Free Parker Field by Howard Owen Page B

Les.
    “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. Shit. This makes it even more awkward.”
    “What?”
    There’s a pause.
    “I’m probably going to be his lawyer. One of them at least.”
    It doesn’t compute for a few seconds.
    “You’re going to defend the guy who tried to kill Les?”
    “Everybody deserves a lawyer, Willie.”
    I should have seen it coming. She’s working with Marcus Green now, and he’s a magnet for cases like Raymond Gatewood’s. After getting pulled into a couple of hopeless causes that turned out to be not so hopeless after all, thanks to a little help from yours truly, my ex-wife decided that teaming up with a self-promoting, muckraking defender of truth, justice and the American way was more fun than the corporate tedium of Bartley, Bowman and Bush.
    I just hope that Mr. Ellis is bringing in steady income. Hell, they’re a two-lawyer family. Not to worry, even with a baby on the way.
    I tell Kate that some people don’t deserve shit.
    “I know how you feel, but you should see this guy, Willie. I’m not sure he could find the elevator to the ninth floor, let alone get his hands on a rifle and hit something—somebody—halfway across Monroe Park.”
    I tell her it isn’t too damn hard to lay hands on a gun in Virginia. It’s probably harder to buy a pack of cigarettes.
    “I know. I know. But he just seems so, I don’t know, helpless.”
    “Les Hacker is helpless. I’ve seen helpless today.”
    She sighs.
    “I’m sorry, Willie. I really am. I just wanted you to know. Somebody’s got to make sure he really did do it.”
    I tell her that’s what the police are for.
    Kate Ellis, the former Kate Black, is always going to take on the hopeless case. She even took me on for longer than she should have.
    I have the grace to ask her how the baby’s doing and when it’s due.
    “October. I told you.”
    I resist the urge to advise her that maybe she ought to take it easy for a while. Kate has never taken it easy.

Chapter Seven
    W EDNESDAY
    I drive Peggy over to the hospital. She asks me if I mind if she finishes her joint on the way over. Why the hell not? She probably needs some chemical support. I suggest that she might consider moving somewhere like Seattle, where her affinity for weed won’t be so much of an issue. She says she doesn’t like rain. Awesome Dude, riding in the back seat, helps her toke it down to what couldn’t even be called a roach about the time we park. A fume of illegal smoke follows us as we leave the car.
    I spend a couple of hours at the hospital, then leave Peggy and Awesome there. Les seems about the same. Some cheerful uniformed soul came in and started chirping about rehabilitation. Her optimism did not seem to convey to Les, who mostly stared up at the ceiling.
    I called Finlay Rand before I left home and arranged to meet him in his unit at noon.
    Rand answers and ushers me in. He’s probably a little older than me but better preserved, with a salt-and-pepper mustache. What little bit of hair he has left is swept back and shouts out “sixty-dollar haircut.” He must have someone else to meet today, because he’s decked out in better threads than I’d wear to a funeral. I’m trying not to be self-conscious about my wear-it-’til-it-smells-bad shirt and the mustard stain on my khakis.
    His unit and mine are twins of each other, but those twins must have been separated at birth.
    Custalow and I have a lighted Miller sign facing the card table that works equally well for fine dining and poker parties. Finlay Rand has a table that might have belonged to one of the more affluent kings of France. Where it’s set up, he could make it as long as fourteen feet, and I have no doubt he has the leaves to do it. The frame for the art above it probably is worth more than my Honda.
    Our hardwood floors’ scuff marks are mostly hidden by throw rugs from Target. Rand’s are covered with Oriental carpets so valuable he won’t serve red wine at parties. I’m surprised he