A Handy Death (2 page)

“If there are, I'll let you know. Any facts I can give you?”

“A few—”

“For the fees you charge, you'd think you could dig out your own facts! All right, shoot.”

“I thought this boy Dupaul was a bonus baby when he signed with your club. That used to mean money, as I recall. Can't he pay his own legal fees? He certainly didn't get to spend too much money in Attica. What does he do with his cash? Gamble?”

“He didn't keep that advance money,” Quirt said. “Don't you remember? It was in all the papers at the time.”

“When did all this take place?”

“Nineteen sixty-four,” Quirt said. “The signing, the shooting, the whole damn mess. Why?”

“Because I was in Europe for the State Department in 1964, and they keep you too busy to read anything but the million reports they send out from Washington. So I don't know anything about the boy or the case or anything.”

“Maybe it's better that way,” Quirt said. “Anyway, about the money, the club was all set to sue for its return—not me, I wasn't even in the country; it was a top management decision—when he sent the money back on his own volition. He said he hadn't earned it, wasn't likely to be able to earn it the way things looked, and therefore didn't feel it would be right to keep it.”

“Or maybe he knew he wouldn't be able to keep it in any event, and decided to make a good impression on the court through the newspapers,” Ross said shrewdly. “Just when did Dupaul—or his attorney—actually offer to return the money? Before or after he was found guilty?”

“Well, after he was found guilty, but before he was sentenced,” Quirt said. “What's the difference?”

“A lot. Maybe his lawyer wasn't so stupid. Who
was
his lawyer, by the way?”

“Hank, for God's sake! If you have all the time in the world to waste, I don't.”

“I just like to know as much as possible about a potential client and his background,” Ross said equably, not at all disturbed by the other's impatience. “Who
was
his lawyer?”

“He had two, if you want to know. Not at the same time—first one and then the other. The first—at the time the trial began—was Louis G. Gorman—”

Ross whistled in surprise.

“Are you telling me that our distinguished Chief Assistant District Attorney, Louis G. Gorman—in person—defended Dupaul?”

“He was Billy's first lawyer. Then—”

“And Louie now plans to prosecute him? Or that's the impression I got reading this morning's
Times
. A man he served as defense counsel for? Not very cricket, is it?”

“It'll never reach the Ethics Committee of the Bar Association,” Quirt said drily. “You can bet that Gorman personally won't appear as prosecuting attorney. He'll assign it to one of his staff. But you can also bet he'll mastermind it every step of the way.” His voice became fatalistic. “What can you do?”

“Not much. What happened to Gorman in the course of the trial?”

“As I said, I was out of the country at the time—arranging an exhibition schedule in Tokyo. All I know is that Billy fired him, which was his privilege, of course. And picked up Al Hogan, God rest his soul, for whatever improvement Billy thought that was. Anyway, Al Hogan was attorney of record at the time the boy was sentenced.”

“The ball club didn't provide better counsel than that?”

Quirt's voice was emotionless.

“Our top management decided to keep hands off. I wasn't around; I couldn't do a thing. I knew Al Hogan for years; we were friends, but I never had any illusions about his ability.”

“Seems a bit rough on the boy, though. I would have thought the club would have done better by him, a brand-new bonus baby …”

“You know the game of baseball, Hank,” Quirt said almost wearily. “You know how
all
organized sports are today. We've got to be holier-than-thou. Our boys chew gum now; no more tobacco, for God's sake! We have to make the Boy Scouts look like little muggers in comparison. I pushed for the kid, but—well, the decision from upstairs was no dice. Strictly hands off.”

“It seems you people tried the boy even before the jury did,” Ross said quietly. “And poor Al Hogan, bless him, was probably in his cups as usual, so Billy Dupaul went up to Attica for a long time.…”

Ross considered the telephone as Quirt remained silent. Sharon McCloud's fingers were poised over her notebook, her pencil ready to attack again at a moment's notice. Ross nodded to her to be prepared to begin her stenography and spoke into the instrument.

“Charley, if Dupaul gave the money back to the club, how could he afford a high-priced talent like Louis Gorman in the first place?”

Quirt almost exploded.

“Damn it all, Hank, what the devil difference does it make? If you want to ask a lot better question, ask me how we can afford a high-priced talent like you!”

Ross grinned. “All right. How can you afford a high-priced talent like me?”

“We can't. Are you happy? Anyway, Louie Gorman wasn't all that big or all that expensive in those days. Especially not all that big. Any more than he is today,” Quirt added under his breath.

Ross's grin widened. “I heard that.”

“You didn't hear anything. Anyway, the whole thing happened eight years ago. If you hadn't been out of the country, Billy probably wouldn't have spent more than a night in jail.” Quirt seemed to calm down. “If it makes you happy, nobody paid Billy's legal bills. Or rather, you did and I did, and all the good people of the State of New York did. Billy's counsels were court-appointed. Not that I'm saying court-appointed attorneys are any less dedicated to the job than any other.”

“No?”

“Hell, Hank, you know that! You've taken enough court appointments yourself in your time.”

“And expect to take more,” Ross agreed pleasantly. “Especially as long as there are clients like Charley Quirt to make up the cash register—”

“Whoa, Hank! Let's not get carried away on this fee business!”

“I promise not to charge more than the Mets can afford,” Ross said piously. Across the desk Sharon bit back a smile. Ross became serious. “All right, Charley, what's the story on Dupaul?”

“He's in this jam—damn it, Hank! Haven't you been listening for the last half hour?”

“I don't mean that. I mean, why your sudden interest in him now? Eight years ago you people didn't want to touch him. You didn't want to pay for a decent lawyer for him. Now, if you'll pardon the modesty, you want the best. Or at least the most expensive.”

Quirt hesitated a moment.

“Well, hell, Hank—the boy's only twenty-six. I've kept track of him in prison. He keeps in shape, he works out regularly, or as regularly as you can up there since the troubles last year. And he pitches every time he gets a chance in one of the prison games …”

Ross frowned at the telephone in utter disbelief.

“Charley, are you trying to tell me you're interested in getting this fellow out from whatever charges he's up against—murder, riot instigation, or whatnot—because your team needs more strength in the bull pen? What happened to that gum-chewing, All-American-image spiel a minute ago?”

“God damn it, Hank, that's not what I said! You don't understand—”

“I don't and that's a fact,” Ross said candidly. “When the boy represented a large investment for you, and before he was even tried, you dropped him like a hot potato. Now that he's a second-offender with a murder charge against him and a good possibility of having been involved in a riot that indirectly may have resulted in the deaths of three men, you want to pull all the stops and save him. As you say, I don't understand.”

“Look,” Quirt said. “It's simply—well, eight years ago I wasn't in a position to try to help the boy—”

“Eight years ago you were vice-president of the Mets, and today you're still vice-president of the Mets,” Ross said. “What happened? Or were you promoted since I talked with you last?”

Quirt paused a moment and then spoke, but now his voice was no longer apologetic. Now it was cold and hard.

“What the hell is this, anyway? A God-damned inquisition? Who's hiring who around here? Look, Hank, do you want this case or not? There are other criminal lawyers in town, you know!”

Ross imitated the other's tone of moments before.

“Whoa, Charley! Of course I want this case. Any time Louie Gorman makes big talk in the papers, I love to put pinholes in his balloons. And I have a feeling the money won't be bad, either.”

“Well, I was beginning to wonder! All right, then, stop wasting your time and mine and get on the job. Billy will be brought down from Attica within the next few days for arraignment. If you'd like to interview him up at Attica Prison before then—over the weekend, say—I have some pull with the authorities—”

“I don't need pull to interview a client, Charley. You know that.”

“Sure, only I thought if I could help—”

“I'll handle it my way, Charley.”

“What? All right, you stiff-necked bastard, I was only trying to help,” Quirt said, slightly offended. “All right, get moving. Let me know how things are going, and if I can be of help in any way.”

“I will,” Ross promised. “Anything else?”

“That's it. Goodbye, Hank. And good luck.”

“Right, Charley,” Ross said. He put the telephone back in its cradle with a thoughtful look.

Sharon said, “Do you want this transcribed right away?”

“No,” Ross said slowly. “Just put the notebook aside for the time being. Date it, initial it, and let me initial it as well, and then get another one to work from. Don't tear out any sheets, even blank ones.”

He tented his fingers and swung his chair around, staring from the high window out over the island of Manhattan. A plane was taking off at a sharp angle from LaGuardia Field, leaving behind dissipating vapor trails. Hank Ross watched it disappear into a cloud bank. He spoke over his shoulder.

“What did you think?”

Sharon understood. She said, “Of Mr. Quirt's reasons for wanting to help this man Dupaul?”

Ross swung his chair back to face the girl. “That's right.”

“Well,” Sharon said, “it does seem strange, as you pointed out, that when Billy Dupaul represented a large investment on their part, they made no attempt to help him, but now that he doesn't represent anything to them, they suddenly seem so anxious to get him out of trouble.”

“He doesn't represent anything to them that we
know
of,” Ross said.

“Still,” Sharon said, “other than simple goodheartedness, what other reason could Mr. Quirt have? I'm sure it wasn't for the baseball left in the man, because if he's a second-offender, even getting out of the murder charge won't affect his remaining in prison on his present sentence.”

“Though Charley said he kept track of the man in prison,” Ross said, and frowned. “What was even more puzzling, though, was when he said that eight years ago he couldn't do anything to help Dupaul, and now he can. I wonder what happened to change the picture?”

“Just a change of heart?”

Ross shrugged.

“Maybe. Anway, we'll worry about that later. Right now we've got a job to do. Let me know when Steve gets back from Court. I've got a
real
job for him. I want a complete abstract of the entire Dupaul court transcripts. Both trials—the one that sent him up for assault and battery—the Neeley case—as well as the one that made him a second-offender.”

Sharon nodded, her fingers relaying the information to her desk pad with lightning pothooks.

“I'll also want as much background material on Billy Dupaul as possible, but Steve can have Mike Gunnerson's office work on that.”

Sharon nodded and added the instruction to her pad.

Ross grinned and rose from his chair.

“And here's the catch,” he said. “I want it by Monday, which gives him exactly two and a half days. On second thought, let Molly give him the good news; I hate to see a grown man cry. And besides, you and I are going out for lunch.” His smile broadened. “It's been a long time since I've taken anybody to a meal except a trout.”

CHAPTER

2

Jeannot, maître d' of the Sign of the Dove at sixty-fifth and Third Avenue, smiled happily at Ross and Sharon as he ushered them to a corner table. He flicked his hand majestically, waving aside the waiter who had appeared, making it quite evident that he considered it an honor to handle the requirements of these favored customers himself.

“It has been a long time, M'sieu Ross!” Jeannot's heavy French accent did not obscure his meaning as he chided Ross for his extended absence. “And Miss McCloud! And we have had your favorite dish every day this week, too.” He raised his head dramatically, daring Ross to challenge his statement. “Trout!”

Ross laughed.

“Not today, Jeannot. I've eaten enough trout the past two weeks to last me a lifetime. Or, anyway, for at least several months. The next mistake I make in court, the District Attorney's office will have to scale me instead of skinning me.”

He saw the hurt look that crossed Jeannot's plump, handsome face and hurried to explain that he had not been unfaithful to his favorite restaurant.

“Not in New York, Jeannot. In Maine. Over a campfire.”

“Ah!” Jeannot understood and was satisfied. He raised a finger in the direction of the bar; the waiting bartender had been expecting it. He instantly began to prepare a very cold, extra-dry martini for Sharon; in the refrigerator beneath the bar he had, for Mr. Ross, a particularly chilled bottle of Cerveza Schneider, Argentinian beer, and the world's best.

“But I haven't,” Sharon said calmly. She laid aside her menu and smiled at Jeannot. “So I will.”