Anatomy of a Murder by Robert Traver Page A

gambling, dead-beat son-of-a-bitch. He had me helplessly coming his way and I was, morally certain that he now knew I just had to take on this case. The moment of decision was at hand; I would either go fishing or else go to work. I took a deep breath and held it, pain and all.
    â€œLieutenant Manion,” I said, extending my hand, “you’ve got yourself a lawyer. And I seem to have a client. Now let’s get down to work. We’ve plenty of it.”
    He took my hand. “It’s a pleasure, Counselor. Where do we start? You’ll have to tell me, you know. Remember, I’ve been ill and I’m just recovering my wits.”
    â€œYour wits will do nicely. First let’s go out and see Sulo. I want to discuss with him the possibility of our doing our talking outside in my car. The stink of this place is getting me down. Even for three grand on the line I don’t think I can stand it much longer.” I held the door open for my client. We found Sulo nodding in his chair and I stood debating whether to awaken him.

chapter 8
    The outer jail door opened and in stalked a character straight out or High Noon. His big mail-order felt hat was pushed back on his perspiring forehead; his exquisitely tailored and stitched gabardine shirt, with its cascades of pearl buttons at the shaped pockets and cuffs, was negligently open at the tanned throat, from which depended two cords held by a dollar-sized round silver clasp engraved not with Justice, not with Liberty, but with a bucking bronco. The richly tailored trousers were tucked carelessly into the tops of dusty hand-stitched laceless boots and all he lacked, I saw, was a Bull Durham tag dangling over his heart.
    â€œFourscore and seven years ago,” I found myself perversely thinking, “there came forth upon this continent an ancient dust storm; whereupon an entire province of old Texas was picked up and hurled aloft and held magically suspended all these years. Lo! today, may God help us, it has been dumped upon the far shores of Lake Superior. Yippee yi yi!”
    It was a solemn moment and I restrained an impulse to kneel. Sheriff Max Battisfore was back at last from highway patrol. His keen gray eyes restlessly searched the room. They found mine and lit with gladness; you could see the very glow of gladness in them.
    â€œWell, hello, Paul,” the Sheriff said. He grasped my hand in both of his and looked me straight in the eye. “If it isn’t my favorite ex-D. A. In person not a movie. How’s the old boy? Long time no see. Is old Sulo there treating you and the Lieutenant O.K.?” He slapped my shoulder and kept pumping my hand. The Sheriff had come a long way, I saw; he had developed a boisterous and irresistible gift for camaraderie; he made one feel—I groped for words—so terribly wanted. We might belong to opposite political parties, his attitude seemed to say, but real friendship was something bigger, finer, than mere party. “How are you, anyway, you old buckaroo?” he ran on, playfully digging me in the ribs.
    â€œI’m fine, thanks, Max,” I said, smiling and retreating out of range. “Just fine. How are you?”
    â€œOh, fine, fine. Any phone calls, Sulo? Oh, on my pad … . Yes, Polly, I feel just like a horse’s father. If I felt any better Sulo there’d have to lock me up in one of my own cells.” He paused as Sulo obediently snorted. Musty cheese, musty jokes … . “Tell me, man, how the hell are you, anyway?”

    â€œI’m fine, Max,” I repeated soberly, and, since Max’s concern over my health had been doubly relieved and certified, I added: “If you’ve got a minute I’d like to have a chat with you?”
    â€œSure, sure, Polly. Right this way.” He led the way into his office and bent over a memorandum pad on his desk. He called out to Sulo. “Phone the Missus, Sulo, and tell her I got that Community Chest