Free Trouble in Rooster Paradise by T.W. Emory Page B

nose into things.
That’s it. I’m not on some bleeding-heart mission, and I’m not out
to undo your hard work. Besides, it sounds to me like the kid
deserves to trade pinstripes for prison stripes.”
    “ We like to think so.”
    I took out a pad and pencil from my coat
pocket. “Let me at least earn my salt. It wouldn’t hurt if I talked
to the three bystanders of that fight.” My plan, if you could call
it that, was to talk to them and get some kind of reading off what
they saw and heard. I needed at least something to put in a final
report to Rikard Lundeen. “How about giving me the
names?”
    “ The first one has quite the
moniker. He’s a fella named Guy de Carter. He’s got a kisser that
sort of reminds me of Smilin’ Jack from the funny papers. Mustache
and all.”
    Again with the funny papers. Smilin’ Jack was a
debonair-looking comic strip character that was a caricature of the
movie star Errol Flynn—or vice versa.
    “ This de Carter works for an ad
agency in the same building where the murdered girl worked. He says
his company handles their ad work. The second witness is one
Addison Darcy. He’s a longtime local about as well-heeled as
Lundeen. Darcy was a customer in the store when the lover’s spat
broke out. The third onlooker is the widow of a Dr. Henry Arnot.
Gal’s name is Blanche. She was there on business. Hell, it’s not
enough for ’em to hawk fancy toilet water. This Blanche Arnot says
she teaches the salesgirls to walk and talk straight while they do
it. Probably teaches them to piss and flush straight
too.”
    Milland shook his head. “I’ll put addresses and
phone numbers to two of these names for you before you
leave.”
    “ What about the third?”
    “ Addison Darcy lives in The
Highlands.”
    “ Oh, rally ?”
    “ Yes, rally . He made his
statement and referred us to his lawyer. Like I say, I’ll get you
the dope on the other two. Good luck on reaching Darcy.”
    “ Thanks, Frank. I owe you
one.”
    “ You owe me two. And I’m keeping
track. You just missed the Engstrom kid’s old man, but his lawyer’s
still with him.”
    He led me away from the clamor of the squad
room over to a nook used for conferences.
    “ He’s all yours,” said
Milland.
    I heard arguing on the other side of the door.
I knocked and opened. Two men stared at me with expressions that
said altercatio interruptus . I entered and the older of the
two stood up and refreshed the crease in his pants. His crisp
charcoal suit gave him a prim aspect that went with a genteel
demeanor. He seemed to know who I was and why I was there. He
introduced himself as Hiram Pender, attorney for Bern Engstrom and
ipso facto for Dirk Engstrom.
    “ He insists on talking to you
alone,” Pender said to me. He gave his client a parting look that
could pass for pity or disgust. “I’ll be waiting
outside.”
    I closed the door behind Pender. He was polite
enough, but I consider lawyers guilty until proven innocent. So far
as I knew he was just another highbrow thimble-rigger in an
intellectual shell game, with truth as the pea. Now you see it—now
you don’t. Even if they do sink their chops into some meaty issue,
truth isn’t usually their objective. I see them as modern wizards
who conjure for cash and celebrity.
    I told Dirk my name. He stayed motionless and
ignored my extended hand. I sat down in the chair behind the
solitary desk in the room.
    “ I’m working for Rikard Lundeen,
which means I’m working for you, Dirk.”
    “ Don’t call me Dirk. Only my friends
call me Dirk.” His complexion had crimson patches. His lower lip
curled slightly to one side and uncurled only when he
spoke.
    “ Okay, then. How’s kid suit
you?”
    He gave me a glacial stare. Kid it
was.
    Dirk was a good-looking kid in his early
twenties. His white slacks and Anzac-blue windbreaker told me he
wasn’t working at the jewelry store when the cops scooped him up.
He had sandy-colored hair with an unruly forelock that matched