Curtis released me. I landed on two shaky legs and lurched this way and that, trying to catch my breath and my balance, staggering around like a drunken Groucho Marx.

“You can leave us, Curtis.”

“But Mr. Justice, he-”

“It will be fine, Curtis. I think I can handle Mr. Carl myself.”

Curtis Lobban glared at me for a moment and then spun around and left, heading to some far off room. The justice went back to his paperwork. I collapsed into one of the chairs before his ornate desk and rubbed my neck. It wasn’t long before one of the lines on the phone lit. The justice turned his head to the lit line, then raised his eyes to see that I had seen it too.

“He’s calling your wife,” I said.

“Most likely,” he said, just as the white cat leaped atop his desk. “She makes it a practice of being kept informed of my business.”

“And you’re kept informed of hers?”

“As much as I care to,” he said, scratching the cat’s back, “which isn’t much. You don’t have an appointment. I don’t see lawyers without appointments.”

“I came about Rashard Porter,” I said.

“Porter?” said the justice. “Rashard Porter? I don’t recognize the name.”

“He’s a client. He was sentenced this afternoon to a year in prison for a crime that warranted probation at worst.”

“And you’ve come to see me about a case? How wonderfully improper. An ex-parte discussion with a sitting Supreme Court justice about an ongoing criminal case.” The cat curled to sitting on the corner of the desk, the justice went back to his paperwork. “I suppose the Bar Association will have something to say about this.”

“The DA and the presentencing officer in Mr. Porter’s case all agreed that probation was the proper sentence. He’s a kid with a future. He was accepted into art school. Everything was set until the judge turned around and slammed him with a year.”

“Then it appears you have grounds for your appeal. But until it reaches my level there is nothing I can do, and now, because of this meeting, I would have to recuse myself in any event. Is that all you came in here for, to ruin your career? Because trust me, Mr. Carl, when the Bar Association gets through with you, it will be ruined.”

“He was sentenced to a year because I was his lawyer, and because the word is out that I am to get screwed at every turn.”

“Really? That is troubling – for you. And who put out the word?”

“Don’t play the ignorant puss with me.”

“Oh, Mr. Carl. You’ve become paranoid.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean you’re not out to get me. After our first meeting you chewed out the District Attorney and I got hauled into the DA’s office and had my ass chewed out in turn. And right after that you ordered the sheriff to stop helping my collection action against Derek Manley. Then you had my name incorrectly placed on a bench warrant from Lackawanna County that ended up sending me to jail. And now you unjustly screwed my client, Rashard Porter, to the wall.”

“I did all this.”

“Of course you did.” Pause. “Didn’t you?”

It wasn’t any denial that caused my doubt, it was the evident pain on his face. As I went through the litany of indignities recently heaped upon me by the law, he seemed more and more in agony, as if a kidney stone was starting to move slowly and painfully through his system. And even as he spoke, it was as if the stone continued to move, push, chew its way through.

“Have you learned anything new about Tommy Greeley’s disappearance?” he said.

“Worried?”

“Curious. About a lost friend.”

“I’ve learned that just before his disappearance he was cheating on his girlfriend.”

“Cheating on Sylvia?”

“That’s right. With two different women, both married.”

“Tommy was ever the dog, wasn’t he?”

“One was a woman named Chelsea. Her husband, Lonnie, was pretty steamed about it. Did you ever meet him? Lonnie Chambers?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Owns a motorcycle shop in Queens Village.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“And the other woman he was sleeping with was your wife.”

The justice winced, but not from shock. He twisted around as if in utter pain, as if the kidney stone was continuing to grind its way. The white cat stood up, stared at me for a moment, then stepped over to rub its cheek on the back of the justice’s neck.

“Where did you hear that?” the justice said.

“She told me.”

“Of course she did.”

“Are you all right, Mr. Justice?”

“I think you should go.”

“My client. Rashard Porter.”

“Who was the judge?”

“Wellman.”

“Common Pleas?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll take a look.”

“I want more than a look.”

“We all want more than we can have. Good evening, Mr. Carl.”

He turned around to face me, grimaced, pushed the cat off his desk even as he dismissed me with a wave. The cat stalked off. I waited for a bit and then stood, walked toward the entrance. But before I reached the door I stopped and turned around.

“Did you know about Tommy and your wife?”

“Does it matter?” he said without looking up.

“Yes, it does.”

“I don’t intrude on my wife’s affairs.”

“But maybe they intruded on their own. Lonnie Chambers. He came to you, didn’t he?”

“I said I didn’t recognize the name.”

“Then we’ll have to see if he recognizes yours.”

“Good evening, Mr. Carl.”

I stayed there for a moment more, watching him try to work. His head was down, his pen was moving, but the pain was still there, the stone was still working its brutal way through his system, and I sensed just then that it had been working its way through his system for many many years.

“Why do you stay with her?” I said.

He looked up, puzzled for a moment at the question, and then nodded his head. “You’re not married, are you, Mr. Carl?” he said.

“No.”

“Well, then, here’s some advice from an old married man. Don’t ever presume to understand what is happening between a husband and a wife. Nothing in this world appears more transparent, and yet is more inscrutable, than someone else’s marriage.”

Chapter 47

I DIDN’T KNOW I was in a race. If I had known I was in a race I wouldn’t have gone back to the office after my meeting with the justice. I wouldn’t have briefed Beth on what had happened to Rashard. I wouldn’t have called Rashard’s mother to tell her it was all being taken care of, that I had already taken her son’s problem to the highest levels. If I had known time was of the essence I wouldn’t have answered my mail and filled in my time sheets before showing up to ask my question. And that’s all I had, one question, a single question, whose answer I already knew.

The sign of the Chop Shop consisted primarily of a huge Harley-Davidson logo, with the store’s name in small block letters beneath the great orange shield. It was a storefront on a narrow road in a grimy commercial part of the city just a few blocks south of South Street. By the time I got there it was dark already and the stores on either side of it were closed for the night and the street was empty. I thought I might be too late, that Lonnie might be gone for the night, but through the bars protecting the plate-glass window I could see a dim light.

I pushed open the door. A cowbell jangled.

The narrow front of the store was a jumble of parts and accessories, exhaust pipes, saddlebags, gas tanks, tires, a row of handlebars fastened to the wall. The counter was piled with old engine fittings, loose papers, greasy rags, but it wasn’t the mess that struck me first when I entered, it was the reek, a strong and vile combination of ammonia and gasoline and the sharp acridity of methyl alcohol. It forced me to put a hand over my nose.

“Lonnie?” I called out. “Yo, Lonnie. You there?”

No answer.

I made my way around the counter, through a dark doorway into a large space, lit thinly by a soft glow emanating from the rear. The reek became stronger, like a noisome wall, and I gagged as I moved forward. In the shadows I could see parts of a grease-stained cement floor, cinder-block walls, workbenches, hulking motorcycles in various states of being ripped apart.