Free Last Ditch by G. M. Ford

strapped for cash, the money was, to the
mind of
these sort of folks, not only entirely too recent, but, to an even
greater extent,
scandalously ill-gotten.
    She
led me down
the long central hall of the building, past gold-framed portraits of
stern men
with chin whiskers, across a couple acres of floral carpet thick enough
to pass
for U.S. Open rough and then ushered me through the proverbial third
door on
the right.
    A
small banquet
table had been set up at the back of the room. Gleaming silver urns of
coffee
and tea, plates of prepared fruit, decadent pastries and hors
d'oeuvres,
artfully arranged. Just your basic little Sunday morning meeting.
    Pat
was
standing over by the leaded windows, holding a white china cup in one
hand and
a saucer in the other, making conversation with a nice-looking young
guy in a
double-breasted blue blazer. Pat had that pink-all-over, fresh-scrubbed
quality
of my father's Scandinavian roots. He kept his remaining hair extremely
short.
He was straight and trim to a degree attainable only by those who have
all day
to spend at the gym. He placed the cup in the saucer, set them on the
windowsill and crossed to my side.
    He
looked me up
and down. "Glad you could make it," he said.
    I
reckoned how
I was likewise thrilled.
    "Fabulous
suit," he said. "Been letting Rebecca do your shopping for you,
haven't you?"
    I'd
have been
less annoyed if it hadn't been true. I looked over his shoulder toward
the
linen-covered table in the center of the room, where Emily Price Morton
sat
sipping tea with her attorney H. R. McColl.
    "The
suit
better be good. You neglected to tell me I'd be lunching with the
queen."
    He
compressed
his lips. "Quite surprising," he admitted, then took me by the elbow.
"Come along," he whispered. "Let's get this show on the
road."
    As
we
approached the table, H. R. McColl got to his feet. McColl was the
lawyer of
choice for those who could pay the freight. Just this side of sixty, he
was a
tall man. His sharp cheekbones were framed by a shock of thick white
hair,
shaved nearly bald on the sides, worn in a short Marine brush cut on
top—all
sharp angles in a gray wool suit.
    He
extended his
hand. "Pat," was all he said.
    With
a small
nod of the head, Pat took his hand.
    "Henry.
You know Leo, I believe."
    His
hand now
found its way into mine, but he kept talking to Pat.
    "Oh,
yes.
Our paths have crossed before."
    McColl
let me
go and turned toward his client, who sat motionless in an off-white
silk suit,
her hands in her lap, her wide-spaced blue eyes averted and unblinking.
Emily
Price Morton was the better part of seventy, but you had to get up
close to
see. Her primary care physician was probably a plastic surgeon. Amazing
what
enough money could do. Sitting there with her ash-blonde hair twisted
atop her
head in an old-fashioned knot, she could have passed for a cynical
fifty.
Except for the mouth. Her wide, dissatisfied mouth gave her away. The
series of
lines rippling out from the corners served as silent testament to the
current
limits of plastic surgery. If they pulled the rest of her face back any
tighter, she'd have been looking out to the sides like a fly.
    McColl
didn't
bother with introductions. We were supposed to know who she was. He
spoke to
her. "You know Pat, of course."
    She
rattled her
jewelry in assent
    Pat
motioned my
way. "And my nephew, Leo Waterman."
    No
rattle. She
looked at me like I was wearing a dog shit suit.
    The
guy in the
blue blazer was at my elbow now. He spoke directly to Emily. "Mark
Forrester," he said, offering a hand. "I'm here representing the
Post-Intelligencer."
    No
rattle. Not
even the shit suit look. I felt better.
    Pat
took the
lead. "I know everyone has a busy schedule, so perhaps . . ." He
swept his hands out over the chairs.
    He
waited for
everyone to get settled before he continued.
    "I'd
like
to thank Mrs. Morton for arranging a space for this get-together," he
began. "And I want each of you to know I appreciate your taking time
from