Free Sam McCain - 05 - Everybody's Somebody's Fool by Ed Gorman

them, David, and they deserve better. Sara and Rita and Molly are good young women.”
    “They hire you to say that?”
    I said, “I don’t want to represent you anymore, David.”
    He came off the car and said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “There are other lawyers in town. I’ll arrange for one of them to help you. But I’m done.”
    “That’ll make it look like I’m guilty.”
    Then, “You can’t do this, McCain. You really can’t.”
    “You going to write that note to the Griffins?”
    “All right, God, if that’s what you want me to do.”
    “That’s a start. And knock off the heartbreaker bullshit. Everybody knows you love ‘em and leave ‘em, David. But you may have to face a jury here pretty soon. And you’re gonna need all the friends you can get.”
    He smirked again. “Maybe I should wear a cassock and a Roman collar.”
    “It wouldn’t hurt, David.” I got sick of him from time to time—his childhood hadn’t corrupted him but his reaction to his childhood, his self-pity, certainly had—but I hadn’t ever been as sick of him as I was at this moment.
    I walked away to my ragtop.
    “I knew you were bluffing, McCain. I knew you wouldn’t really drop me.”
    I said nothing. Just drove away. Leaving a bad imitation of James Dean standing alone in the muzzy yellow light of the gas station drive.
    In the rearview mirror, I watched as he slipped his hands in his back pockets, pure James Dean. And now, unfortunately, pure David Egan.
     
Eleven
     
    I’d been in my apartment only a couple of minutes before there was a knock on the inside door. Mrs. Goldman.
    “I baked some cookies,” she said, “and thought you might like some.”
    “Say, thanks.”
    She handed me a plate with a dozen
    chocolate-chip cookies on them. Mrs.
    Goldman is a widow. She lived in this house for years with her husband and then decided to rent out the upstairs when he died. Lauren Bacall can only hope she looks as good at fifty as Mrs. Goldman does. In her crisp white blouse and blue skirt, she looked
    thirty-five. An envelope was tucked inside her right arm. “I’m also delivering this. I
    found it on the porch. I don’t know why they didn’t put it in the mailbox.”
    The phone rang. Mrs. Goldman smiled.
    “I’ll let you catch that, Sam.”
    “Thanks for the cookies.”
    On the phone, Mom said, “I really had a good time at the game today, dear. I just wanted to thank you.”
    “My pleasure. Did you enjoy it?”
    “Very much. Even though I didn’t exactly understand a lot of what was going on. There are an awful lot of people on that field at one time. It gets confusing.”
    I smiled at the thought of Cliffie’s cheer, “Kill those bastards!” If people would have shouted it, I think Mom would have mentioned it.
    “Well, I’m glad you had a good time.”
    “You sound sort of rushed, dear. Is everything all right?”
    “Just got in the door. Haven’t even had time to get my sport coat off.”
    “Well, I’ll let you go. But I just wanted to thank you for the tickets. That halftime show was great. I think that was my favorite part.”
    In the interest of good health, I fixed a peanut butter, mayo, and mustard sandwich before plowing into the cookies. That particular sandwich recipe probably doesn’t sound all that good but you should give it a try.
    I watched Mike Hammer with Darren
    McGavin, which was pretty good; and a Lone Wolf rerun with Louis Hayward. It was always sort of sad to see once-prominent actors have to resort to humiliating cheap-O Tv shows. I wondered if fading Tv stars worried about me the way I worried about them.
    I’d inherited three cats—Tasha,
    Crystal, and Tess—f a girl who’d left them with me while she went to La to become a star.
    She was waitressing in Redondo Beach and the cats were still mine. I’d never been what you call favorably disposed to felines but they’d grown on me.
    They were nice enough to give me a portion of the bed around ten