Client Privilege Read Online Free Page A

stalemate, then,” I said.
    He leaned close to me. “Look. My source is impeccable, believe me. I’ve got the proof. The ball’s in my court. If I weren’t sure of what I had, do you think I’d’ve risked meeting you this way, in person? Do you think the judge would’ve had you come here to meet me?”
    “I think the judge could survive all of this much easier than you could.”
    He sat back and took a long draft from his beer. “Ten grand,” he said. “Tell that to the judge. And tell him I’ll be in touch.”
    “Don’t bother.”
    He whirled quickly on the barstool and grabbed a handful of my jacket. He put his face close to mine. “I’m gonna call day after tomorrow,” he snapped at me. “Make sure Chester Y. Popowski knows that.”
    I tried to twist out of his grasp. “Let go,” I said softly.
    He leaned back and held his palms in front of him in a gesture of surrender. He smiled. “Take it easy, friend. No offense, huh?”
    Skeeter appeared. “Everything okay, Mr. Coyne?”
    I nodded. “No problem, Skeets.”
    He looked from me to the man beside me and shrugged. “Okay. Another?”
    “No, thanks,” I said.
    “No,” said the man.
    Skeeter wandered away. I hunched my shoulders back into my jacket. The guy beside me swiveled off his barstool. “Tell him I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Ten grand. Just tell him I said ten grand.”
    He headed for the door. “Hey,” I yelled at him.
    He turned. “Yeah?”
    “You didn’t pay for your beer.”
    “It’s on you,” he said as he went out the door. “The judge’s paying your expenses.”
    I sat there simmering. Skeeter came back. “Who was that?” he said.
    “I don’t know. You ever see him before?”
    Skeeter cocked his head. “Seemed familiar. Not a regular. Dunno. Can’t place him.”
    “I’d like to know who he is,” I said.
    He shook his head. “Nope. Can’t place him. He giving you a hard time?”
    “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
    “I get all kinds in here. Guy has a fight with his old lady, doesn’t dare take a swipe at her, he comes in here looking for someone he can slug. Fella has a few down the street, they shut him off, he comes in here looking for another. Sorry he picked on you.”
    “Not your fault,” I said.
    “Look, Mr. Coyne,” said Skeeter. “I’m gonna give you a refill on the house for your trouble.”
    “You don’t have to do that, Skeets.”
    “I want to. I like to take care of my customers.”
    “You talked me into it. Thanks.”
    I sipped my second shot of Rebel Yell. I caught the dark-haired woman watching me in the mirror. I smiled at her. She looked away and said something to the blonde beside her. A minute later she slid a couple of bills onto the bar and both women left.
    As I had said to Pops, keeping the ladies at bay was a problem.

THREE
    I T TOOK ME TWENTY minutes or half an hour to stroll back to my apartment from Skeeter’s. All the rain that had fallen and the slush and crud that had melted into puddles during the day had frozen and glazed the sidewalks. It made the walking tricky. Sullen heaps of gray snow remained mounded against the buildings. The February air smelled moist and organic and complex, a combination of low tide and industrial waste and automobile exhaust and a winter’s accumulation of garbage that had frozen and thawed too many times. City smells. Not objectionable at all.
    Up in my apartment on the sixth floor of the stark concrete building on the harbor, I dropped my parka on the floor and kicked off my boots. I checked my machine for messages and, as usual, found none. I put on the heat under the teakettle and flicked on the television. I clicked it over to Channel 56 and pushed last week’s newspapers onto the floor to make room for myself on the sofa so I could watch the end of the Celtics-Knicks game.
    When the old black-and-white tube warmed up, I realized that the game had ended. I watched a few minutes of an old Richard Burton movie. Judging by the