“You can. You can try. But it’s a bad gamble. You know that.”
“I feel like this is blackmail or somethin’.”
“You really are nothin’ but a bullheaded son of a bitch.”
I shove the chair back and stand. “We’re done, then,” I say.
“Fucking sit down, Marr! Give me a second, here.”
I don’t sit, but I let him have his time. He looks down at the table, slowly moving his head from side to side.
“And it’s not like I’d just be giving you eight grand. You’ll have to start paying me back when you get out, after you find work again.”
It takes him a minute. He looks up at me.
“I wanna start fresh. I don’t want this bullshit in my life anymore. You really don’t think I got a case on self-defense?”
I sit back down.
“I wasn’t there. I only know things based on the facts given to me. Based on what’s been given to me and what I’ve been able to find myself, it doesn’t look good for you.”
“For real, right?” he asks. “I mean the eight grand. I don’t want my girl getting stuck with anything.”
“I said I would. I will. But it’s between us, because if Costello ever finds out, I’ll lose my job with her and more. Then you’d be messing up my life. And you don’t want to do that.”
“I trust you when you say that, Marr. I can see you got that way about you. Fuck, three years’ll pass by like nothin’ anyway.”
“You said it already, but you gotta make it a fresh start when you get out. Lose that hot head of yours, especially inside. You don’t wanna fuck up inside.”
“I hear ya. Tell me one thing, though. Where the hell does an ex-cop turned PI get eight grand to offer up like this?”
“I know how to make good investments, and you shouldn’t be asking questions like that anyway.”
I pull out my notepad from my rear pants pocket and a pen from the inner sleeve pocket of my suit jacket. I slide them across the table over to him.
“Give me the dealership info on the car. I’ll get in touch with your lady and take care of it first thing tomorrow.”
He writes everything down and hands it back to me.
“And you tell my old lady I’m really sorry for all this shit, all right? And make sure she gets the sentencing date when it comes. I need her to be there.”
“I will.”
He folds his upper lip over his bottom lip so I’m not sure if it’s a smile or a frown. He nods, so I take it as an awkward smile.
“All right, then,” I say, and stand up.
I offer him my hand and we shake.
“Do one more thing for me, Marr?”
“Go on.”
“Make sure my truck gets parked in the garage. It’s gonna have to sit for a bit.”
“I’ll make sure,” I say.
Eighteen
I’ve never had this amount of blow staring back at me before. Well, I did when I was a narcotics detective. There’s so much here that I need to find a little self-control, or I might be picking imaginary bugs outta my hair, or worse. It’s sitting there on the shelf of my fake wall, sealed up nice and tight, but not so tight that I can’t get into it when I need to, like now.
Despite what I see in front of me, I still find myself thinking about planning the next hit.
Hell, you can never have too much of a good thing.
My cell rings, startling me. I quickly close up the wall and clip the edge molding in place.
I pull the cell outta my pocket.
Costello.
Damn.
I am overtaken by a sudden apprehensiveness and I’m thinking Claypole probably gave up the true nature of our conversation earlier today. I almost don’t answer, but the feeling passes quickly because I just took in a bit of powdery courage. I lean against the washer, remember all the money I have stuffed in there along with my dirty laundry. I’ll have to count eight grand outta that bag tonight for Claypole, that is, if he didn’t just fuck me.
“What’s up, Leslie?”
“I just got off the phone with Lenny Claypole. What exactly did you say to him?”
I start to wonder if she’s playing me ’cause she already knows the answer, and now all she wants to do is trip me up.
“We went over the details of the case again, like you wanted. Wasn’t anything new there, so I was honest and said it didn’t look good for him.” She doesn’t reply right away, so I ask, “You still on?”
“You must have said it with conviction, because he agreed to the plea offer. He’s not going to fight it.”
“That’s what you wanted, right?”
“Of course! I told you it would be a losing battle and I don’t like to lose.”
“After my conversation with him, I got the feeling he believed that, too.”
“You know I like a good fight, though,” she adds, like she’s already trying to justify why she’s letting him take the plea. “But this is exactly why I hate having to take on some of these court-appointed clients.”