“I don't have much time,” he said. “What's going on? Where's Susannah?"

“Over at Nan Duskin, shopping,” Paul replied. “I made it clear to the owner that Ms. Winston was not to leave until she had spent an appropriate amount of money. I needed to speak with you alone. We had an incident this morning."

At this point, the waitress slapped Richard's gimlet on the table and asked him for ninety-five cents. Some of the drink dribbled over the sides of the glass, and pooled on the table. Richard put the five back in his wallet, and started fishing for a single. After an uncomfortable length of time, he gave up and forked over the five. “Here. Keep the rest."

Then, to Paul: “What kind of incident?"

“Ms. Winston's ex-boyfriend took a few shots at us while we were in a cab. Our driver got his brains blown out. On the bright side, we didn't have to pay the fare."

Poor Richard went white. “My God. He is real."

“Real and connected to an unsavory crowd. Turns out, Ms. Winston was not exaggerating-'Roger’ does indeed work for a criminal. But his name is not Roger, it's Ray-Ray Loogan, and the criminal operates out of Nevada. I'm familiar with them, having worked in the Las Vegas area for some time."

“My God,” Richard repeated, then proceeded to drain half his gimlet.

“That's not all. He was with an associate of this criminal-a woman named Leah Farrell. Which means if she's with Ray, chances are this criminal from Las Vegas is very interested in your Susannah."

“Can't I ever pick ‘em without complications? If they don't have bruiser ex-husbands, they're tied to the mob. Jesus H. Christ-I'm too old for this bullshit."

Paul said, “Maybe you should consider fidelity."

“What?"

“Nothing. But I need to know more before I can bail your pinstriped ass out of this."

Richard considered this for a moment. Even from my vantage point in the Brain Hotel lobby, I could practically see his wheels spinning. Can I wrangle out of this now and ignore her, or will she come after me? Is paying for more protection worth a thrice-a-week screw? Should I have her killed?

“I'll tell you everything I know."

“Great. Another gimlet, Mr. Gard?"

Predictably, Richard had met her in a bar: the Crab Club, on 2nd Street in Old City, the newly-minted historical section of the city. The Federal Government had poured a ton of money and concrete into the area-formerly a slum-to be able to host President Ford for the Bicentennial in the actual historical environs without having to chase away winos and junkies every two minutes.

They met December 23, 1975. Richard had been at his firm's office party, which spilled over into the bar at Harrigan's Saloon, near Market Street, then the Crab Club. He was intoxicated, but by no means devoid of his lawyerly charms. Susannah had introduced herself when he bumped into her to order another French martini. Richard soon abandoned his buddies, called his wife in Lower Merion to tell her he was taking a room in town, and took Susannah to “drop her off at her apartment.” As it turned out, there was no need for Richard to rent a room. Upon sobering up the next morning, Richard found himself in a tricky Yuletide situation. As fate would have it, Susannah Winston was a far cry from the acne-scarred, flabby-thighed bimbo from the steno pool he usually landed. No, she was an amazingly young, amazingly beautiful woman who was alone for holidays, orphaned, and in dire need of companionship. She also gave the most “mind-numbing” blow job Richard had ever received.

Now, this was a fact I could have lived without knowing. But as Richard told this part of the story, I caught Paul conjuring scenarios and images, involving him and our client. They flittered by the lobby screen almost too fast to catch. Almost.

Richard spun this wild tale of a lost case file and the urgent need to replicate the documents on Christmas Eve, no, honey I don't work for Ebeneezer Scrooge, but I do try cases in front of him, and if I don't have this case file together by noon tomorrow… blah blah blah. And on Christmas Eve, instead of being home with Elaine and his twin boys, he ended up drinking milk and eating slightly-burnt cookies Susannah had baked. He even darted out to a shop on the square to buy her an impromptu Christmas present of emerald earrings-using the firm's petty cash account, of course. Susannah returned the favor by numbing his mind yet again.

Again, more images from Paul: Red and green felt, pine needles, Santa Claus, lips. I was going to have to watch this situation carefully. Perhaps take more drastic measures.

Richard realized how simple it would be to care and feed a mistress. Fact: Susannah Winston was independently wealthy-no clumsy requests for cash for a manicure, or a new bra. Fact: She had her own apartment on Rittenhouse Square, not five blocks from the firm. Fact, she didn't give a damn that he had a family. Fact, she could give the most mind-numbing…

“I get the picture,” Paul said.

“Right.” Richard's face was blushed, and he was working on his fourth gimlet. He didn't seem to remember he'd been pressed for time. In fact, he didn't even seem to realize he was talking out loud.

Susannah had supplied the same autobiographical details she had Paul: rich family in Boston, generous trust fund from inventor father, bad taste in men. She also told him she came to Philadelphia to see the Bicentennial. She figured it would be the chance for a rebirth, right along with the 200th celebration of the nation's birth.

And then, the note from Roger Adams had arrived. The rest was recent history: a teary confession of past wrongdoings, a desperate plea for help, and no way for a man with even the thinnest fibers of self-respect to wriggle out of the obligation. Richard had to help his mistress. He called the biggest agency in the country, the Brown Agency, for that help. Best of all, he could expense it.

Gard looked around for his briefcase. Ah yes, there it was. Right next to him in the booth. Absentmindedly, he rubbed the condensation from his glass, then turned to gather up his things.

“Before you go, there's one more thing. Mr. Wojciechowski had a call from his accountant yesterday. It seems there was a problem with my retainer check."

Good boy, that Paul. I knew I could count on him to talk cash. It was the one part of the investigatory business I loathed.

“What kind of problem?"

“The kind where it fails to clear."

“What?"

“Now I'm sure it's a mix-up, and I'm not the kind to suspend services for lack of payment. We're both adults, beyond that petty nonsense. I would like a new check that can be cashed by noon tomorrow."

Richard frowned. “Ah, those bank assholes. Always screwing things up… yes, yes, of course, Paul. I don't know what to say. I can give you a check right now. I'd walk with you to the Girard Bank, but it's out of the way and I really have to-"

“Tomorrow will be fine.” And with that, Richard excused himself and left.

“Now we know two things,” I told Paul from the Brain Hotel lobby mike.

He looked down at his reflection in the pint glass, which made it seem like he was staring right at me from the lobby screen. What's that?

“One, the man who hired us is an aging jerk who enjoys blow jobs way too much."

C'mon, Paul said. How much is too much?

“Two, our client's story has evolved over the months. She's gotten ambitious."

Yeah, I was thinking the same thing, Paul said. One minute, she's knocking around Philly for kicks, the next she's planning a grand rebirth. It doesn't fit.

“Third…"