A Handy Death

“Nor can I,” Ross said, and dropped the subject, returning to an earlier one. “As I was saying when we were so pointlessly and unsatisfactorily interrupted, have you ever met Molly’s new boyfriend, Jimmy Carter?”

“Just the first day he came wandering in here like a lost lamb. Or a lost sheep would be closer, I guess, at his age.” She looked at him closely. “Why?”

“I’d hate for Molly to make a mistake...”

Sharon studied him shrewdly. She said, “You never worried much about Molly’s many loves before, H.R.”

“Maybe I’m just getting sentimental in my middle years,” Ross said with a smile. “Still, why don’t you double date with Molly and Jimmy one evening? To get a better opinion of him; just to make sure he isn’t leading our Molly — or anyone else, as far as that goes — down the garden path. What do you say? You can put it on the expense account.”

Sharon said, looking at him steadily, “Using who for an escort?”

“Steve,” Ross said easily. “He’s been working extremely hard these days. A little relaxation at the firm’s expense should be both enjoyable and beneficial for both of you.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then Sharon said, “Well, all right, Mr. Devious, but it’s going to be a very good restaurant, followed by a very good show, followed by a very good night club. And no complaints about the size of the tab.”

“It’s a promise.”

“And exactly what excuse do I give Molly for being — or rather, for Steve being — so generous?”

“You’re celebrating your birthday.”

“Or Steve won the lottery. I like that one better,” Sharon said. “Someone might ask me ‘Which birthday’ and the evening would be off to a poor start. Which account do I charge it to?”

“Make it an open account,” Ross said, and thought a moment. “You know, it just might end up on Charley Quirt’s account before we’re through.”

Sharon frowned at him in silence a moment.

“In that case, change that ‘very good restaurant, show, and night club’ to the most expensive in town.” Her frown changed to a puckish smile. “Maybe spying isn’t such bad work after all.”

“It’s like everything else,” Ross said with a smile. “The object is not to get put up against a wall and shot.” He shuffled through the papers neatly arranged on his desk, put them back in their original order, and came to his feet. “Well, I’m off to meet Mr. Billy Dupaul. Do me a favor; type me up a standard retainer agreement, will you?”

“With pleasure.” Sharon reached for her copy of The Complete Manual of Criminal Forms, opened it to the proper page, and started typing. She finished quickly, zipped the paper from the machine, folded it and slipped it into an envelope, handing it over. “Well, good luck.”

“Everyone keeps wishing me good luck,” Ross said with a smile. “This time I may very well need it.”

Sharon looked at him. “What do you mean, H.R.?”

“Well,” Ross said, “I suppose that Billy Dupaul could really report me to the Bar Association for ambulance chasing. An attorney — unsolicited — offering himself as defense counsel to a client he’s never met? That’s considered to be very naughty...”

He winked at her and went out the door, his attaché case in hand, the envelope tucked in his jacket pocket.

Chapter 7

The visiting room at the Tombs Prison in New York City is as gloomy as the long rows of dingy cells that make up the interior of most of the multiple floors of the gloomy building. Ross, no stranger to the place, signed the lawyer’s register and then waited patiently in the lawyer’s visiting room for Dupaul to appear.

The door on the far side of the room opened and Ross found himself watching a tall, heavy-set, blond young man being led in. There was a wary expression in his deep blue eyes. Although he no longer looked much like the youngster who had signed the Mets contract years before, there was a familiarity about him. The correction officer accompanying the prisoner turned away and went to sit beside the door through which the pair had entered; his billy club, his only weapon, lay carelessly across his lap. Dupaul walked over to the small cubicle allotted to Ross for the interview; he sank into a chair across from the lawyer and stared at him coldly.

“I hear you’re the great Hank Ross.”

“My name is Hank Ross, if that’s what you hear.”

“I also read in the papers that you think you’re defending me.”

“I would like to defend you in this case.”

“You mean you’ve been hired to defend me, isn’t that it?” Billy Dupaul looked at Ross sardonically. “I’m sure you’re not offering your services. That’s a no-no.”

Ross smiled. “I should have known a man would learn a bit of law in prison.”

“More than a bit. Who’s picking up the tab?”

“Does it make any difference?”

“It does to me,” Dupaul said flatly. “The last time I got handed a lawyer, I ended up in Attica on a bum rap.”