Free The Way of All Fish: A Novel by Martha Grimes Page B

. I read it to you.”
    “The cyanide, I remembered that. How much of that shit was true?”
    “All of it. That’s the great thing about truth. You don’t have to make it up.”
    Karl stepped over the curb, looking for a cab, which was like finding an unlit star in the Milky Way, especially at six P.M. , which it was.
    Candy said, “But you sure nailed that party. Rod was beginning to look as if he’d seen us. ‘Pro bono bash.’ Righteous. As if they’d ever have anything to do with that shit.”
    “Yeah, only, where’s this get us?”
    “It got the foot in the door so good that even when we take it away, the door won’t close. That’s how curious they are; that’s how nervous. Where the fuck’s a cab?”
    “In Jersey. Come on, let’s walk.” Karl was back on the sidewalk, walking.
    “Oscar ain’t eaten since this morning.” Candy started tapping away at his cell phone as they walked.
    “At least nobody fed him cyanide. Why don’t you wait till we pass a Balducci’s, pal? Call your fish from there, see what he wants.”
    Candy snorted. “So funny. I’m trying Cindy again.” Long pause. He snapped the phone shut as they swaggered along, tails of Façonnable coats flapping behind them.

10
    C indy was out of her blue chenille bathrobe and into jeans with a tear on the knee made by Gus, not fashion; a gray cowl-neck sweater; and an old dark peacoat.
    She was also out of her apartment and into Jimmy McKinney’s office, her favorite place in Manhattan besides Ray’s coffee shop. She liked the brownstone, although it was the same as the others on the block; she liked the stone steps worn in the center to the image of a shoe; she liked the cherrywood door to his office, the thin pale Oriental rug, the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and every item of furniture, including the big desk, the swivel chair he sat in (and liked to skid around), but mostly him, Jimmy McKinney.
    Jimmy was talking about this and that, but she wasn’t really listening, only looking, her head cocked to the side, trying to recall who he reminded her of.
    “I offered to shoot the bastard, but you turned me down.”
    “Who?”
    He grinned. “How many have I offered to shoot?”
    She looked around the room.
    “Is that your cell?” said Jimmy.
    The ringtone was the one that had come with the phone; it was barely audible. Jimmy was just used to listening to clients, excepting Cindy, to whom he talked more than he listened.
    The bag she had slung over the chair was nearly the size of a brown grocery bag, and she started rooting through it without enthusiasm, as she’d rather listen to Jimmy than her cell phone. Still, she had to make a show of looking, so she took out papers, notebooks, a beat-up paperbackcopy of The Aspern Papers, pens, a lipstick. “I can’t find it,” she said rather happily.
    “How many notebooks do you carry around?” He nodded at the stack.
    She started putting everything back. “Several.”
    “But not a laptop.”
    Cindy frowned. Why was this turning dull? “No. Why?”
    He sat back, locking his fingers behind his head. Smiled. “It’s interesting.”
    “No, it isn’t.”
    He had told her about the visit from her friends Candy and Karl and got back on that subject, still unsatisfied with Cindy’s explanation. “These two—what is it they do, exactly?”
    She sighed. “How would I know? They pulled out guns in the Clownfish Café. Maybe they’re federal agents or something. They were pretty evasive.”
    The cell bleated.
    “That’s your cell again.” Jimmy nodded toward the bag Cindy had dumped on the floor.
    She pulled up the bag and went through the whole business again. The cell phone continued its silly tune, whining to be picked up. “I’ll never find it.” She sighed as if she cared.
    Jimmy was enjoying the little show. He’d enjoyed it the first time, too. He said unhelpfully, “Why do you carry a cell phone around? If you can never answer it?”
    “Usually, I don’t. It’s just