Neon Dragon by John Dobbyn Page A

look like a slap in the face to the Chinesecommunity—and every other minority community. And if you read what I think you do, you know that the whole Chinese community is torn up over this murder. That move didn’t come from our Mrs. Lamb, Connie. Her lips were moving, but someone was feeding her the words. If it’s true, I need to know who. I thought maybe those foxy ears of yours might have picked up something in the wind.”
    The moustache curled into a foxy grin.
    â€œCould be that she heard that the redoubtable Lex Devlin was leading the defense, and she decided to withdraw to safer shoals.”
    Mr. Devlin leaned across the table. Only his eyes were smiling. “Could be that you’re full of enough bovine feces to fertilize Ireland, Mr. Munsey.”
    They were six inches apart. “That would be
Northern Ireland
, Mr. Devlin. You could handle that rowdy southern province with no help from anyone.”
    For the second time since I’d known him, a smile cracked Mr. Devlin’s lips. “It’s not much of a compliment, Mr. Munsey, but I’ll give it to you anyway. You’re a credit to your race.”
    â€œI’ll say the same for you, Mr. Devlin. And heaven knows your race needs all the credit it can get.”
    I could be wrong, but as I listened to this verbal tennis match, I could swear that the brogues of these two Boston-bred colonials thickened progressively, one from Dublin, the other from Ulster. It was the arrival of three antipastos in the hands of Vincenzo that called a halt. When the door closed, and the antipastos had been sampled, the smiles were gone.
    â€œWhat have you heard, Connie?”
    â€œNothing concrete, Lex. Let me tell you what I’ve noticed. The boys have been restless. The morning that indictment came down against young Bradley, there were messages flying between them and little clusters of them meeting in each other’s offices. The tone, you might say, was distinctly jubilant.”
    â€œI take it that’s not their usual condition. Incidentally, sonny, ‘theboys’ are the esteemed justices of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court, of which our Mr. Munsey has been the chief clerk since the memory of man runneth not to the contrary.”
    I nodded, not wanting to interrupt the flow.
    â€œThe ‘usual condition’ of the crowd I’m talking about is benign indifference to each other at best. Incidentally, I’m not talking about all of them. It’s mainly Winston, Carter, Fulbright. Masterson and Chambers may be part of it. Carlyle doesn’t show much emotion about anything, but he was in on some of the meetings. The others—Keefe, Samuels, and Reynolds—seemed unaffected. As I say, there was a big mood swing. This is why I tie it to the Bradley business. The morning of the indictment, they were a jolly little play group. Later in the day, when word had it that you were saddling up on the side of young Bradley—I’m serious about this—the mood changed. They were a bunch of tense little puppies. That was yesterday afternoon. I noticed little clusters of meetings erupting all afternoon. What does it mean?” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
    â€œThat’s interesting, Connie. I know your collection of Supreme Judicial conservatives isn’t losing any sleep over the fate of our black defendant or the old Chinese man. Obviously, the focus is Judge Bradley’s chances of joining their club. Does it really shake them that badly?”
    â€œIt’s not so much Bradley himself. They could ignore him like they do Keefe and the rest. It’s whom he’d replace. Fulbright’s pushing eighty, and he appears less and less in chambers. I think his health is more of a problem than he’s telling anyone. That means that if he goes and Bradley replaces him, you’ve got an old-guard conservative out and a confirmed civil rights liberal in. There goes