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Authors: Jeffrey Moore
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money?”
“At the motel.”
“There was a casino at the motel?”
“No. I taught her how to play poker. After six riveting games of Fish.”
“In your room.”
“Correct.”
“Strip poker?”
Sigh. “No, not strip poker.”
“You were drunk, I presume? Or high?”
“Ish.”
“And was she?”
“High? Yes. Rushing on four Fudgsicles and a mountain of M&Ms.”
“And where did you play poker? On the bed?”
“Yes. A heart-shaped bed, in fact. With a pink chiffon bedspread.”
“Where she won eighty-nine dollars from you.”
“And fifty cents.”
“Be right back, got to piss like a heart attack …”
When Volpe put you on hold, his radio automatically kicked in, loud and clear. He was gone for the duration of “Chapel of Love” by the Dixie Cups. I set the receiver down and paged Céleste on the walkie-talkie, not expecting it to work, not expecting her to be awake. But she replied almost immediately with an all-clear. Smart kid.
“Nile? Nile? There’s another item here … Your wife’s lawyer mentions some morbid act, some sort of satanic ritual that went on. Something involving a dead man’s hand?”
Here I had to laugh. Her lawyer must have minored in comedy writing at law school.
“Glad you think it’s amusing, Nile. But how would you respond to that in a court of law?”
With a wail of laughter. “In our last game I held an Ace of Spades, Ace of Clubs, eight of Spades, eight of Clubs, Jack of Diamonds. It’s called the deadman’s hand.”
“Never heard of it.”
“There are lots of things you’ve never heard of,” I almost said, but I almost say things much more often than I say them.“When Wild Bill Hickcock was shot in the back of the head, those were the cards that fell to the floor.”
Silence. “Did anything happen between you two? After the game of poker, on the heart-shaped bed?”
“No.”
“But you slept together.”
“In the literal sense, yes.”
“You got a room with one bed?”
“Two. But Brooklyn ended up on mine. As she often did with me and her mom. Whenever she had nightmares, or couldn’t sleep.” She couldn’t sleep unless the place was lit up like Christmas.
“And when you went into the Jacuzzi with her the next morning, what were each of you wearing?”
“Objection. Leading the witness. It has not been established that Mr. Nightingale ever went into the Jacuzzi with Miss Martin.”
“I’m just preparing you for the hell-roasting you’re going to get from the prosecutor.”
Volpe should know, he used to be one himself. After Fordham Law he began as a defence attorney, but crossed the aisle because he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life being lied to on a daily basis. He then worked for the FBI, according to my father, which had become something of a haven for lawyers trying to avoid military service. Now he’s a corporate lawyer, writing up steel-trap contracts for hedge fund firms owned by New Jersey crime families. So why was I asking him to defend me? A man who hasn’t won a defence case since disco? Because he’s the closest I have to blood: he was my father’s best, most loyal friend since kindergarten. He visited us in Europe, even China. Although he hated everyone else, the lawyer loved the doctor. “Brooklyn used the Jacuzzi,not me. As far as I can recall, she wore a bathing suit. I was in the shower at the time.”
“Naked?”
I paused. Was this a real question? “Yes. A nutty quirk, I admit.”
“Don’t you think it would’ve been wiser had you gotten two rooms?”
“In hindsight, yes. But Brooklyn didn’t want to stay in a room by herself. She was afraid, she said. She was ten at the time—I would’ve been afraid at that age too.”
“Why didn’t you phone her mother?”
“I did, left two messages. Even though Brook said not to bother, that her mom was spending the weekend with her ‘smiley new boyfriend.’”
“And what about the charge of road rage on the way back?”
“What
“At the motel.”
“There was a casino at the motel?”
“No. I taught her how to play poker. After six riveting games of Fish.”
“In your room.”
“Correct.”
“Strip poker?”
Sigh. “No, not strip poker.”
“You were drunk, I presume? Or high?”
“Ish.”
“And was she?”
“High? Yes. Rushing on four Fudgsicles and a mountain of M&Ms.”
“And where did you play poker? On the bed?”
“Yes. A heart-shaped bed, in fact. With a pink chiffon bedspread.”
“Where she won eighty-nine dollars from you.”
“And fifty cents.”
“Be right back, got to piss like a heart attack …”
When Volpe put you on hold, his radio automatically kicked in, loud and clear. He was gone for the duration of “Chapel of Love” by the Dixie Cups. I set the receiver down and paged Céleste on the walkie-talkie, not expecting it to work, not expecting her to be awake. But she replied almost immediately with an all-clear. Smart kid.
“Nile? Nile? There’s another item here … Your wife’s lawyer mentions some morbid act, some sort of satanic ritual that went on. Something involving a dead man’s hand?”
Here I had to laugh. Her lawyer must have minored in comedy writing at law school.
“Glad you think it’s amusing, Nile. But how would you respond to that in a court of law?”
With a wail of laughter. “In our last game I held an Ace of Spades, Ace of Clubs, eight of Spades, eight of Clubs, Jack of Diamonds. It’s called the deadman’s hand.”
“Never heard of it.”
“There are lots of things you’ve never heard of,” I almost said, but I almost say things much more often than I say them.“When Wild Bill Hickcock was shot in the back of the head, those were the cards that fell to the floor.”
Silence. “Did anything happen between you two? After the game of poker, on the heart-shaped bed?”
“No.”
“But you slept together.”
“In the literal sense, yes.”
“You got a room with one bed?”
“Two. But Brooklyn ended up on mine. As she often did with me and her mom. Whenever she had nightmares, or couldn’t sleep.” She couldn’t sleep unless the place was lit up like Christmas.
“And when you went into the Jacuzzi with her the next morning, what were each of you wearing?”
“Objection. Leading the witness. It has not been established that Mr. Nightingale ever went into the Jacuzzi with Miss Martin.”
“I’m just preparing you for the hell-roasting you’re going to get from the prosecutor.”
Volpe should know, he used to be one himself. After Fordham Law he began as a defence attorney, but crossed the aisle because he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life being lied to on a daily basis. He then worked for the FBI, according to my father, which had become something of a haven for lawyers trying to avoid military service. Now he’s a corporate lawyer, writing up steel-trap contracts for hedge fund firms owned by New Jersey crime families. So why was I asking him to defend me? A man who hasn’t won a defence case since disco? Because he’s the closest I have to blood: he was my father’s best, most loyal friend since kindergarten. He visited us in Europe, even China. Although he hated everyone else, the lawyer loved the doctor. “Brooklyn used the Jacuzzi,not me. As far as I can recall, she wore a bathing suit. I was in the shower at the time.”
“Naked?”
I paused. Was this a real question? “Yes. A nutty quirk, I admit.”
“Don’t you think it would’ve been wiser had you gotten two rooms?”
“In hindsight, yes. But Brooklyn didn’t want to stay in a room by herself. She was afraid, she said. She was ten at the time—I would’ve been afraid at that age too.”
“Why didn’t you phone her mother?”
“I did, left two messages. Even though Brook said not to bother, that her mom was spending the weekend with her ‘smiley new boyfriend.’”
“And what about the charge of road rage on the way back?”
“What
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