A Handy Death

He reached out. Pencil-like fingers removed the folder from Ross’s hand and tucked the press card away in a pocket again. Coughlin looked down at Ross with a faint smile on his face.

“See the story in the Mirror this morning?”

“I read the Times.”

“Tough on you,” Coughlin said. “I dug out the story on that prison break try at Attica yesterday. The Mirror carried it.” His eyes held those of Ross for a moment. “Good reading.”

Something cued Ross to his next line. “Under your own by-line?”

For a moment the composure of the thin man faltered. Coughlin frowned blackly.

“It should have been, but it wasn’t. But I’ve got a lovely by-lined story that’ll be in the next edition you might be interested in. It’ll be out on the streets pretty soon.” He turned away again. “I’ll be waiting in your office an hour from now.”

Ross stared thoughtfully after the narrow shoulders in the loud sports jacket as they edged their way past waiters and tables to reach the street and disappear beyond the visual limits afforded by the curtained, latticed windows. He turned back to Sharon, raising his glass slowly, staring into the golden contents as if to find some answer there.

“The trouble with practicing criminal law—” he began slowly.

“What about it?” Sharon asked.

“It’s some of the people you have to associate with,” Ross said, and finished his beer in one swallow.

The emaciated Jerry Coughlin shook his head decisively as Sharon seated herself at her desk in Ross’s office, opened a new stenographic notebook, and reached for a sharpened pencil.

“No dice,” Coughlin said firmly.

“What?”

“I mean, alone,” Coughlin said emphatically.

“There is no ‘alone’ in this law office,” Ross said quietly. “Miss McCloud is my confidential secretary, and in this office that word means just what it says. She sits in on all my conferences.”

“But not on mine.”

Ross shrugged. “Sorry.”

Coughlin didn’t argue. Instead he raised his narrow shoulders in lack of interest and stood up.

“I came here to do you a favor, Ross. Either we do it my way or we don’t do it at all.”

Ross studied the bean pole of a man towering across the desk from him, watching him almost indolently. Several seconds passed before Ross came to a decision. He nodded to Sharon; she understood, closed her book, rose and left the room. Coughlin crossed the room and closed the door firmly behind her. He came back and sat down. There was no trace of expression on his face, no hint of triumph. Ross shook his head.

“You realize, of course, that I could have a tape recorder turned on this minute—” And a pity he hadn’t, he thought, with at least ten casette recorders in the various offices. “—or the room itself could be bugged, and my secretary could be in another room taking down everything you say.”

“I know,” Coughlin said calmly. “I also know that tape-recorder evidence stands far less chance in a courtroom than do personal witnesses.” He leaned across the desk, getting right to the point. “Ross, let’s not fight. We’re on the same side of the fence. Like I told you, I’m here to do you a favor. I covered that riot at Attica Prison yesterday. I was at the baseball game when the trouble started.”

“Doing what? The paper assigned you?”

“I don’t get assignments, or anyway, damned few. I work on my own. If I dig up something hot, I peddle it.”

“And what made you think something hot would happen at Attica Prison yesterday? Of all days?”

“I didn’t, particularly. But they’ve got a prison league and, believe it or not, there’s a certain amount of interest in prison sports. Ex-cons, maybe, figuring it’s their alma mater. Or family, maybe, of guys on the teams — lets them know that if Daddy’s hustling out in left field, at least he isn’t in the freezer. Anyway, I cover prison sports as a stringer, sometimes sell a couple of paragraphs to the local papers, sometimes sell a couple of lines in one of the big-time rags—”

“So?”

“So I saw what happened — exactly what happened.”

“And exactly what did happen?”

“Well,” Coughlin said, “I’ve seen Billy Dupaul pitch a lot of ball games over the years. He’s good. Big-league stuff, like he was when he first came up as a bonus baby. Maybe even better; stronger, more mature. But this time he throws four balls, one right on top of the other. And the cons in the stands don’t care greatly for the umpire’s calls, so they stage a slight riot.”

He shook his head with an indication of sadness at the vicissitudes of baseball, but his eyes were alert and bright, watching Ross sardonically.

Ross returned the look evenly. “So?”

“It was a setup,” Coughlin said flatly. “It was a plant.”

“Why?” Ross asked mildly. “I’ve seen the best pitchers in the business throw four balls in a row.”