Blood Test

He turned on his heel and stomped away.

As we left the jail I caught a last glimpse of Raoul behind the bars. There wasn’t any good reason for me to feel unfaithful, but I did.

16

Houten made a phone call out of earshot. Ten minutes later a man in shirtsleeves showed up and the sheriff came forward to greet him.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice, Ezra.”

“Pleased to help, Sheriff.” The man’s voice was soft, modulated, and even.

He looked to be in his late forties, medium-sized but sparely built, with a scholar’s stoop. Everything about him was compact and neat. The smallish head was covered with thin salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back. The ears were elfin and close set. His facial features were regular but too delicate to be handsome. His short-sleeved white shirt was spotless and, despite the heat, free of wrinkles. His khaki trousers seemed freshly laundered. He wore rimless octagonal eyeglasses and carried a clip-on case for them in his breast pocket.

He looked like a man who never perspired.

I stood up and he appraised me mildly.

“Ezra,” said Houten, “this is Dr. Delaware, a psychologist from Los Angeles. Came all the way down to take back the one I told you about. Doctor, meet Mr. Ezra Maimon, the best lawyer in town.”

The neat man laughed gently.

“The Sheriff’s engaging in a bit of hyperbole,” he said and held out a thin callused hand. “I’m the only attorney in La Vista, and the cases I usually work with are made of wood.”

“Ezra owns a rare fruit nursery just out of town,” explained Houten. “Claims he’s retired but we still get him to do a bit of lawyering from time to time.”

“Wills and small estates are comparatively simple matters,” said Maimon. “If this turns into criminal defense you’ll have to bring in a specialist.”

“That’s all right,” Houten twirled one of his mustaches. “This is no criminal case. Yet. Just a little problem, like I told you over the phone.”

Maimon nodded.

“Tell me the details,” he said.

He listened quietly and impassively, turning once or twice to smile at me. When Houten was through, the attorney placed a finger to his lips and gazed up at the ceiling, as if doing mental arithmetic. After a minute of silent contemplation he said, “Let me see my client.”

He spent half an hour in the cell. I tried to kill the time by reading a magazine for highway patrolmen until I found that it specialized in graphic photoessays of fatal road wrecks accompanied by detailed descriptions of the vehicular horrors. I couldn’t imagine why those who witnessed such carnage as part of their daily routine would be attracted to a photographic reprise. Perhaps it provided distance — the true solace of the voyeur. I put the magazine aside and contented myself with watching W. Bragdon read about alfalfa culture while he picked at his cuticles.

Finally a buzzer rang.

“Go in and get him, Walt,” ordered Houten.

Bragdon said yessir, left, and came back with Maimon.

“I think,” said the attorney, “we may be able to reach a compromise.”

“Run it by me, Ezra.”

The three of us sat around one of the desks.

“Dr. Melendez-Lynch is a very intelligent man,” said Maimon. “Perhaps overly persistent. But not, in my opinion, at all malicious.”

“He’s a pain in the butt, Ezra.”

“He’s been a little overzealous in his attempts at fulfilling his medical obligations. But, as we all know, Woody’s deathly ill. Dr. Melendez-Lynch feels he has the means to cure him and he sees himself as trying to save a life.”

Maimon spoke with quiet authority. He could have acted as Houten’s mouthpiece but instead seemed to be functioning as a true advocate. I didn’t think it was for my benefit and I was impressed.

Houten’s face darkened with anger.

“The boy’s not here. You know that as well as I do.”

“My client is an empiricist. He wants to see that for himself.”

“No way is he going near that place, Ezra.”

“I agree with you. That would be inviting trouble. However he did agree to Dr. Delaware’s conducting a search of the Retreat. Promised to pay his fines and leave without a fuss if the good doctor finds nothing suspicious.”

It was a simple solution. But neither Houten nor I had come up with it. He, because his appetite for concession wasn’t hearty in the first place and he’d already had his fill. And I’d been too overwhelmed by Raoul’s fanaticism to think straight.

The sheriff digested it.

“I can’t force Matthias to open the place up.”

“Of course not. He has every right to refuse. If he does we’ll reapproach the problem.”

An eminently logical man.

Houten turned his attention to me.

“What about it? You up for it?”

“Sure. Whatever works.”