Free Dead Winter by William G. Tapply

seated at the kitchen table eating a sandwich and watching a little portable television. When Marc and I went in, he looked up. “My word! What happened to you?”
    “I had a disagreement with a gentleman on insurance,” I said. “Not everybody believes in the importance of insurance.”
    “You should act your age, Brady,” said Des mildly, and returned his attention to the television.
    I climbed the stairs to one of the upstairs bathrooms. I found myself favoring my right leg, the one with the bum knee. In the mirror I saw where the skin had been scraped off my cheekbone. I took off my shirt and doused my face and chest with water. “Act your age,” I said to my reflection. “Good advice,” my reflection replied.
    I went back downstairs. Des offered me a sandwich, but I declined. “Getting beat up always ruins my appetite,” I said. “Anyway, I’ve got to get back to the office.”
    I told Marc to let me know if the police summoned him again, said good-bye, and went out to my car. Des followed me. “I’ve got to know,” he said to me.
    “I don’t think Marc did it, if that’s what you mean.”
    He nodded. “I thought I was prepared for anything. I mean, after Connie left…”
    I put my hand on his shoulder. “If Marc was with you until nine thirty last night—”
    “I went to bed around nine. Marc was here then.”
    “Then he’s in the clear.”
    “He was with a woman, wasn’t he?”
    I nodded.
    Des shook his head. “If only Connie…”
    “If only my uncle had steel wheels,” I said, “he’d be a choo-choo train.”
    Des nodded doubtfully. I slid into my BMW and pointed it at Copley Square.

6
    J ULIE WAS HUNCHED OVER the computer processing words when I got to the office. She looked up when I walked in, frowned, returned her attention to her keyboard for a few beats, and then did an exaggerated double take.
    “Oh, sir! ” she said. She leaped to her feet and made a swooping curtsey. “So wonderful of you to grace us with your presence. Welcome to our humble law office.”
    “Julie, cut the shit, will you? I got about three hours of sleep last night and I’m in no mood.”
    “Several of your clients are in no mood, also.” She glared at me out of the corners of her eyes and returned to her seat. “You got a bunch of messages on your desk, if you feel like looking at them.”
    “I am prepared to get to work,” I harrumphed.
    “Don’t strain yourself.”
    I pivoted and strode toward my inner office.
    “Looks like the truck won,” called Julie.
    I stopped and touched the abrasion on my cheek. “It was a draw.”
    I detoured to Mr. Coffee, poured myself a mug, and took it into my sanctum. Julie had left a pad of yellow legal paper in the precise center of my otherwise clear desk. I eased into my chair, lit a Winston, sipped my coffee, and read the list of phone messages she had noted for me.
    First were the weekend calls from the machine:
Dr. Adams, Friday P.M., regretting missing you, wondering about your banker’s hours, to try you at home.
    Nathan Greenberg, Sunday, 3:00 P.M., will try again Monday first thing. Urgent, quote-unquote. Did not identify himself further.
    Unidentified woman, sultry voice, claiming wrong number. I doubt it.
    Next Julie listed the calls she had taken during my absence in the morning:
Dr. Adams again, wanting to report on fishing trip and make you jealous. No need to return call.
    Mr. Paradise, calling from pay phone. Cautions extreme secrecy.
    Mr. McDevitt, wanting lunch. Has new joke. Refuses to share with me.
    Mr. Ellard. Massachusetts Bar. Your professional association, not the joint around the corner. Reminding you of your article on trusts vis-à-vis new tax laws. I told him it was in the mail. I’m typing it now.
    Ms. Winter. No message.
    I picked up the pad and took it back out to the reception area. Julie had the computer clicking like a muted Western Union telegraph. I touched the back of her neck. She turned her head and looked up at me