“And I liked how you arranged to have those porno magazines scattered around my office with my name on the fake subscription labels. Cute. My secretary was not happy about that, first realizing what you had done and then searching high and low to see if she got them all. I’ll have you know I’ve taken them home with me, and I have spent hours scouring the evidence and I am still puzzled. Bottoms Up, I can understand, Jugs, sure, but Lesbian Grannies? Really? No wonder I’m having trouble sleeping. I can barely wait to see what you have in store for me next.

“But it isn’t the cleverness I most admire about you, or the wherewithal to inconvenience my life so. It’s the sense of obligation you have, the sense of mission. You like to help, you always say, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? More like an obsession. And I think I understand where it came from. But you have to understand, I have my own obligations. And my main obligation, right now, is to my client. Frankly, I don’t like François any more than I suppose you do, but still, he’s my client. That means something, at least to me. I have to do what I can to help him, and from where I’m sitting, to do that I have bring you into it all.

“You still there?”

I listened. Just the raspy breath, but it was enough.

“It’s sort of nice to be the one talking for a change, almost as if I have my hands in your mouth.”

I laughed a little, but he didn’t, not at all.

“I don’t understand everything that happened the night Leesa Dubé died. Who did what to whom and where? It’s all a muddle. But I know for sure that you were somehow involved. And I believe that I might be able to convince the jury of that, too. And if I do, there’s a chance François could be acquitted. Whether that is a good thing or a bad thing is not for me to say. I tried once to play judge and jury, and it didn’t work out too well. What I learned is that I don’t know enough. To be frank, I barely know enough to get myself dressed in the morning, and Carol Kingsly will tell you I don’t do a very good job at that. But all I can be certain about in this world is that I have this job to do and I’m going to do it, and no amount of harassing phone calls or false subscriptions to porno magazines can change that.

“I just wanted you to know. Nothing personal.

“Okay, I guess it’s time for the message. I was in Chicago a few days ago, right by the ballpark. A little house about three blocks west of third base. That’s right. Your house, your boyhood home. You’re not the only one who can dig into the past. I had a nice little talk with Jim and Franny. Your brother and sister were so happy to hear about you. They hadn’t heard from you in so long they thought you had died. There were almost tears when I told them how well you were doing. Almost. And believe it or not, your father was with them. Good news. He’s out of jail. But I think he had a stroke, and frankly, I don’t think he’s being treated so well, not that he deserves much better. I thought you should know. But the message I have is from your brother and sister. They said your dad would like to see you, and they would like to see you, too. They want you to visit. They want you to come home.”

I waited awhile for some sort of reaction, but there was nothing, just the rasp of breath. And then a click.

Good.

I hung up, laid my head on the cool of my pillow, felt my lids grow heavy. That worked out pretty well, I thought. Tonight it would be his turn to lose his sleep.

66

Tommy’s High Ball, early afternoon on a day court was in recess. I stepped into the cool of the bar, waved at the barkeep with his shock of white hair. He nodded and gestured me over to the booth next to the door, where Horace T. Grant sat with another old man, a chessboard between them, the pieces scattered like weary soldiers across the black and white squares.

Horace looked up when I stepped on over, grimaced as if experiencing a shooting pain in his hip.

“You here for another whipping?” he said.

“No, sir,” I said. “The scars of our last meeting haven’t yet healed.”

“I wouldn’t think so.” He turned his attention back to the board. “You going to move that knight, Simpson, or you going to stare at that miserable position of yours for the rest of this beautiful afternoon?”

“I got possibilities,” said the man across from Horace.

“Maybe,” said Horace, “but they’re all bad.”

“I got possibilities, I say,” said Simpson, “all kinds of possibilities. And I don’t need you sitting across from me and being so high and mighty. I’ve taken you down before.”

“You did what?” said Horace, the tone of his voice rising with incredulity. “When?”

“That time, remember, with the pawn and the queen. A brilliant combination, if I do say so myself.”

“I must have been too drunk to remember,” said Horace, “and I haven’t been that drunk since Wilson Goode dropped a bomb on my neighborhood and scared me sober.”

“I didn’t say it was recent.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Horace. “Now, move before my bones turn to dust.”

“Too late,” I said.

Simpson laughed at that, covering his mouth with long, bony fingers. Horace just shook his head.

“What you want?” he said finally.

“I can’t stay, I have a meeting upstairs.” Horace raised his eyebrows with interest. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m working on setting up the match I told you about. I haven’t heard yet.”

“All right,” he said.

“But I’m hopeful it will come soon.”

“You know where I’ll be.”

“Yes, I do.”

“That it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Good, then maybe you can leave us be. You hovering there all fat and goofy like a piñata makes it hard to concentrate on anything other than banging your head with a baseball bat, not that I need much concentration to beat this fool.”

“Take this,” said Simpson, moving his knight with a flourish.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Horace, smacking down the horse with a bishop from the corner.

“Damn,” said Simpson.

Isabel Chandler was upstairs in the apartment with Julia and Daniel Rose. The place was a jumble of cardboard boxes and black plastic garbage bags stuffed full.

“We’re moving,” said Julia, beaming. Daniel sat in her lap in shorts and a clean, long-sleeved T-shirt, his head pressed tightly into her neck. “Randy found us a place in Mayfair, like he had been trying to. It’s closer to his job, and there’s a room for Daniel. The school there is supposed to be really good.”

“That’s great,” I said, wondering why Daniel was hiding from me.

“Julia has been showing up at most of her parenting classes,” said Isabel, her file open on her lap. “I’ve told her that we expect her attendance to improve, and she promises it will. And Daniel’s teeth are doing really well.”

“Smile for me, Daniel,” I said.

Daniel lifted his face from his mother’s chest and, with sad eyes, bared his new teeth for just an instant, before burying his head back into his mother’s neck.

“You’re moving when, exactly?” said Isabel.

“Next week,” said Julia. “The new apartment is already empty. Randy’s been spending nights fixing it up for us, using paint the landlord supplied. Powder blue.”

“Nice,” I said.

“Why don’t we set up an appointment with one of our pediatricians in the area,” said Isabel, “so the doctor can get a jump start on monitoring Daniel’s progress.”

“Do we have to? Can’t we get settled first?”

“I think we should set it up now. How’s Daniel’s health been?”

“He’s been gaining weight,” said Julia. “He’s eating more. It must be his teeth. That doctor, Dr. Pfeffer, he did such a wonderful job.”

“He’s a helpful guy,” I said. “Make sure you follow his instructions.”

“We are. Randy is being especially attentive. Everything is going so well.”