Client Privilege Read Online Free

keep you there.” He didn’t lie. He boasted that his Wee Willie Keeler would “hit ’em where they ain’t.”
    “What’s a Whitey Ford?” I asked cautiously.
    “Dark rum, Guinness stout, papaya juice,” he said. “It’s sneaky fast. Before you know it, you’re back in the old dugout. Just like when you tried to hit Whitey’s curve.”
    “Think I’ll pass this time. Give me a shot of Rebel Yell on the rocks.”
    “Always the bourbon, huh, Mr. Coyne?”
    I didn’t tell Skeeter that Pops’ mystery man would recognize me by my bourbon. “I don’t want to be snuck up on,” I said.
    He grinned, showing me the gap in his teeth. “Oh, and happy Groundhog Day,” he said.
    “Thanks.” I decided not to share my newfound lore about Candlemas Day with Skeeter.
    Skeeter brought me my drink with a side of water, gave the bar a final swipe with his rag, and wandered back to the controversy at the television. It appeared that the Bruins had won the day. Boston has always been a hockey town.
    The ladies to my left continued to gaze into the mirror. I glanced at my watch. Nine-fifteen. I lit another cigarette and sipped the southern sour mash and watched the hockey players zip around the big screen.
    He was wearing a Ben Hogan tweed cap, dark shades, snug-fitting blue jeans, and a fleece-lined sheepskin parka. Wisps of longish blond hair showed under the cap. He had a bushy blond mustache a shade darker than the hair on his head. “Mr. Coyne, is it?” he said.
    “Yes. Who’re you?”
    He grinned, showing perfect teeth that might have been capped. “It’s not important, who I am,” he said. His voice was deep and well modulated, with no trace of any sort of regional accent. It seemed faintly familiar, and I had the feeling that had he taken off his sunglasses I would have recognized his face.
    Skeeter came over. My companion ordered a St. Pauli Girl. We sat in silence until his beer and frosted glass arrived. After Skeeter moved over to refill the ladies’ wineglasses, the man said, “You know why I’m here?”
    “I don’t even know why I’m here,” I said.
    He gave me what looked like a well-practiced smile. “It’s really quite simple, Mr. Coyne.” He touched his mustache with his forefinger. “I have a commodity that is very valuable to your client.”
    “And what is this commodity?”
    “My silence.”
    “It’s my belief that your commodity has no value whatsoever,” I said. “To my client or to anyone else.”
    “He told you that, huh?”
    I shrugged.
    “Did he tell you about Karen Lavoie?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    He grinned and spread his hands. “Well, then.”
    “Look, friend,” I said. “You’re running quite a risk here. Blackmail is against the law, in case you didn’t know it. Neither my client nor I is interested in violating the law. Technically, you have already broken the law. So my sincere advice to you is to finish your beer, shake my hand, acknowledge that I have misunderstood your intention, and be on your merry little way.”
    “Blackmail,” he said, arching his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh, dear.”
    I nodded. “Fine. Excellent. So I have misunderstood your intention.”
    “Your client, I assure you, has not misunderstood my intention, Mr. Coyne. And I know that you know that there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Except do business with me.” He played with his mustache again.
    “What is it you want?”
    “Convey the figure of ten thousand dollars to your client.”
    “If I were wearing a wire, you could be arrested right now, do you realize that?”
    He smiled lazily. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. In any case, if I were arrested tonight, tomorrow’s papers would be full of the story of Chester Popowski and Karen Lavoie. That’s why you’re here. That’s why His Honor didn’t hang up on me. He wasn’t always quite the proper judge everybody thinks, you know. And that’s why I know you’re not wearing a wire.”
    “We appear to be at a