Free Last Chance for Glory by Stephen Solomita

Foley Grill on Spruce Street, shadowed by the stone pillars and spider-web cables of the Brooklyn Bridge, was as unpretentious and nondescript as any neighborhood bar in the outer boroughs of New York. In fact, Marty Blake, looking for the kind of midday watering hole likely to attract a legal superstar like Maxwell Steinberg, walked right past it—twice. Maybe it was the missing l in Foley. Or the missing r and i in Grill. Or the sooty windows, the faded green paint on the narrow door, the beggar panhandling in the entranceway. Whatever, the last thing Blake expected, as he pushed through the door, was a determined maitre d’ with an attitude about neckties.
    “Sorry, sir, but neckties are required in the Foley Grill.” He shook his head (slowly, of course, so as not to disturb his blow-dried hair), and lowered his eyes. “House rule. So sorry.”
    “What about him?” Blake jerked his chin at a tieless man at the bar. “And him? And him?”
    The maitre d’ managed a double take worthy of Ralph Kramden reacting to a fat joke. “I’ll have to speak to those gentlemen.” Blake smiled politely. “Give me a tie and I’ll put it on.”
    “We have no ties, sir. Did you have a reservation?”
    “No reservation.” Blake took a minute to count the number of fifteen-hundred-dollar suits scattered about the restaurant. He stopped at twenty, bemused by the reverse snobbery that brought Manhattan’s legal elite to a dive like the Foley Grill. The cluster of federal, state, and local courthouses in Manhattan’s civic center may have been responsible for the sheer numbers, but these were men (and a few women) who could afford the Four Seasons. And the limousine to get them back and forth.
    “Perhaps another restaurant. We have no tables, in any event.”
    Blake nodded thoughtfully. In Hollywood, the extras would have been movie stars; in Manhattan they were attorneys. Either way, it was about status, about who deserved to bathe in the reflected glory of the gathered celebrities and who did not.
    “Oh, I’m not looking for a table.” Blake flashed an affable, goofy smile. “And if I go to another restaurant, the fat guy over there, the one with the cheap wig, is gonna be very disappointed. He’s expecting me.”
    The maitre d’s mouth squeezed itself into a disapproving pout. “Why didn’t you say so?” He sounded like an eight-year-old who’d just been kicked in the ass by the neighborhood bully.
    Blake slid a ten-dollar bill into the man’s hand, watched his eyes flick downward.
    “That’s because I don’t want to join him right away. I’d like to have a drink at the bar first.”
    The maitre d’, his dignity restored, nodded solemnly. “Go right ahead, sir. And please enjoy your meal.”
    Meal? Blake knew he’d be lucky to get a beer’s worth of time from Maxwell Steinberg. He ordered a cup of coffee, weathered the bartender’s sour, disapproving frown, then settled back to study his prospective client. Blake consciously thought of himself as “all things to all people.” He’d once described himself (to Joanna Bardo, as it happened) as “shallow, you scratch the surface, all you find is curiosity.” It was that lack of a central, rock-ribbed Marty Blake that allowed him to present whatever surface his companion-of-the-moment wanted to see.
    So, what did Maxwell Steinberg want to see? Blake watched as the table-hoppers paid court, stopping at Steinberg’s table, muttering a few words. Steinberg, forking lobster into his mouth, didn’t miss a beat. He didn’t ask anyone to sit down, either. The only way to measure the relative importance of the various courtiers was loosely affixed to Max Steinberg’s head. The famous dancing wig. It was as if some modern-day alchemist with a poor understanding of economics had deliberately transformed hair into polyester. The wig’s soft, straight texture contrasted strongly with the coarse hair curling over Steinberg’s ears. The color was off, as well, a