The Guardians(83)
I get serious and explain our contacts with the Taft family and our plans to search the house. I hand him a $100 bill and make him take it. He’s now my lawyer and we shake hands. Everything is now confidential, or should be. I need a simple one-page lease that will impress the Taft family, along with a check drawn on Glenn’s trust account. I’m sure the family would prefer cash, but I prefer paperwork. If evidence is found in the house, the chain of custody will be hopelessly complicated and documentation will be crucial. Sipping our drinks, Glenn and I discuss this like a couple of seasoned lawyers analyzing a unique problem. He’s pretty savvy and sees a couple of potential problems I haven’t thought of. When his glass is empty, he summons Bea for another round. When she brings them, he instructs her to take notes in shorthand, just like in the old days. We hammer out the basics and she retires to her desk.
He says, “I noticed you staring at her legs.”
“Guilty. Something wrong with that?”
“Not at all. She’s a dear. Her mother, Mae Lee, runs my house, and for dinner every Tuesday prepares the most exquisite spring rolls you’ve ever tasted. Tonight’s your lucky night.”
I smile and nod. I have no other plans.
“Plus, my old pal Archie is coming over. I may have mentioned him before. Indeed, I think I did over sangria at The Bull. We’re contemporaries, practiced here decades ago. His wife died, left him some dough, so he quit the law, big mistake. He’s been bored for the last ten years, lives alone with little to do. Retirement’s a bad gig, Post. I think he has a crush on Mae Lee. Anyway, Archie loves spring rolls and is good for tall tales. And he’s a wine snot with a big cellar. He’ll bring the good stuff. You do wine?”
“Not really.” If he could only imagine my balance sheet.
His last ice cube is down to a sliver and he rattles it around, ready for more. Bea returns with two copies of a rough draft. We make a few changes and she leaves to print the final draft.
Glenn’s home is on a shady street four blocks off Main. I drive around for a few minutes to kill time, then park in the drive behind an old Mercedes I assume is owned by Archie. I hear them laughing around the corner and head to the backyard. They are already on the porch, reared back in overstuffed wicker rockers while two vintage ceiling fans rattle above. Archie keeps his seat as introductions are made. He’s at least as old as Glenn and not the picture of health. Both have long scraggly hair that may have once been considered cool or nonconformist. Both are dressed in badly aged seersucker suits, no ties. Both wear geezer sneakers. At least Archie doesn’t need a cane. His enthusiasm for wine has given him a permanent red nose. Glenn sticks with his bourbon but Archie and I try a Sancerre he’s brought over. Mae Lee is as pretty as her daughter and serves us our drinks.
Before long, Archie cannot restrain himself. He says, “So, Post, are you responsible for Pfitzner getting locked up?”
I deflect any credit and tell the story from the viewpoint of a guy on the sideline watching it unfold, with a bit of inside scoop from the Feds. Seems as though Archie often clashed with Pfitzner back in the day and has no use at all for the man. He simply cannot believe that after all these years the crook is behind bars.
Archie tells the story of a client whose car broke down in Seabrook. The cops found a gun under the front seat, and for some reason determined that the kid was a cop killer. Pfitzner got involved and backed up his men. Archie told Pfitzner not to bother the kid in jail, but he was interrogated anyway. The cops beat a confession out of the boy and he served five years in prison. For a disabled car. Archie practically spews venom at Pfitzner by the end of the narrative.
The stories flow as these two old warriors repeat tales they’ve told many times. I mostly listen, but as lawyers they are interested in Guardian’s work, so I tell a few stories but keep them brief. There is no mention of the Taft family and my real purpose for being in town. My highly paid counsel keeps our confidences. Archie opens another bottle of Sancerre. Mae Lee sets a pretty table on the veranda, with wisteria and verbena crawling along the trellises above it. Another ceiling fan pushes the warm air around. Archie thinks a Chablis would be more appropriate and fetches a bottle. Glenn, whose taste buds must be numb, switches to wine.
The spring rolls are indeed delicious. There is a large platter of them, and, fueled by the alcohol and the dearth of good food lately, I pig out. Archie keeps pouring, and when Glenn notices my feeble attempts to cut back he says, “Oh hell, drink up. You can sleep here. I have plenty of beds. Archie always stays. Who wants that drunk on the road at this time of night?”
“A menace to society,” Archie agrees.
For dessert, Mae Lee brings a platter of sweet egg buns—soft little things filled with a mix of egg yolks and sugar. Archie has a Sauternes for the course and goes on and on about the pairing. He and Glenn pass on coffee, primarily because it lacks alcohol, and before long a small humidor appears on the table. They pick through it like kids in a candy store. I cannot remember my last cigar but I do recall turning green after a few puffs. Nonetheless, I am not about to shy away from the challenge. I ask for something on the milder side and Glenn hands me a Cohiba something or other, a certified real Cuban. We shuffle and stagger back to the rockers and blow clouds of smoke into the backyard.
Archie was one of the few lawyers who got on well with Diana Russo, and he talks about her. He never suspected she was involved in her husband’s murder. I listen intently but say nothing. He, like everybody else in Seabrook, assumed Quincy was the killer and was relieved when he was convicted. As the clock ticks and the conversation lags, they cannot believe how wrong they were. Nor can they believe that Bradley Pfitzner is in jail and not likely to get out.