderfully sordid things go on out there on balmy Sheridan Key. Kinky stuff. The kind of things that sells books. It’s where you go if you’re rich and so twisted that you’ve been thrown out of Palm Beach. You end up on Sheridan Key. They have a regular cozy colony out there, a bunch of wealthy outcasts. I heard some really hot stories.”
“Like what?”
“Do we have a deal?”
“Not yet. I thought you were going to treat me to a teaser?”
She nodded. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Here’s a sample. It seems that Harrison Harwell had been getting somewhat physical. Hey, violence begets violence, right? Even murder sometimes. They say he was knocking mama and the kid around pretty good. And it wasn’t all one-sided.”
“There’s always that kind of talk in a case like this. You should know that, in your business.”
“Hey, I have to sift through tons of crap to get one nugget of gold. I know crap. This isn’t crap.”
“Oh?”
She grinned like a tennis player about to smash an easy lob. “This is more than idle chitchat, Sloan. I checked it out. The cops were called twice last month because Harrison was raising hell.”
“That happens. People drink.”
“You’d know about that, wouldn’t you?”
I shrugged. “As a matter of fact, yeah.”
“Well, I vamped a couple of the local cops into telling me a few details. Cops treat rich people differently, especially the ones who pay the taxes that pay their salaries. Poor people would end up in jail. Not so in Sheridan Key. The cops give warnings and let it go at that. Of course, they said they basically considered the Harwell problems a civil matter.”
“Civil matter?”
“Whoa,” she said, smiling. “Do we have a deal yet?”
“Not yet.”
“I don’t know if I should give you anymore free samples, Sloan. A lot of people don’t trust lawyers.”
“I’m different. What civil mat
ter?”
She hesitated, then spoke. “Divorce. The cops were told there was a divorce in the works. I suppose that gave the police the excuse to back off. On the books it would be treated as just another family dispute.”
“This divorce, has it been filed? Do you know?”
“The papers were being prepared, that’s what the cops were told.”
“But they weren’t filed?”
“I checked the local court. No case. I talked to the lawyer who the cops were told to contact. Like you, he turned wimpy and wouldn’t tell me a thing.”
“He’d have to clear it with Robin Harwell.”
Her smile was triumphant. “Why? The guy was Harrison’s lawyer. From what I could get, Harrison was about to tie the can to his little wifey, not the other way around. Surprised?”
“Where did you get that?”
“Do we have a deal?”
“Not yet. Com’on, what’s your source?”
“I showed you a little leg, pal, but that’s as far as it goes until you cooperate.” She crushed out the cigarette in an empty paperclip glass. “I’ll be around, Sloan.”
She stood up and retrieved her rain gear. ‘Talk to Angel. She’s not dumb. Shell tell you to help me. I can be a good person to have in your corner. We can help each other, a lot more than you even realize.”
She slipped into the rain hat and coat. “Think about it,” she said as she let herself out the door.
10
THE DIVORCE RUMOR HAD TO BE CHECKED OUT. I called the Harwell place and I recognized the smooth voice of Dennis Bernard, the houseman.
“This is Charley Sloan. I’d like to speak to Mrs. Harwell.”
“Oh, Mr. Sloan. This is Bernard. I’m afraid Mrs. Harwell isn’t here.”
“When will she be back?”
“Monday evening, I believe.”
“Is Angel there?”
“She went with Mrs. Harwell,” he said.
“Where?”
“New York. To do a little shopping, to sort of get away from things for awhile, I think.”
“Jesus! Angel’s out on bail. She isn’t supposed to leave the state without permission.”
“Was she aware of that?” His tone implied that I hadn’t done my job.
“She certainly was. I told Angel and Mrs. Harwell.”
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