Concert of Ghosts Read Online Free

somewhere, Harry. Nobody goes through life on an apple a day, for God’s sake. Gimme the name of somebody who treated you for something , even if it was only tonsillitis.”
    Tennant closed his eyes, leaned back against the wall. He had from somewhere a memory of a caring man in a herringbone tweed suit, a physician with an easy manner, but if there was more to the recollection, it evaded him. “I guess I had one when I was a kid, but I don’t remember his name.” He looked at Rozak. “I don’t see how a doctor who treated me for—Christ knows, a cut, a cold, whatever, more than thirty years ago—could say anything remotely relevant about my character.”
    Rozak patted Tennant’s knee. “Hey. Cool down.”
    Tennant said, “I’m jumpy.”
    â€œSure you are. You don’t need to be.”
    â€œI don’t want to go to jail.”
    Frank Rozak stood up; his skeleton creaked. He walked round the cell. His expression was pensive. He examined the graffiti in the manner of a man attempting to break an impossible code. He said, “I’ll be straight with you, Harry. You can forget jail. That’s the last place you’re headed.”
    â€œWhat makes you so certain?”
    Rozak smiled. He had a good smile, no fake dazzle, no used cars to hawk. “That’s a toughie to answer, Harry. Just trust me on it. You’ll walk. No two ways about it. Forget any charges. They’ll be dropped and you can go back to your little house in the woods. Free as a hawk. All you gotta do is sit tight.”
    â€œI don’t see how you can be so damn sure,” Tennant said. “You must know something I don’t.”
    Rozak shrugged. “I get paid to know things.” His expression, suddenly sly, mystified Tennant. “Like I say, just sit tight.”
    â€œWhat if this character Flitt has different ideas?” Tennant asked. “What if he decides to throw the book at me?”
    â€œIn order to throw the book, my friend, first he’s got to find it.”
    â€œMeaning what?”
    Frank Rozak winked. “Get some rest, Harry.”
    â€œWait,” Tennant said. He got up.
    But Rozak was already stepping out of the cell. The door was shut behind him. Tennant heard a key turn in the lock. He returned to the bunk, sat down, pondered Rozak’s statement. Okay. Okay. What was he—some flashy hotshot lawyer who knew how to drive a tractor-trailer through loopholes in the law? Or was he just doing his lawyerly thing, showering a client with optimism, a bit of positive reinforcement in the dead of night?
    Puzzled, Tennant listened to the silence of the cell. It occurred to him that he should have asked Rozak to find out about the condition of the Dane. Now it would have to wait.
    Tennant was taken before Judge Stakowski at 10:00 A . M . Frank Rozak was not in court. Tennant sat alone at the defendant’s table and wondered what had delayed the attorney. The courtroom was dark, old-fashioned, empty save for a couple of uniformed cops, a court reporter, two or three spectators, and a man in a cheap suit, who stood at the prosecutor’s table.
    Stakowski turned out to be a midget whose black robes engulfed him. As he climbed to his judicial bench he gave the impression of something inky and formless rising, as if the garment contained nothing but playful currents of air or balloons. Only when he was seated, seemingly on a column of cushions for height, did Stakowski’s face emerge from the robe. He had solemn eyes. He looked about the court in the fashion of a minister surveying his church. Had the pews been waxed? Were the stained-glass windows clean? Was this a fit space in which to play the game of law? Then let us pray. Satisfied in a gloomy kind of way, he directed that proceedings for the day begin. His voice was surprisingly deep, a big man’s voice.
    â€œWho is representing Mr. Tennant?” he