Free Hostile Witness by William Lashner Page B

was waiting for a sign to pour it generally. Renee grabbed the bottle from his hand and poured it into her glass, taking a quick gulp.
    “It was a pleasure meeting you, Victor,” said Leslie Moore.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Moore,” I said. “But the pleasure was mine.”
    “I’ll walk you out,” said Moore.
    “No need,” said Leslie.
    “I insist,” said Jimmy.
    “Something’s wrong with that bottle,” said Renee, pouring another glass for herself.
    “Let me see that,” said Jimmy. He pulled the bottle from her hand and examined the label. “Who bought this crap?”
    “It was our fourth bottle,” said Chuckie. “I thought…”
    “Don’t think too much, okay, Chuckie? That’s not why I pay you. You think too much, you’ll end up back in that shithole I dug you out of. I don’t care how much it costs, always get the best. I’ve told you that before.”
    “But I just…”
    “Shut up. I don’t want to hear it. You buy another crappy bottle of champagne and I’ll can your butt, understand?”
    “I understand,” said Chuckie.
    “Now give this California piss to some homeless voter and buy us another bottle of the real thing.”
    “Yes, Councilman,” said Chuckie, his head down and his barking voice now pale and small.
    As Jimmy and his wife walked to the restaurant’s exit, Renee took another quick swallow before following the others.
    “I guess Jimmy prefers the imports,” said Prescott.
    “The councilman can’t tell the difference after one bottle,” said Concannon, “but Renee’s got a taste for the best the councilman can buy. Sit down, Charles. I’ll take care of it.” He called a waiter over. “Dom Perignon, seventy-eight. And take this bottle away, please.”
    The waiter bent a little lower and put on an expression. “Is something unsatisfactory, sir?” he said.
    “You mean other than your breath?” said Chuckie, slumped in his seat.
    “The wine was a bit too insouciant,” said Concannon calmly. “The sommelier knows our tastes. Tell him we were disappointed.”
    “Of course, sir,” said the waiter, whisking the offending bottle from the table.
    Concannon mussed Chuckie’s hair. “It’s just the trial,” he said. “Jimmy’s on edge.”
    “Too bad it’s not a knife’s edge,” said Chuckie.
    “Leslie looked good tonight,” said Prescott, changing the subject.
    “Therapy four times a week,” said Concannon.
    “She seemed almost cheery.”
    “For the amount of money that doctor costs,” said Chuckie Lamb, “she should be damn joyful. She should be a fucking Santa Claus.”
    “Well, it’s working, then,” said Prescott.
    “I don’t know about you,” I said, “but that is as sad a woman as I have ever seen.”
    “And still,” said Prescott, “the improvement is startling.”
    He pushed his length out of his chair. “I see SenatorSpecter over there. Chester, why don’t we give our regards before I head home. When Jimmy comes back,” he commanded me, “tell him I’ll talk to him in the morning.” Off he strode with Concannon to the other end of the dining room.
    “Mrs. Moore is upset about the indictment, I guess,” I said to Chuckie.
    “Shit. Look at the bar,” he said. “As soon as the councilman finishes escorting his wife out of the restaurant the councilman’s girlfriend will step away from it and join us.”
    I scanned the bar, crowded with couples waiting for tables and singles, dressed as if they were in New York, waiting for something else. On one of the stools at the end of the bar an aggressively curved woman sat alone, drinking. From the angle we could see the breadth of her cheekbones and the swell of her chest. She turned her head to look at us for a moment.
    “She’s been here the whole time?” I asked.
    “Just waiting for Leslie to get lost.”
    “Does Mrs. Moore know?”
    “She knows,” said Chuckie Lamb. “She knows every last thing, that’s her problem.” He stood. “I’ll be back,” he said. “I got to