The Client (Page 37)
"Okay," he said. "We’ll get it done." "Paul Gronke’s already here somewhere," Foltrigg said as though he’d just heard fresh gossip. They knew the flight number and his ‘time of arrival eleven hours ago. They had, however, managed to lose his trail once he left the Memphis airport. They had discussed it with Ord and Foltrigg and a dozen other FBI agents for two hours this morning. At this very moment, no less than eight agents were trying to find Gronke in Memphis.
"We’ll find him," McThune said. "And we’ll watch the kid. Why don’t you get your ass back to New Orleans." "I’ll get the van ready," Trumann said officially as if the van were in fact Air Force One.
Foltrigg stopped pacing in front of Ord’s desk.
"We’re leaving, George. Sorry for the intrusion. I’ll probably be back in a couple of days." What wonderful news, Ord thought. He stood, and they shook hands. "Anytime," he said. "If we can help, just call." "I’ll meet with Judge Lamond first thing in the morning. I’ll let you know." Ord offered his hand again for one final shake. Foltrigg took it and headed for the door. "Watch out for these thugs," he advised McThune. "I don’t think he’s dumb enough to touch the kid, but who knows." McThune opened the door and waved him through. Ord followed.
"Muldanno’s heard something," Foltrigg continued, "and they’re just snooping around here." He was in the outer office where Wally Boxx and Thomas Fink waited. "But keep an eye on them, okay, George? These guys are really dangerous. And follow the kid, too, and watch his lawyer. And thanks a million. I’ll call you tomorrow. Where’s the van, Wally?"
AFTER AN HOUR OF WATCHING THE SIDEWALKS, SIPPING HOT cocoa, and listening to his lawyer practice law, Mark was ready for a move. Reggie had called Dianne and explained that Mark was in her office killing time and helping with the paperwork. Ricky was much better, sleeping again. He’d consumed half a gallon of ice cream while Greenway asked him a hundred questions. At eleven, Mark parked himself at Glint’s desk and inspected the dictating equipment. Reggie had a client, a woman who desperately wanted a divorce, and they needed to plot strategy for an hour. Glint typed away on long paper and grabbed the phone every five minutes.
"How’d you become a secretary?" Mark asked, very bored with this candid view of the practice of law.
Glint turned and smiled at him. "It was an accident." "Did you want to be a secretary when you were a kid?" "No. I wanted to build swimming pools." "What happened?" "I don’t know. I got messed up on drugs, almost flunked out of high school, then went to college, then went to law school." "You have to go to law school to be a secretary in a law office?" "No. I flunked out of law school, and Reggie gave me a job. It’s fun, most of the time." "Where’d you meet Reggie?" "It’s a long story. We were friends in law school. We’ve been friends for a long time. She’ll probably tell you about it when you meet Momma Love." "Momma who?" "Momma Love. She hasn’t told you about Momma Love?" "No." "Momma Love is Reggie’s mother. They live together, and she loves to cook for the kids Reggie represents. She fixes inside-out ravioli and spinach lasagna and all sorts of delicious Italian food. Everyone loves it." After two days of doughnuts and green Jell-O, the mention of thick, cheesy dishes cooked at someone’s home was terribly inviting. "When do you think I might meet Momma Love?" "I don’t know. Reggie takes most ot her clients home, especially the younger ones." "Does she have any kids?" "Two, but they’re grown and live away." "Where does Momma Love live?" "In midtown, not far from here. It’s an old house she’s owned for years. In fact, it’s the house Reggie grew up in." The phone rang. Glint took the message and returned to his typewriter. Mark watched intently.
"How’d you learn to type so fast?" The typing stopped, and he slowly turned and looked at Mark. He smiled, and said, "In high school. I had this teacher who was like a drill sergeant. We hated her, but she made us learn. Can you type?" "A little. I’ve had three years of computer at school." Glint pointed to his Apple next to the typewriter. "We’ve got all sorts of computers around here." Mark glanced at it, but was not impressed. Everybody had computers. "So how’d you get to be a secretary?" "It wasn’t planned. When Reggie finished law school, she didn’t want to work for anybody, so she opened this office. It was about four years ago. She needed a secretary, and I volunteered. Have you seen a male secretary before?" "No. Didn’t know men could be secretaries. How’s the money?" Glint chuckled at this. "It’s okay. If Reggie has a good month, then I have a good month. We’re sort of like partners." "Does she make a lot of money?" "Not really. She doesn’t want a lot of money. A few years ago she was married to a doctor, and they had a big house and lots of money. Everything went to hell, and she blames the money for most of it. She’ll probably tell you about it. She’s very honest about her life." "She’s a lawyer and she doesn’t want money?" "Unusual, isn’t it?" "I’ll say. I mean, I’ve seen a lot of lawyer shows on television, and all they do is talk about-money. Sex and money." The phone rang. It was a judge, and Glint got real nice and chatted with him for five minutes. He hung up and returned to his typing. As he reached full speed, Mark asked, "Who’s that woman in there?" Glint stopped, stared at the keys, and slowly turned around. His chair squeaked. He forced a quick smile. "In there with Reggie?" "Yeah." "Norma Thrash." "What’s her problem?" "She’s got a bunch of them, really. She’s in the middle of a nasty divorce. Husband’s a real jerk." Mark was curious about how much Glint knew. "Does he beat her up?" "I don’t think so," he answered slowly.
"Do they have kids and all?" "Two. I really can’t say much about it. It’s confidential, you know?" "Yeah, I know. But you probably know everything, don’t you? I mean, after all, you type it up." "I know most of what goes on. Sure. But Reggie doesn’t tell me everything. For example, I have no idea what you’ve told her. I assume it’s pretty serious, but she’ll keep it to herself. I’ve read the newspaper. I’ve seen the FBI and Mr. Foltrigg, but I don’t know the details." This was exactly what Mark wanted to hear. "Do you know Robert Hackstraw? They call him Hack." "He’s a lawyer, isn’t he?" "Yeah. He represented my mother in her divorce a couple of years ago. A real moron." "You weren’t impressed with her lawyer?" "I hated Hack. He treated us like dirt. We’d go to his office and wait for two hours. Then he’d talk to us for ten minutes’, and tell us he was in a big hurry, had to get to court because he was so important. I tried to convince Mom to get another lawyer, but she was too stressed out." "Did it go to trial?" "Yeah. My ex-father thought he should get one kid, didn’t really care which one but he preferred Ricky ’cause he knew I hated him, so he hired a lawyer, and for two days my mother and my father trashed each other in court. They tried to prove each other was unfit. Hack was a complete fool in the courtroom, but my ex-father’s lawyer was even worse. The judge hated both lawyers, and said he wasn’t about to separate me and Ricky. I asked him if I could testify. He thought about it during lunch on the second day, and decided he wanted to hear what I had to say. I had asked Hack the same question, and he said something smart, like I was too young and dumb to testify." "But you testified." "Yeah, for three hours." "How’d it go?" "I was pretty good, really. I just told about the beatings, the bruises, the stitches. I told him how much I hated my father. The judge almost cried." "And it worked?" "Yeah. My father wanted some visitation rights, and I spent a lot of time explaining to the judge that I had no desire to ever see the man again once the trial was over. And, that Ricky was terrified of him. So the judge not only cut off all visitation, but also told my father to stay away from us." "Have you seen him since?" "No. But I will one day. When I grow up, we’ll catch him somewhere, me and Ricky, and we’ll beat the living hell out of him. Bruise for bruise. Stitch for stitch. We talk about it all the time." Glint was~no longer bored with this little conversation. He listened to every word. The kid was so casual about his plans for beating his father. "You might go to jail." "He didn’t go to jail when he beat us. He didn’t go to jail when he stripped my mother naked and threw her in the street with blood all over her. That’s when I hit him with the baseball bat." "You what?" "He was drinking one night at home, and we could tell he was about to get out of hand. We could always tell. Then he left to buy more beer. I ran down the street and borrowed an aluminum tee ball bat from Michael Moss. I hid it under my bed, and I remember praying for a good car wreck so he wouldn’t come home. But he did. Mom was in their bedroom, hoping he would just pass out, which he did all the time. Ricky and I stayed in our room, waiting for the explosion." The phone rang again, and Glint quickly took the message and returned to the story.