Even the Wicked by Lawrence Block Page A

spot. If he’d let it stand I’d have knocked it out on appeal.”
    “So Richie was going free no matter what they did.”
    “Well, not right away. What
I
thought would happen—do you want to hear all this?”
    “Why not?”
    “I thought Yancey would let it stand, knowing the appeals court would reverse it. That way he wouldn’t be the man who put Richie on the street. And I thought Richie’d go off to prison, where some public-spirited psychopath would kill him before his appeal could go through. Like the fellow in Wisconsin. Well, it amounts to about the same thing, doesn’t it? Except the psychopath who actually did kill Richie isn’t a convict, and it turns out he’s a serial killer himself.”
    “How are you holding up, Adrian?”
    “Oh, I’m all right,” he said. “It takes some of the pressure off to know I don’t have to go to court tomorrow. At the same time there’s the bittersweet feeling you get whenever something ends. A trial, a love affair, even a bad marriage. You may be glad it’s over, but at the same time you’re a little bit sorry.” His voice trailed off. Then he said, “Well, nothing lasts forever, right? What goes up comes down, what starts stops. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
    “You sound a little blue.”
    “Do I? I think it’s just that I’m running out of gas. The trial was keeping me going. Now that it’s over I feel like a puppet with the strings cut.”
    “You just need some rest.”
    “I hope you’re right. I have this superstitious sense that the trial was holding Will at bay, that he couldn’t take me out as long as I had work that had to be done. Now all of a sudden I’ve got a bad feeling about the whole situation that I never had before.”
    “You just didn’t allow yourself to feel it before.”
    “Maybe. And maybe I’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep. I know goddam well I’ll feel better after a drink.”
    “Most people do,” I said. “That’s why they put the stuff in bottles.”
    “Well, I’m going to uncap the bottle and let the genie out. It’ll be the first one today. If you were here I’d pour you a club soda.”
    “I’ll have one here,” I said, “and think of you.”
    “Have a Coke. Make it a real celebration.”
    “I’ll do that.”
    There was a pause, and then he said, “I wish I knew you better.”
    “Oh?”
    “I wish there were more time. Forget I said that, all right? I’m too tired to make sense. Maybe I’ll skip that drink and just go to bed.”
     
     
    But he didn’t skip the drink.
    Instead he went into the front room, where one of his bodyguards was posted. “I’m going to have a drink,” he announced. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into joining me.”
    They’d gone through this ritual before. “Mean my job if I did, Mr. Whitfield.”
    “I wouldn’t tell anybody,” Whitfield said. “On the other hand, I want you razor-sharp if our boy Will comes through that door, so I shouldn’t be pushing drinks at you. How about a soft drink? Or some coffee?”
    “I got a pot brewing in the kitchen. I’ll have some after you turn in. Don’t worry about me, Mr. Whitfield. I’ll be fine.”
    Whitfield took a glass from on top of the bar, went into the kitchen for ice cubes, came back and uncapped the bottle of scotch. He filled the glass and put the cap on the bottle.
    “Your name’s Kevin,” he said to the bodyguard, “and I must have heard your last name, but I don’t seem to remember it.”
    “Kevin Dahlgren, sir.”
    “Now I remember. Do you like your work, Kevin?”
    “It’s a good job.”
    “You don’t find it boring?”
    “Boring’s just fine with me, sir. If something happens I’m ready, but if nothing happens I’m happy.”
    “That’s a healthy attitude,” Whitfield told him. “You probably wouldn’t have minded starting Tony Furillo’s car.”
    “Sir?”
    “Never mind. I ought to drink this, wouldn’t you say? I poured it, I ought to drink it. Isn’t