Free Dirty by Debra Webb Page A

the most desired spot.   From this prized location on the very edge of the smoking section (they still have a few of those around here) he could watch the lifeblood of Houston pump and pulse amid those currently possessing the power.
    En route to Bob’s table I spied enough designer suits to start my own department store.   Not particularly caring whether it was proper etiquette or not I snagged the nearest waitress and ordered a glass of iced tea then sashayed right up to my destination and made myself comfortable in the seat opposite my surprised target.
    “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Ms. Jackie Mercer?” Bob asked before taking a deep draw from his cigarette and then exhaling a blue plume of carcinogen-carrying smoke.   A line of ash had formed on the tip of the Turkish cigarette, threatening to fall into his tumbler of Scotch any second if he didn’t make a dive for the ashtray pronto.   Somehow he managed to make it in the nick of time.   It was like some sort of personal challenge.   Suck it to the very filter with only two dips to the ashtray.   Was he going for a Guinness world record?
    The accommodating waitress settled a delicate crystal glass filled with the finest blended tea on the table before me.   “Thanks,” I said before plucking the lemon wedge off the rim and giving it a squeeze.   I stirred the drink then had a long, whistle wetting swallow.
    Bob waited patiently while I indulged my thirst but he studied me closely, looking for signs of what was on my mind and perhaps any trouble I might be about to drag him into.   I had a reputation for the latter.
    “I need some information about an old court case,” I said, getting straight to the point.   Bob had been around the block too many times to be jerked around by a private gumshoe like me.   I’d worked with him before when I needed his special brand of intelligence or devious expertise.   If he didn’t know the answer he would know who did.
    “Does this case have a name?” he asked noncommittally.
    I had no idea who the central suspect was in the case, maybe the man in the photograph. I did know that the case’s moniker had started with a D. D-1216.   Assuming it was a case number, but I was pretty sure on that score.
    “I don’t have a name but I do have a possible case number, D-1216.   Could have been on the docket as far back as ten years ago.”   I watched his reaction in hopes of noting recognition, the slightest shift in posture or a facial twitch that might indicate I’d hit a nerve or vein of information, but Bob was too good.   Poker Face 101 was probably required for lawyers.   I’d have to ask my son.
    “That is an old one, Jackie,” he remarked offhandedly, those dark eyes still watching mine too closely.
    I took another sip of my tea and considered the people seated around the room to buy some time since I didn’t want to give away anymore of my hand.   Every table was occupied with elegantly dressed men and women.   The city’s elite.   Wallets filled with platinum Visas and cell phones set on vibrate in silk pockets and jeweled purses.   I fully expected to see Donald Trump make an appearance to drum up support for his presidential bid.
    “I believe it was called Disposable,” Bob said finally.   “Something about drugs and illegal immigrants being used as disposable mules.”
    Now we were cooking with gas.   “Did you serve as a consultant on that one?”   I should only be so lucky.
    He considered my question long enough to suck down a little more nicotine.   “I could have, but I passed.”
    “Do you mind sharing your reason for that decision?”   Though I couldn’t be certain, I had the distinct impression that he planned to make me drag this out of him a syllable at a time.   I sensed a resistance I’d never encountered before, which only served to heighten my curiosity, as well as my tension.
    “I’d worked against the two defendants previously in my