The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(78)

“But they didn’t give you a time estimate or anything like that?”

“No, not yet. But I want to get this going because, like I said, you never know.”

“I understand.”

“Mr. Manley, these are tough people—the lawyers the city’s got. I’ve fought them before. I went back to that attorney for this and he didn’t seem real motivated because of the fight it would involve. So I need to know if this is something you can do. If you want to do it.”

“I’m not afraid of a fight, Mr. Bosch. Or should I call you Detective Bosch?”

“Mister is good.”

“Well, Mr. Bosch, as I said, I’m not afraid of a fight and this firm isn’t either. We also have very powerful connections at our disposal. We like to say we can get anything done. Anything.”

“Well, if this works out, there are a few other people I wouldn’t mind doing something about.”

“Who was your previous attorney?”

“A guy named Michael Haller. A one-man operation. People call him Mickey.”

“I think he’s the one they made a movie about—he works out of his car.”

“Yeah, well, ever since he got famous, he doesn’t take on the hard cases anymore. He didn’t want this one.”

“And he told you to come to me?”

“Yeah, he said you.”

“I don’t know him. Did he tell you why he recommended me?”

“Not really. He just said you’d stand up to the department.”

“Well, that was kind of him. I will stand up to the department. I’ll want to get whatever records you and Mr. Haller have on the pension arbitration. Anything related to the medical issue.”

“Not a—”

Suddenly a bird slammed into the glass to Manley’s right. He jumped in his seat. Bosch saw the stunned bird—it looked like a crow—fall from sight. He had read a story in the Times about the mirrored towers on Bunker Hill being bird magnets. He got up and walked to the glass. He looked down into the plaza fronting the upper station of Angels Flight. There was no sign of the bird.

Manley joined him at the window.

“That’s the third time this year,” he said.

“Really?” Bosch said. “Why don’t they do something about it?”

“Can’t. The mirroring is on the outside of the glass.”

Manley returned to his seat behind his desk and Bosch went back to the club seat.

“What is the name of the doctor you’re seeing for this?” Manley asked.

“Dr. Gandle,” Bosch said. “He’s an oncologist at Cedars.”

“You’ll have to call his office and tell them to release documents regarding your case to me.”

“Not a problem. One thing we haven’t talked about is your fee. I’m on the pension and that’s it.”

“Well, there are two ways we can go about doing this. You can pay me by the hour. My rate is four-fifty per billable hour. Or we can work out a prorated commission fee. You pay nothing and the firm takes a percentage of any money awarded or negotiated. The percentage would start at thirty and the more money recovered, the lower it goes.”

“I’d probably do the percentage.”

“Okay, in that case, I would take the case to the management board and they would discuss the merits and then decide if we accept the case.”

“And how long does that take?”

“A day or two. The board meets Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“Okay.”

“With what you’ve told me, I don’t think it will be a problem. And I can assure you we are the right firm to represent you. We will bend over backward to serve you and to successfully handle your case. I guarantee it.”

“Good to know.”

Bosch stood up and so did Manley.

“The sooner you get me your files, the sooner the board will make a decision,” Manley said. “Then we’ll get this started.”

“Thanks,” Bosch said. “I’ll get it all together and be in touch.”

He found his own way out, passing by the closed doors of both Mitchell and Michaelson, and wondering if he had accomplished anything by bracing Manley. One thing he had noticed was that there was nothing of a personal nature in his office: no photos of family or even of himself shaking hands with people of note. Bosch would have thought it was a borrowed office if Manley hadn’t mentioned that the bird collision was the third this year.

Outside the building, Bosch stood in the plaza, where office workers were sitting at tables eating late breakfasts or early lunches from a variety of shops and restaurants on the bottom level. He checked the perimeter of the building and didn’t see the fallen bird. He wondered whether it had somehow survived and flown off before impact, or whether the building had a fast-moving maintenance team that cleaned up debris every time a bird hit the building and dropped into the plaza.

Bosch crossed the plaza to the Angels Flight funicular, bought a ticket, and rode one of the ancient train cars down to Hill Street. The ride was bumpy and jarring, and he remembered working a case long ago in which two people had been murdered on the mini-railroad. He crossed Hill and went into the Grand Central Market, where he ordered a turkey sandwich from Wexler’s Deli.