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Authors: John Galligan
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hat brim toward the window. “Nut case across the street. Tucker’s lawyer. Had Jess on the QT, supposedly. Everybody knew except the guy’s wife.”
“Henderson Gray?”
Suddenly a mad gulp of vodka, a vicious near miss at the spittoon. “That dumb girl was always spreading for a lawyer. She thought a lawyer could get her dad off. Galen wrote her letters like that—
Jess, get a lawyer, tell him I’m innocent
—leading her on like that. Hell, she’d do about anything.”
“Does he know she’s dead? Jesse’s dad?”
“Galen beat up a guy about a week ago. Colored fella. He’s in the hole right now.”
I waited a moment, sick and considering, and then I made a leap and hoped for luck. “You sell any Frangelico in here?”
“Winter. Ski season.”
“Lately, I mean.”
Uncle Judith’s eyes narrowed. He jackhammered the wad in his jaw. He was weaving now, hanging onto the counter.
I filled him in. “There was an empty at the crime scene.”
“The monk?”
“Yes.”
Seesawing words around a mouthful: “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“You sell any lately?”
“Hell yes,” he drooled. He jerked his hat brim toward the window again, threw himself off balance. He gunned another savage miss—the Raging Bull of snoose.
“To Henderson Gray. And I’ll kill that suck-egg sumbitch.”
Yes. Now. Jesse.
Gray’s girl at the reception desk was heavy and homely and trying so hard to overcome these flaws she didn’t notice I was drunken, ill-groomed, and hostile, the public defender type.
“Is there any particular type of legal service that you’re interested in?”
“I want to see Henderson Gray.”
“I’m sorry. He’s, um, out running. Can I help you with anything?”
“I’m … actually …”
“If you’re the carpet guy, you’ll need to see Charlotte anyway. She makes all those decisions.”
“Maybe I should go …”
“I’ll give you directions and call ahead.”
Charlotte Gray was thin and good-looking, with exhausted eyes and a toddler on her hip. She was barely older than the girl at Henderson’s office. The house around her was grandiose in design but half-finished and obviously uncomfortable for the mother of a crawling, falling, gnawing child.
“Carpet? I haven’t even thought about carpet.”
She held her ground atop construction-grade plywood in the doorway, her toddler yanking her sideways as he reached and fussed for a loose screw on the floor. She looked beyond me, taking in the Cruise Master with a look of fatigue and annoyance.
“More lies,” she muttered. “You’re selling stolen carpet? Is that it? Magic carpet?”
I picked up the screw and dropped it in my shirt pocket. The little boy lunged at me, screeching and causing his mother to wince and widen her stance. I went through my pockets for something to pacify: matches, a crumpled pack of Swishers, the red plastic cap to a liquor bottle, the cork butt of a broken rod, a snarl of discarded leader.
She sighed, accepted my offer of the rod butt, redirected the boy. “Maggie called me and said you stopped Tick Judith from getting hit in the middle of the street, and then you took an ice pick out of his hand and shoved him back in the liquor store.” She hiked the toddler up on her hip and stepped aside. “So come in,” she said, “and tell me what this bullshit is about.”
“Those are the Crazy Mountains over there,” she announced when we had reached a much-too-spacious back porch. “The Bitterroots are there. That smoke is from the Canyon Ferry fire. It’s taking a thousand acres a day, and I just don’t care.”
She dropped the little gnawer and his rod butt on a pile of sawdust. She sat in a wrought iron chair and crossed her legs. A half finished drink—tea with ice and lime?—awaited her on a patio table.
“Now, what’s up? I’m sure it’s Henderson, and if it’s anything new and girl-related, he knows I’m going to divorce him.”
That was too fast for me. I
“Henderson Gray?”
Suddenly a mad gulp of vodka, a vicious near miss at the spittoon. “That dumb girl was always spreading for a lawyer. She thought a lawyer could get her dad off. Galen wrote her letters like that—
Jess, get a lawyer, tell him I’m innocent
—leading her on like that. Hell, she’d do about anything.”
“Does he know she’s dead? Jesse’s dad?”
“Galen beat up a guy about a week ago. Colored fella. He’s in the hole right now.”
I waited a moment, sick and considering, and then I made a leap and hoped for luck. “You sell any Frangelico in here?”
“Winter. Ski season.”
“Lately, I mean.”
Uncle Judith’s eyes narrowed. He jackhammered the wad in his jaw. He was weaving now, hanging onto the counter.
I filled him in. “There was an empty at the crime scene.”
“The monk?”
“Yes.”
Seesawing words around a mouthful: “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“You sell any lately?”
“Hell yes,” he drooled. He jerked his hat brim toward the window again, threw himself off balance. He gunned another savage miss—the Raging Bull of snoose.
“To Henderson Gray. And I’ll kill that suck-egg sumbitch.”
Yes. Now. Jesse.
Gray’s girl at the reception desk was heavy and homely and trying so hard to overcome these flaws she didn’t notice I was drunken, ill-groomed, and hostile, the public defender type.
“Is there any particular type of legal service that you’re interested in?”
“I want to see Henderson Gray.”
“I’m sorry. He’s, um, out running. Can I help you with anything?”
“I’m … actually …”
“If you’re the carpet guy, you’ll need to see Charlotte anyway. She makes all those decisions.”
“Maybe I should go …”
“I’ll give you directions and call ahead.”
Charlotte Gray was thin and good-looking, with exhausted eyes and a toddler on her hip. She was barely older than the girl at Henderson’s office. The house around her was grandiose in design but half-finished and obviously uncomfortable for the mother of a crawling, falling, gnawing child.
“Carpet? I haven’t even thought about carpet.”
She held her ground atop construction-grade plywood in the doorway, her toddler yanking her sideways as he reached and fussed for a loose screw on the floor. She looked beyond me, taking in the Cruise Master with a look of fatigue and annoyance.
“More lies,” she muttered. “You’re selling stolen carpet? Is that it? Magic carpet?”
I picked up the screw and dropped it in my shirt pocket. The little boy lunged at me, screeching and causing his mother to wince and widen her stance. I went through my pockets for something to pacify: matches, a crumpled pack of Swishers, the red plastic cap to a liquor bottle, the cork butt of a broken rod, a snarl of discarded leader.
She sighed, accepted my offer of the rod butt, redirected the boy. “Maggie called me and said you stopped Tick Judith from getting hit in the middle of the street, and then you took an ice pick out of his hand and shoved him back in the liquor store.” She hiked the toddler up on her hip and stepped aside. “So come in,” she said, “and tell me what this bullshit is about.”
“Those are the Crazy Mountains over there,” she announced when we had reached a much-too-spacious back porch. “The Bitterroots are there. That smoke is from the Canyon Ferry fire. It’s taking a thousand acres a day, and I just don’t care.”
She dropped the little gnawer and his rod butt on a pile of sawdust. She sat in a wrought iron chair and crossed her legs. A half finished drink—tea with ice and lime?—awaited her on a patio table.
“Now, what’s up? I’m sure it’s Henderson, and if it’s anything new and girl-related, he knows I’m going to divorce him.”
That was too fast for me. I
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