“About what?”

“Ben’s death?”

“Just what I’ve read.”

“Thought you might have heard something from your pals over in the DA’s office. Your pipeline is probably better than ours on something like this.”

“What are you hearing?” I ask.

It’s clear that Tony’s not been left standing at the gate. He suffers under no illusion that his partner took his own life. For a moment I think that Skarpellos has called me here to pump me for information on Ben’s death.

He swallows a little saliva, considering his response.

“Things,” he says.

“Yes?”

“Just rumors. You know, the kind of stuff you probably always hear when somebody prominent takes his own life. Loose talk about foul play. Lotta speculation.”

“I suppose. I hadn’t heard.”

“Sure,” he says. “Well, down to business.” Digging for dirt in Ben’s death has been only Tony’s hors d’oeuvre.

“I guess we should get right to it. I’m sure there’s no need to say this, but so there’s no misunderstanding later, what I’m about to tell you must be treated in the strictest confidence. I assume I have your assurance on that?” Skarpellos looks directly at me. Brown knows his job serves as collateral for his discretion.

I nod my assent.

“There is a client who, for the moment, shall remain nameless. Suffice it to say this is a man of some prominence.” There’s a lot of posturing here. Skarpellos weighs what he’s about to say for a brief instant. The judicious hesitation is mostly for my benefit. It’s followed quickly by a show of candor: “The man is a public official.” That narrows it to half a thousand people in this town. “It seems he’s gotten himself caught up in what’s about to become a very embarrassing-and messy-criminal case.” A long, sobering pause follows as Skarpellos prepares me for the solemnity of the charges.

“The guy’s accused of multiple counts of bribery.” His bushy eyebrows droop. He takes a slow draw on the cigar and emits an irregular smoke ring toward the ceiling. “With some sexual overtones.”

I make a face-novel, but I’m not convinced that it represents a new low in the ethos of our public servants.

Skarpellos gets the point and his dour expression turns light. He laughs. “Yeah-the guy’s a bit of an asshole. Problem is, as they say, he’s our asshole.”

“The firm has taken the case?” I ask.

“In a manner of speaking. Actually we’re only advising him at this point.” The firm is merely brokering the case. I wonder what prize is in it for P amp;S or, perhaps more to the point, for Tony Skarpellos. I begin to anticipate the drift of our conversation. Like a rug merchant, Tony studies my expression for signs of interest.

At this point Skarpellos begins to run out of steam. I wonder why it is that he can’t get to the punch line. The rules of evidence may often elude him, but bullshit is Tony’s special gift.

“As you know, this firm is not well schooled in criminal law, though Ben helped to navigate some of our business clients through those stormy waters from time to time.”

“And that’s why you’ve come to me?”

“In a manner of speaking. Yes.”

They want me to take this piece of swill off their hands. Skarpellos sits staring at me as if, like a faith healer curing leprosy, I hold some magic formula, some legal potion that I can prescribe for his client that will cleanse him. A long pause follows as Tony struggles through several versions of a pained smile. It’s a common expression for Skarpellos. He’s on one of his verbal safaris searching for the right words.

“I appreciate the firm’s confidence, Tony. Perhaps I might even share a little of it-if I knew precisely what it is you want from me.” If it’s my help, he will have to do better than this. Skarpellos will have to climb down from his throne. He may even have to crawl. For the right fee, I might take the case.

“This is a very important man,” he explains-their client who is not really a client. “He has important friends. He’s made a mistake, but then who among us has not done that?” Tony spreads his arms over the shimmering stone surface of the desk and begins to talk with his hands, trailing highways of smoke in the air, part of the Greek lexicon.

“Tony. What is it that you want?” There’s an edge of impatience to my words.

Knowing glances are exchanged between Brown and Skarpellos. We’ve arrived at the marrow of our meeting. If we were engaged in plea negotiations, this is where the bullshit would be shelved, where we would hear no more of society’s interests, or the requirements of justice.

There’s an awkward pause as they go through the silent ritual of selecting a spokesman. Brown gets the nod. He comes on all polished charm and flashing teeth-the words emitted with the rapid-fire precision of a Gatling gun.

“Well, we don’t really want you to take the case.”

Now I’m angry. Ron Brown-the resident sycophant-is about to tell me that I’m not up to defending their man.

“You represent a client, I believe-Susan Hawley?”

I make no gesture to respond, but it’s clear that Brown needs none. Suddenly I remember my conversation with Skarpellos at the University Club and the pieces begin to fit.

“Your client presents some real problems for our client.” There’s a slight pause as Brown looks to Skarpellos, and then: “What we want is your assurance that she won’t testify.”

“What?” I’m more amused-dazed-than angry.

Ron Brown suffers from the chronic corporate disease of my generation. He possesses the intellectual fortitude of jelly. An original thought entering his mind is doomed to die of loneliness. Observing every disagreement and battle from the sidelines, Brown is uncanny in his early recognition of a victor. When the dust has settled, it seems all anyone ever remembers is that Brown turned the first spade of earth to bury the vanquished, and then lead the team fight song. He exhibits all the dubious qualities of corporate and civic leadership in our times. In a word, Ron Brown has the natural inclinations of a good politician.

He now moves quickly. “You have to understand. We’re not asking you to suborn perjury, or to obstruct justice. Your client has every right to refrain from testifying-to take the Fifth-to avoid incriminating herself. That’s all we want: her silence.”

Brown is slick. Still, his knowledge of criminal law is just enough to get him in trouble.

“And if they immunize her? If they agree that her testimony can’t be used against her in any criminal proceeding-what then?”

He looks at me. A dour expression has now fallen like a veil over his face.

“She doesn’t testify.” From the uncertainty in his voice, I can’t be sure if these words are a statement or a question.

“You understand that she could be jailed for contempt-have her ass thrown in the bucket in perpetuity-until she agrees to testify?”

Again there’s a long pause. The discomfort that afflicted Skarpellos appears to be contagious. Pimples of sweat begin to rise on Brown’s forehead. “There are people who would be willing to compensate her very handsomely for her continued silence. Let us just say that she would never have to ply her chosen profession again if she were to cooperate.”

Now I am angry. This is surreal, as if I’ve entered a dream. Images of Jimmy Lama and his flash of temper flood my mind. Susan Hawley has been bedding a pricey political client of Potter, Skarpellos, and now they want her silence.

“We aren’t having this conversation.” I rise and begin to move toward the door.

“Paul-please.” Skarpellos is again taking the lead. He’s on his feet, palms spread on the cold rock slab. His eyes, reddened by cigar smoke, are now filled with supplication.

For a moment at least, curiosity tempers my anger. “What’s the firm’s interest in this case?”

Skarpellos looks at me soberly-the kind of soulful look that flashes in bright neon hues-“Bullshit to Follow.” “We’re concerned because this is a prominent client …”