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world,” says Ally. “And you, Ellaway, are not getting out of it.”
     
    My professional conscience gets to me, and I have him shown up to my office. He wasn’t down there long enough to get really scared—instead, he is furious with me: it has begun to dawn on him that he’s not going to be handed over to mainstream justice. I could get him a lyco lawyer, in theory, but I did that a few times when I was a rookie, and I grew out of it pretty fast. Lawyers are fine on their own turf with their own people. On our turf, dealing with us, they’re something else. They don’t come out and say, Fucking skins. Not quite. It’s remarkable how close someone can get to saying it without using vulgar language—and most lawyers practically build their cases on it. Ally promised a few years back that he’d shave his head every time a lyco lawyer managed not to mention “public opinion” or “the majority of citizens” within ten minutes of arriving. His hair’s halfway down his back and still growing.
    “Mr. Ellaway,” I say. “You’d better start talking to me, because I’m more on your side than anyone else in this building.”
    “Fuck you, Galley. I saw how on my side you are.” He isn’t just angry. I think his feelings are actually hurt. The world isn’t his in here, and no one’s helping.
    “Look,” I tell him. “You’re a big suspect, and you’re a big suspect in a serious crime. A DORLA official has been killed, do you understand the seriousness of that?”
    He glares at me.
    “Whatever you think of DORLA, Mr. Ellaway, it’s not going away. And every man and woman in this building is part of it. That wasn’t just Marcos, that was a shot at all of us. So if you expect me to sit and hold your hand while my people interrogate you, then you’re going to be disappointed. But you are my client, and I will represent you. And since no lyco lawyer is coming to help you, I’m the best you’ll get. So, for your own good, I suggest you try to get along with me, because there is no one else who will help you.”
    It’s important that I get as much out of him as I can now. I don’t like the sight of blood, and everyone here hates Ellaway. Me included, of course. But soon as we release him, he’ll go straight to a lyco firm and then he will have a lawyer. Hell, he’s probably got one already, all his offenses and all his money make this a good bet. This is a DORLA case, the first crime was a moon-night offense and that puts him in our territory, but he’s allowed to bring in his own lawyer to work with me if he wants to. And once we’ve got a lawyer on the scene, then that’s it. Ninety-nine point six percent of the population at the last count will rise to protect him, and Johnny can go to hell because God is a lyco.
    “Mr. Ellaway. You’re not making this easy on yourself. You can be held here a long time. It’s not me who decides that, it’s my job to put you up for bail. Tell me something that gives you an alibi and I can apply for your release.”
    “I told you, I was at home.”
    “What were you doing?”
    “Watching TV.”
    “What was on?”
    “Some old black-and-white movie about airmen.”
    “What channel?”
    “Two.” His answers fire right back at me, but this doesn’t mean they’re true; he could have just looked at a paper.
    “Did anyone visit you at that time?”
    “No.”
    “Any phone calls?”
    “Yes. Yes, I made a call.” He leans forward.
    “Who to?”
    He chews his lip a moment, then opens his mouth. I’ve never seen anyone before whose lips can shrug, but that’s what they’re doing. “Lewis Albin. A man I know named Lewis Albin.” He writes down a number and address.
    “What time was this?”
    “About nine o’clock.”
    Johnny was shot between eight thirty and ten, the doc says. I don’t think we’ve told Ellaway that, but then he’d know it if he shot him. “Right, well, we can check your telephone bill; what company are you with?”
    “It’s a