Free Shadow of a Tiger by Michael Collins Page A

sheets but no cover, and no blanket in a New York summer; two wooden chairs; a stained bureau; and a large bookcase with books in English and Chinese. On the third shelf of the bookcase there was an open niche that was empty except for a small, bronze saucer with incense ash in it—where the Buddha that sent Jimmy to jail had been.
    A windowless middle room set up with a mattress on the floor, two low, Oriental chairs, and a television set.
    A rear room bright with the late afternoon sun through backyard windows. A totally empty room. Some shelves, hooks on the walls, and nothing else.
    â€œHe usually keeps this room locked,” Marie Schmidt said behind me. “Burglars. The fire escape’s out there, and Jimmy was afraid of burglars. They might steal his treasures.”
    She looked behind her at the bare, cheap furniture. She shook her head as if she would never understand people or life. She wasn’t alone in that feeling.
    â€œEven here, four rooms don’t cost peanuts,” I said. “Did Jimmy make enough money for this and his booze?”
    â€œNot money,” Marie Schmidt said. “Work. He helps the super, gets free rent. That’s why this building is clean, painted. He doesn’t pay for much except booze, he works for it. He likes work. See what it’s gotten him?”

10
    I called Lieutenant Marx before I went down to the prison, and when I got there they were expecting me. Marx had said I could see Jimmy Sung—with Jimmy’s lawyer.
    The lawyer was a big, energetic-looking man with a heavy briefcase and eyes sunk deep in the heavy black sockets of a man who rarely got enough sleep. His name was Kandinsky. He wanted to know what I had. I told him. It wasn’t much, but Kandinsky hadn’t expected much.
    â€œThe wife too?” the lawyer said. “The sister-in-law hires me, the wife hires you. Good, I can use that.”
    â€œHis priest hired me too, swears by Jimmy,” I said.
    â€œA Buddhist kook won’t carry much weight with a jury sure to be half-Catholic, half-Jewish,” Kandinsky said se riously, “but the wife thinking he didn’t do it is good. I can deal with that. With no real motive, a shaky case on the robbery, that bad deal out in the California nut house, and the victim’s wife and sister-in-law on our side, the D.A.’ll have to deal. I can get delays and rulings forever. He’ll settle for a minimum charge, and a guilty plea. Clear the calendar. Five years tops.”
    â€œHow about if I prove him innocent?”
    â€œWell, that’s the hard way, but go ahead and try,” Kandinsky said. “That all you have?”
    â€œThat’s all.”
    The lawyer nodded, and when Jimmy was brought into the visitors room, gave the stocky Chinese a reassuring smile.
    â€œIt’s good, Jimmy. I’m sure I can deal for you. Behave yourself, get some sleep. I’ve got four more clients to see today, okay?”
    The lawyer’s smile seemed to still be in the room after he had gone. I watched Jimmy. The stocky man’s broad, pale-brown face revealed nothing, not even the alcoholic’s torture inside without his liquor. His dark eyes blinked at the door where Kandinsky had left. His work-gnarled fingers ran through his thinning gray hair—the only sign of any nerves.
    â€œHe’s a good lawyer?” Jimmy said.
    â€œI’d say so,” I said. “He must be costing Li Marais a lot.”
    Jimmy nodded, didn’t smile. “She’s a good woman, sure. I know. We understand.”
    â€œKandinsky’ll deal for you, Jimmy. I’d like to get the truth. Tell me the whole story, okay?”
    â€œTruth?” Jimmy Sung’s dark eyes were immobile. “What truth you mean, Mr. Fortune? I told the cops all I know.”
    â€œAnd a lot of lies,” I said. “You were there that night?”
    â€œOkay, yeh. I got there maybe ten o’clock. For chess. We