County Kill by Peter Rabe

only need a few minutes,” I said. “And I’d like to meet his attorney.”
    The man hesitated and then said quietly, “O.K. Five minutes.”
    Attorney Joseph Farini was an enormous man, as tall as I was and at least fifty pounds heavier. In Skip’s cell he shook my hand and shared my sentiment; we weren’t going to do Skip any good with the information he was willing to give us.
    “I was with Johnny’s cousin,” Skip protested. “How much alibi does a man need? You’re telling me, as a
lawyer
, that you can’t successfully defend an innocent man?”
    Farini said heavily, “I can defend you, innocent or guilty. I like to have as many weapons as I can in
any
defense. And an
evasive
innocent man makes a poor client. The police and the prosecution are going to hammer at your alibi — the trip. And your refusing to tell
why
you took the trip is a highly vulnerable point.”
    “Especially,” I added, “when you had already told Miss Chavez that you were going to the cabin with Johnny.”
    Farini nodded agreement.
    Skip said, “Mary won’t repeat that story under oath.”
    Farini asked, “Will she
lie
under oath?”
    “No. She’ll refuse to answer that question.”
    “On what grounds?”
    Skip shrugged. “That’s your job — to give her grounds.”
    I said, “You admitted to Harris that you told Mary that. Harris is a pretty substantial witness for the state, Skip.” Ilooked at Farini. “Maybe I’d have better luck if Skip and I were alone.”
    He shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll wait for you, Mr. Callahan.”
    The turnkey let him out and told me gruffly, “Three more minutes, Callahan. Sergeant’s orders.”
    Farini frowned. “What’s this? Which sergeant?”
    “The sergeant at the desk,” I told him. “Perhaps a word from you, Mr. Farini …?”
    “He’ll hear ‘em,” the big man promised. “Take all the goddamned time you like.” And, to the turnkey, “You come with me, officer.”
    Skip was smiling as they went down the corridor.
    “Must be a big man,” I said. “Where’d you get him?”
    “We go fishing together. I have a
few
rich friends, Callahan.”
    “All right,” I said, “he’s gone. And only this crummy private eye can hear you. What’s your racket?”
    He stared at the cell floor. “It was never that, not to me. I’m sorry I ever got into it, but I never thought of it as a racket, believe me.” He lifted his eyes to face me earnestly. “I can’t tell you. That much I still owe the people involved.”
    “I can guess it isn’t political,” I said, “and involves a boat. That could mean running booze or pearls or wetbacks.”
    No sign of interest in his face.
    “Or dope,” I threw at him.
    A flicker in his eyes.
    “Dope?” I repeated.
    “You’re wasting your time.”
    “O.K.” I said patiently, “we won’t name it. Let’s just assume for the moment that it’s illegal. Now, if Chavez was in it, too, it could be the reason he died. Does that make sense?”
    “It doesn’t make sense to me, but it’s a possibility.”
    “So Johnny went to the cabin alone. Why did he go there? It’s not deer country and it wasn’t deer season.”
    “I don’t know why Johnny went there, so help me.”
    “Maybe he went there to meet somebody,” I suggested.
    He nodded. “That could easily be. He was a real quiff hound, that Johnny. Some dame, you mean?”
    “No. I wasn’t thinking of a woman. I’ve been told that Johnny had some contact with the L. A. emigrants up here — some hoodlum contacts. Maybe Johnny was arranging a meeting with the competition — and was double-crossed.” I looked at him questioningly.
    “Oh, no,” he said. “You’re reaching now.”
    “I have to. I’m working blind, thanks to you. Do you have any better theories?”
    He shook his head slowly, staring past me. “I’ve been trying to come up with something ever since I heard about it. I heard it on the radio while we were still at sea. Hell, for a whole day Pete and I didn’t