Client Privilege (14 page)

“How?”

“I’m really not at liberty to say,” I said, working on being agreeable and low-key. “I’m sure you understand.”

He nodded. “Confidentiality and all.”

“Yes. That’s it. The problem is, I don’t know Karen’s married name. She knew my client before she was married.”

“Mr. Coyne, Karen’s my daughter. If there’s some sort of problem—”

He stopped when his wife entered the room. Mrs. Lavoie carried a tray bearing three cups on saucers, a silver pot, and matching cut-glass containers of sugar and cream. She placed the tray on the coffee table and sat down beside her husband on the sofa. She handed me a paper napkin. Then she poured coffee into the cups and passed one to me.

I balanced it on my knee. She looked from me to her husband.

“He’s looking for Karen,” he said to her.

She returned her gaze to me. She cocked her head. “I know. He called yesterday.”

I shrugged. “It’s really very important that I contact your daughter.”

“Yes, you said that before.” She glanced sideways at her husband. He was staring past me, evidently happy to defer the situation to his wife. “Well, Mr. Coyne,” she said, swiveling her head to look directly at me, “I haven’t changed my mind. We are simple people. We mind our own business. It seems to me that much of the trouble in this world comes from people not minding their own business. We mind our business, we like it when other people mind their business. Now, I understand you’ve probably got some kind of job to do, and that’s why you’re here. Doing your job. But we don’t like to get involved in other people’s problems. And neither does Karen. And when a lawyer comes around, it’s pretty obvious there’s some kind of problem. We’ve had nothing but trouble from lawyers. When John got laid off, we talked to a lawyer. It didn’t seem right, what they did to him, a hardworking man all his life, loyal to the company, never out sick. And that lawyer was happy to take a lot of our money. And you see what he did for us. John didn’t get his job back. A hardworking man, a good provider, proud of his family, and now he has to do part-time things, using none of his talents. It’s just not right. That lawyer took our money and nothing changed. Only difference is, now we’re out two thousand dollars, too.”

I nodded my head. I had nothing to say. I had heard it too many times. Ambulance chasers. Crooked politicians. Sleazy guys in shiny suits on television, advising grinning men with crooked noses and big diamond rings on their pinkies not to answer questions. I remembered what Pops had said many years earlier. Since Nixon, nobody trusted lawyers.

“Look, Mr. Coyne,” she said. “I’m not blaming you for our problems. And I’m not saying that Karen shouldn’t cooperate with you. But I am saying that we’re not going to be responsible for any problems you might cause her.”

“I have no intention of causing her a problem, Mrs. Lavoie,” I said, although even as I said it, I recognized that it could be untrue.

She sipped her coffee. “My husband and I will not help you. I hope you will understand.”

“Perhaps you’d be willing to answer a few questions?”

“No,” she said. “No, we would not. I invited you in, offered you coffee. I don’t want to be impolite. But we do not want to help you.”

“My wife is right,” said John Lavoie.

“Perhaps you should leave,” she said.

John Lavoie looked at me, gave me a shrug and a small smile, and nodded.

“Okay,” I said. I downed the coffee and stood up. I went to the television and picked up Karen’s framed wedding picture. “A pretty girl.”

Mrs. Lavoie got up and came to me. She gently took the picture from my hand and placed it back on top of the television. “She’s a pretty woman, now. She lives quietly. She likes it that way.”

“I understand,” I said. I picked up my parka from the chair and slipped into it. I turned and held my hand to the man, who was still seated. He stood up hastily and grasped it. “Thank you for your time, sir,” I said.

He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

I went to the door. Mrs. Lavoie followed me. I turned to her. “If you folks should change your mind, I left my business card. Please call me.”

“Sure,” she said.

“Please think about it.”

“Mr. Coyne,” she said, “I hope you won’t be holding your breath.”

W
HEN I WALKED INTO
Skeeter’s at six-thirty that evening, he was leaning his forearms on the bar deep in conversation with a very attractive woman. Brown, wavy hair cut short. Big expressive dark eyes. Wide mouth, heart-shaped face. She perched elegantly upon the barstool, tall, slender, poised, firm of rump and sleek of thigh, politely attentive to Skeeter’s charm but with a bemused smile gleaming in her eyes.

I took the stool beside her. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said to the woman, “I wonder if we’ve met.”

She turned and frowned at me. “I’m afraid not,” she said. She swiveled back to face Skeeter.

I touched her arm. “I’m sure we know each other from somewhere.”

“I don’t think so,” she said without looking at me.

“You’re extremely attractive.”

“Oh, boy,” she said. But she smiled.

“Really. Gorgeous.”

“Mr. Coyne,” said Skeeter, frowning at me. “I don’t think—”

“It’s okay,” said the woman. “I can handle it.” She turned to me. “So you find me attractive, then?”

“Yes,” I said. “Extremely.”

“Would you like to kiss me?”

“I sure would.”

I bent to her and pecked her cheek. She turned her head so that I could nuzzle her neck just below her ear. I heard her murmur in her throat. Her hand moved up to touch my face.

I pulled away from her. “Thank you,” I said.

She drew her head back and frowned at me. Then she said, “Oh, wow!” and threw both arms around my neck and kissed me on the mouth. We held it for a long moment. The woman’s fingers played at the back of my neck. She made little moaning sounds.

Skeeter snatched the Red Sox cap off his head and scratched the top of his gleaming skull.

Finally we broke off the kiss. The woman wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and said, “Oh, boy.”

I looked at Skeeter. “Evening, Skeets,” I said.

He shook his head slowly back and forth. He frowned at me. He twisted his Red Sox cap in his hands. Then he shrugged. “Evening, Mr. Coyne. Drink?”

“What’s the special tonight?” I said.

He looked at the woman, then back to me. “Ah, a Willie Mays. It’s my Willie Mays. Look—”

“What’s a Willie Mays?”

“You take a big scoop of coffee ice cream, Mr. Coyne. One shot of Old Grand-dad, one shot of Tia Maria. Mix it in a blender. Real smooth. Graceful drink. Reminds you of Willie chasing one down in center field or going from first to third on a base hit.” He glanced again at the woman beside me. “It’s really a lady’s drink.”

“May I buy you one, ma’am?” I said to the woman.

She touched my cheek with her fingertips. “Anything at all,” she said in a soft, husky voice. “Whatever you want.”

Skeeter was still absentmindedly holding his Red Sox cap in his hand. “The usual, Mr. Coyne?”

“I like that Rebel Yell, Skeets.”

He twisted his cap onto his head and turned to get our drinks. “Oh, Skeets,” I said to him.

He stopped and faced us. “Yeah?”

“Did Gloria introduce herself?”

He cocked his head at us. “This your wife, Mr. Coyne?”

“This ain’t no wife, Skeets. This is a lady.”

Skeeter wandered away, shaking his head. Gloria put her hand on my shoulder and grinned. “That poor man.”

I kissed her nose. “You are looking terrific, Gloria.”

She frowned and smiled softly. “I’m okay.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Really nothing. I’m just a little disappointed. I had an appointment with
Life
magazine today. They’re doing this feature. ‘The Face of the City,’ they’re calling it. New York, Chicago, L.A., Houston, New Orleans, and, da-dum, Boston. They’re assigning a local free-lance photographer in each city to capture the essence of the place. People, buildings, skylines, everything and anything. It’s a photographer’s dream.” She lifted her chin and gazed at the ceiling for a moment. Then her eyes shifted to my face. “I thought I had a real good shot at it.”

“You didn’t get it?”

She shook her head. “I spent about four hours with these guys, going over my portfolio, talking about art, style, sociology, lenses and filters, truth and justice and the American way. They had it narrowed down to, I think, about six of us.”

“You were a finalist. That’s damn good.”

“Right. I know. It’s what I keep telling myself. I’m getting there.”

“It’s true.”

“The way we were talking, all the time I thought they loved my stuff. Loved me. When they told me—ah, shit, Brady.”

“You’ve come a long way. I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah, I’m proud of me, too. Hell, ten years ago…”

Ten years ago, I thought. Ten years ago Gloria was a tense and unhappy housewife with two prepubescent sons and a barely postpubescent husband, living the suburban nightmare in Wellesley. What had been, before her marriage, a promising career as a photojournalist, had devolved into documenting family birthday parties and vacations.

Divorce had been difficult for both of us. Difficult for me because I had never stopped loving the woman she had once been, even though marriage to me had transformed her into someone I stopped loving. Difficult for her because it took her a long time to visualize a life any different from the one she had allowed herself to get stuck in. For Gloria, marriage had been more than surrendering her career. She had surrendered a piece of her soul—had surrendered it to me. I had mindlessly accepted it, mistaking it for a gift, and too late realized it could never belong to me. Splitting with Gloria was the only way I knew of forcing it back on her. For a long time she hadn’t wanted it. For a long time I was reluctant to part with it.

Now she had almost nailed down a breakthrough assignment with
Life.
She had lost out. But she seemed undaunted. Now, in spite of her disappointment, I saw her reemerging as the vibrant girl with the ironic grin who had maneuvered a meeting with me outside a courthouse in New Haven a long time ago. “The man with the three-piece-suit face,” she had called me. There was some hippie in her then. Now there was some yuppie. But there was no mistaking it. It was the old Gloria, soul restored. I was proud of her, happy for her.

And at the same time, profoundly saddened, too. It felt like a loss to me. I didn’t like that feeling.

Skeeter brought our drinks. Gloria’s was served in a tall glass with a straw. Mine was in a squat glass with a side of branch water. “Better have another one ready for me,” I said.

Skeeter arched his brows at me, then nodded. “Sure thing,” he said.

I downed my bourbon in one long, burning swallow. Then I took a sip of the water.

Gloria touched my arm. “What’s the matter, Brady?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. Nothing.”

She put her face close to mine. “Hey,” she said. “I’m okay. This is a little setback. Nothing to get all morose about.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s not you.”

Skeeter brought me another drink and took away my empty. I drained it, too. Gloria sipped her Willie Mays through a straw.

“This is delicious,” she said.

“Go slow. Skeeter’s concoctions have a way of creeping up on you.”

“So does that stuff.”

“Barkeep,” I called to Skeeter. “One more,
s’il vous plaît.”

Skeeter turned and frowned at me, then shrugged. In a minute he brought me my third drink. I decided to sip this one.

Gloria leaned away from me and seemed to study me. Then she began to nod her head. “I get it,” she said slowly. “This is really a big relief for you, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Your—what do you call it, your mood.”

“What the hell are you trying to say?”

“You couldn’t stand to see me make it. You want me to suffer in your absence. Your goddam ego. You don’t believe I can function without you. If I’d gotten that assignment, it would shatter your illusion of yourself. It’d force you to see that I don’t need you.”

I smiled. My face felt stiff. “Shit, Gloria. It’s nothing like that. I want the best for you.”

She looked down at the bar. “Part of you does. But there’s that other part of you…”

I reached to touch her hair. She drew away from me. I shrugged and pulled my hand back. “I can’t speak for the different parts of me. Maybe you know them better than me.” I paused, trying to pin down the thoughts that tumbled around up there. “The only part I can speak for is the one that is so damn proud of you…”

I put my forearms on her shoulders and crossed my wrists behind her neck. I leaned toward her until our foreheads rested against each other. I had the odd feeling that I might cry. After a moment Gloria moved her head so that our noses touched and our eyes were staring into each other’s. She crossed hers and giggled. We rubbed noses. “I can’t stand you,” she whispered, grinning.

“Me either,” I said.

She bent to her drink. I sipped my bourbon.

“Brady,” she said. “What is it? Really?”

“I’m kind of in trouble, Gloria.”

“Tell me.”

“Hey,” I said. “Shall we have a burger?”

She frowned, then nodded. “Sure. I’m starved.”

“I think I’m drunk,” I said. “Hey, Skeets.”

He came over. “No more, Mr. Coyne.”

“Hey—”

He folded his arms. “I never seen you drink like this before. You’ve had enough. Want some coffee?”

“We want burgers, Skeets.”

He held up both hands, a gesture of surrender. “Sorry, Mr. Coyne. You want yours pink, right?”

“Right. Pink and hot in the middle. Like Gloria, here.”

Skeeter looked at Gloria. “If you want me to call a cop, ma’am…”

“I think I can handle this bum,” she said. “Make mine pink and hot too.”

Gloria chatted about Billy and Joey, our two sons, while we sipped our drinks and waited for our burgers to arrive. Joey had made the high school honor roll again. His only discontent was his inability to conquer a certain member of the volleyball team named Debbie. Billy, a sophomore at UMass, was still talking about dropping out. He had a new career goal, Gloria told me, about the fifth since he had started college. Now he wanted to be a fishing guide in Idaho.