The Bum's Rush (20 page)

SlirrOlindCd liy 8 galaxy of gold records and
celebrity photographs, a life-size bronze John Lennon sat barefoot and
cross-legged, just a couple of sinews short of the full lotus position,
staring serenely down at his National steel guitar through wire-rimmed
glasses. At the other end of the room, a massive font of red-and-white
tulips erupted from a bright blue handblown vase, fabricating a sense
of spring having sprung from somewhere among the framed testimonials.
In between, a massive central staircase wound up to the second floor.

She was just short of forty and wore a black wire
harness across the top of her head, allowing her to answer the phone
and stuff envelopes at the same time. Waste not, want not. The simple
black dress seemed to hover about her without landing, while the
beginnings of a double chin mocked the hard health-club tone of her
body. A small sign, Madelaine.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I'm here for a meeting with Arthur Prowell," I said.

She twitched a thin eyebrow my way. "You have an appointment?"

"I'm expected at two."

"Regarding?"

What the hell, I handed her a business card as I said it.

"Regarding highly confidential matters." She gave a
couple of those contact-lens blinks. "We detectives can't be too
careful, you know."

She came out from behind the desk on a pair of
tightly muscled legs. With a three-inch fingernail, she gestured at the
two green leather chairs in front of the window.

"If you would care to have a seat," she said.

I said I would, but instead stood my ground and
watched as she mounted the staircase; from the knots in her calves to
the roll of her shoulders, everything seemed to tingle as she motored
up and out of sight. She watched me watch. I watched her watch me watch
her.

She was gone quite a while, finally reappearing at
the far end of the room, down by the tulips. Her hips seemed to move
with an exaggerated swing as she sashayed the length of the hall toward
me. ' Top of the stairs. The office at the far end of the hall," she
said.

This time, she stood her ground and watched as I
headed up. As I negotiated the stairs, she watched me watch her watch
me follow the thick red carpeting down the hall toward the open door.

The space was decorated in the same gold-record,
testimonial, smiling-group-picture motif as downstairs. There were four
men in the office. Seated at a black enamel desk was a balding little
guy of about fifty, whose nine remaining hairs had been grown to truly
prodigious lengths and then wrapped almost woven about his head like a
hair yarmulke. He rose as I entered, holding out his hand.

"Arthur Prowell," he said.

I took his hand. His grip was firm and dry.

"My associate, Leo Waterman," Jed intoned from the red leather chair on my left. "Fashionably late, as usual."

To my right, a guy in a crisp gray suit stood in the north window, smoking. He had pulled the top sash down
and was leaning out into the alley, allowing the smoke to drift up and
over the roof. He was a sinewy fellow, with tightly curled blond hair
and a shiny, pitted face.

"This is our corporate attorney, P. J. Papa," Pro well said.

Papa threw a nearly imperceptible nod my way and
went back to his smoking, completely turning his back on the room now.
The humming of the copy machine filled the room with the low sound of
moving air.

Behind me, Gregory Conover was studying a pair of *
framed guitars John Lennon's, according to the plaque. If he was
surprised to see me again, he didn't let on. Instead, he gave me a
conspiratorial wink and went back to his scholarship.

Prowell motioned me toward a suede chair directly
in front of the desk and sat back down. He laced his fingers together
in front of him as if praying. "Well, gentlemen," he started. "I don't
mean to be impolite, but something unexpected has come up, and we've
only got a few minutes before Mr. Papa and I have to get downtown to a
meeting, so if you don't mind, perhaps we could dispense with the
niceties and get right down to business." When we didn't seem to
object, he went on. He was a man of his word.

"This restraining order," he said. "Prohibiting any
and all transfer of funds connected in any way with the estate of
Lukkas Terry." He brought it close to his face and read the fine print.
"Filed by one Jedediah C. James, acting as counsel for one Selena
Dunlap. It would appear this Dunlap woman claims to be the mother of
the late Mr. Terry."

He looked at me quizzically and then set the paper back on top of the file and spread his hands. He addressed himself to Jed.

"So, what can we do for you gentlemen?"

"We intend to file for survivor's rights on the Terry estate."

"Go right ahead," Prowell said affably.

Nonplussed, Jed jumped back in. "We intend to see
that, in keeping with current legal precedent, Ms. Dunlap receives
equitable treatment."

"What can we do to help?" Prowell asked. He
gestured over our heads toward Conover, who waved his full-hearted
assent. "I think I speak for everyone in this room when I say that,
granted your client is able to document her supposed relationship with
Lukkas Terry, we shall be quite happy to comply. Eager, even." He gave
a conspiratorial wink. "There is, as they say, more than enough to go
around." He continued. "Being able to share with his mother the fruits
of his genius would, in some small way, perhaps help mitigate the pain
of losing one so talented and yet so young."

If his feet hadn't been up under the desk, I'd have
surely puked on his shoes. I bit my tongue. Jed went for the throat,
pulling a black calfskin notebook from his inside pocket and opening
his pen. "What's the current distribution situation of Lukkas Terry's
royalties?" he said.

Prowell gave a silent chuckle. "I'm sure you understand, that kind of information is quite confidential."

"Not for long," Jed said quickly.

The implied threat merely amused Prowell. His eyes
crinkled. "Be that as it may, Mr. James. Mr. Papa and I were just going
over our contract with Lukkas Terry. We remain confident of our legal
position in this matter." He rested both hands on the brown folder.

The conversational ball flew back and forth over
the net for another five minutes or so. Jed seemed to be getting
nowhere. I jumped in.

"Are you the one who had Selena Dunlap declared dead?" I tried. Papa gave another grunt.

"Oh no," said Prowell. "A clean estate and line of
inheritance is part of the package. We don't sign distribution
agreements unless that's all been taken care of. That's all strictly
SOP."

"I would like to see a copy of that agreement," Jed said.

It was Papa's turn to chuckle. He flicked the butt
out into the alley and turned back toward the room. "Then all you're
lacking, sir, is a Superior Court subpoena demanding those documents.
Should the court in its wisdom grant you gentlemen your request, we
will most surely comply with the wishes of the court." He had a drawl.
Texas, maybe. The words oozed out in an almost courtly manner. As if
they were written down somewhere.

"I'm sure Mr. James is prepared to take whatever steps are necessary to ensure his client's rights," I said evenly.

Papa snapped the window up. "I have absolutely no
doubt," he said, smoothing his suit. "Mr. James, if you'll allow me to
say, you are preceded by a considerable reputation for both success
and, if I might be so bold, also for your particularly" he went
shopping for a word "how shall we say ... vigorous style of litigation.
I have no doubt your client is in capable hands."

"Oh, stop it; you're spoiling him now," I guffawed.

"Now, now." It was Conover, wandered over from the
wall, standing now between Jed and me. "Why can't we all just get
along?" he asked with mock sincerity. "We're all brothers and sisters
here, you know. We're all on the same page here. No need for animosity."

Another five minutes of legal repartee, and then suddenly, as if on cue, the three of them passed a
look that said school was out. Whatever curiosity they'd had about us
had been satisfied. Jed slipped his notebook back into his pocket.

Papa rubbed his palms together. "I'm sorry we couldn't be of more help," he said.

"Really?" ,

"Really what?"

On my left, Prowell spun in his chair, opened the
bottom file drawer, M-Z, and slipped the brown file back into its
rightful place.

"Really sorry you couldn't be more help."

"Within the context, of course," he said affably.

"What else is there?" I inquired with a big grin.

"Should I discover anything, I'll most certainly call," he said, matching me ivory for ivory.

Jed rose. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen," was all he said.

Suddenly Prowell was out from behind the desk.
Somehow he'd reannexed my hand and was stroking it like a pet ferret.
"I'm sorry, but we've got to be on our way. We're running a little
late. If there's anything else we can do to help, don't for a minute
hesitate--" Anrgh.

Without further ado I extracted my hand from his
grip and followed Jed back down the hall, waving goodbye over my
shoulder as I ambled toward the stairs.

I pulled the door closed behind us and turned to Jed. "You detect any squirming in there?"

"Not unless you count Prowell rubbing his thighs together with glee," Jed answered.

"Fill me in. What just happened in there?''

"We were slimed," Jed said as we crossed the sidewalk. "They just wanted to see who the hell we were."

"Was it just me, or were those assholes sneering at us?"

"The sneer meter has seldom reached such lofty
realms. If somebody weren't trying to run you over, I'd have to swear
to God nobody in that room gives a shit whether Lukkas Terry ever had a
mother or not." He waved a hand at me. "I'm going to have to think
about this a bit. We may need to explore other avenues. Less
conventional avenues," he said with another wave. "Gotta go." As he
legged it around the corner, I wandered over to the side of the Key
Bank and stood in the shadow of an unconventional blue spruce.

Cheokee was at the wheel of the new blue Range
Rover as it crossed the near lane and turned left. Conover sat in the
passenger seat, twisted toward the driver, his face contorted with
invective. He punctuated his points with insistent jabs of his finger.
Cherokee appeared unmoved.

Prowell and Papa couldn't have been any too late
for their meeting. It was another ten minutes before they rolled out of
the alley into the gathering gloom and bounced into the street. Prowell
sat low behind the wheel of a green Cadillac DeVille, his hair-beanie
curled just above the top of the wheel like a lacquered cat. Papa rode
shotgun with the window open, his hand, cigarette stuck between his
fingers, rested on top of the car. Prowell turned left on Third Avenue
and headed downtown.

I watched until they'd cleared three lights and
then pulled myself from the Fiat and trotted back across the street.
Less conventional, he'd said. Madelaine was whispering into her headset
and stuffing envelopes as I strode in. I held up a hand and kept moving
fast.

"Left my day planner up there," I said loud enough for her to hear above the phone call. I started for the stairs.

Her eyes widened. She put a careful hand over the mouthpiece. "They're not " she started. "You can't
" Her eyes showed that someone was speaking on the line. "Oh, no, sir.
I was no, not you, sir. Yes, sir, I'm writing this down. Yes, please go
ahead."

"Be right back," I said, taking the stairs two at a time.

I took the hall as fast as I could without making
too much noise. The door was open. The copy machine was still on. Ready
to copy. The file cabinet was unlocked. Lukkas Terry's file still stood
just a bit higher than the others. I straightened the thin metal tines
at the top of the folder and slipped the contents off. Felt like six or
eight pages. I peeked around the doorjamb, out into the hall. Empty. I
could hear the muted sounds of Madelaine's voice repeating what she was
hearing on the phone.

I hurried over to the copy machine and slid the
papers into the top feeder. Two sides to two sides. No collate. No
staple. With a rush of mechanical air and a snap of paper the first
document disappeared down into the machine. One by one the machine
swallowed the documents, and then whirled out copies into the stacked
trays at the far end of the machine. I had already returned the
originals to the file cabinet and stuffed the copies beneath my shirt
when Madelaine came bursting in. The cord from her headset dangled by
her right hip. I pulled my notebook from my pocket.

"Got it," I announced.

She strode across the room, brushed me aside, and
went right to the files. She fingered her way through the bottom
drawer, found the Terry file, and checked the contents. The deep hum of
the copy machine found my ears as she rifled through the documents. I'd
forgotten to rum it off.

She kicked the drawer shut and started for me.

"You get out of here right now, or I'll call the police," she said.

"I was just--"

"Mr. Prowell would lose his mind if he knew you were up here alone. Not to mention my job," she added accus- ' ingly.

I opened my mouth, but sorry wasn't going to cut
it. She put both hands on my left shoulder and pushed me out the 1 door
into the hall.

"Get out," she repeated.

"Take it easy," I said. "I was just getting my notebook." ^

She stood, flexed in the doorway, until I started down and then watched me leave from the top of the stairs.

I Stood with my nose pressed to the silver glass,
watched the kid cross the black-and-white diamonds of the lobby to the
receptionist and jack himself up on tiptoe to make conversation across
the wide counter.