When I called Pansy she rolled back in the door, looking expectant. I went to the fridge again and got a big slab of steak. “You’re a good girl, Pansy. Yes, you’re a fine girl, a perfect friend, aren’t you?” She happily agreed as I tossed the steak through the air at her, saying “Speak!” This piece was so big she actually chewed it for a second or two before making it disappear. The best things never last.

I went over to the couch Flood had occupied, took off my shoes, laid back against one of the pillows, and closed my eyes.

WHEN I WOKE up, it was already getting dark. Pansy was looking at me like she was dying to go out, but I knew that was an act. The dog has the metabolism of a diesel engine-she doesn’t move fast but she can go for days and days without stopping. I let her out to the roof anyway, like I usually do at night. While she was upstairs, I set about putting together my props for the night’s work. Miss Flood wasn’t the only person of honor on this planet. When I bet that hundred with Maurice, I was really betting that she’d show with the money she’d promised. I won that bet, but I didn’t expect to be as successful at Yonkers as I was at reading human character. And Maurice would want his money tomorrow. My heart doesn’t run a heavy risk of stopping from overwork-I only use it for betting on horses.

Tonight there was a lovely three-year-old going in a C-3 pace who hadn’t won all damn year. But he was a colt by Armbro Nesbit, who held the track record. I was there the night he set it. Usually, I have a tremendous bias in favor of horses who run off the pace and then come from behind in the stretch, like I’m always telling myself I’m going to do someday. But Armbro Nesbit always rocketed to the lead, dictated the fractions, and just dared the other animals to come at him. After his four-year-old season, his people put him out to stud, and he only got two crops before he died in his stall. A lot of asshole horse-players laughed about how he must have died happy, but they don’t know anything. He didn’t die happy. The only way Armbro Nesbit would have died happy was on the front end of the mile, charging for home.

Anyway, this horse I bet on tonight was his son, and I wanted him to win. And I realized that I’d have to see Maurice in the morning if I wanted to keep that line of credit open.

When I got Pansy downstairs, I called Mama and learned that this James character hadn’t called back. I went into the closet next door to dress since I needed to look good for the night’s Murphy Game. I fingered my one silk shirt. I love that shirt-it’s from Sulka’s and it cost me a hundred and fifty dollars. The way it works with Sulka’s is that you go in and order a dozen shirts, so they treat you like a citizen. But you have to know up front that they won’t make you a dozen shirts until they get one that fits perfectly. So, when I had the money, I went up there and got fitted. The sample they made me up was this beautiful rose silk, with no pockets and french cuffs with my initials (“mb” for Mister Burke) on the left cuff. I paid for the one shirt (a class outfit, they didn’t raise their eyebrows at cash), and told them I’d be back in a couple of days to pick out the rest of the colors I needed. I never went back, of course. But I couldn’t wear that shirt for this game, so I found a nice blue oxford-cloth buttondown, a plain blue tie, and a dark blue pinstripe that fell off a rack in the garment district along with several others last year. All the department stores have my size-it’s called “shrinkage.” With my black brogans polished, I took an attache case from the closet floor and was ready to operate. I thought I’d stop by Mama’s if I got the chance, so I told Pansy I’d bring her something good when I got back.

I went down the stairs to the garage, put the gun back next to the transmission hump-at least I knew where this Cobra was-and hung the suitcoat neatly in the back so it wouldn’t wrinkle. I wanted to get to the Criminal Court before they started doing heavy business with the night arraignments.

It’s lucky the court’s not far from my office. I parked the car illegally in the back, put my PBA card that says “Attorney” on its embossed silver police shield on the dashboard, and flipped the switch in the glove compartment that would keep the car from moving even if some skell tried to steal it. Then I walked around to the front entrance, looking for Blumberg, Artuli or any of my regulars.

As I walked inside the marble-floored slime pit I spotted Blumberg in his usual position. He was leaning up against the information booth that hasn’t been occupied in years and trying not to look like what he is-a fat slob is what he is, but he isn’t any worse than Legal Aid for night court. Blumberg won’t try a case-but he’ll plead you fast and, all things being equal, plead you pretty well. His doughy face arranged itself into a smile when he saw me. “So, Burke, how’s the boy?”

“Got anything on tonight, Sam?”

“Well, my boy, I’m not sure. I did have this client call me and ask me to meet him here, but he didn’t give a name. He said he would recognize me.”

“From the front-page coverage of your last big trial, no doubt?”

“There’s no profit in hostility, Burke. You want to work tonight?”

“That’s why I’m here, Sam. The usual twenty-five percent?”

“Well, I’ll tell you, son. There are guys working for twenty now, and there’s one Spanish kid who works for ten, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Listen, you want a yard in front, right? Okay, I’ll get you the whole yard, no percentage, and I keep everything over that. How’s that for a deal?”

“Burke, you’re sure you’re not Jewish? How about twenty-five percent up to two hundred, and a third after that?”

“Right. Look, I got to go to work. Try and at least look like a real lawyer for a couple hours, okay?”

He didn’t answer and I went to work.

You have to know who to look for-that’s always the game. Forget the hookers. They never have a dime anyway, and if they’re not already in the pens waiting for arraignment, they’re carrying some scumbag pimp’s money to pay another girl’s fines. And real poor people are a waste of time too, for obvious practical reasons. What you want is some lame who thinks a private lawyer is going to do more for him than Legal Aid-someone who thinks he’s got an image, even if he was busted for stealing welfare checks. But the best is some parent whose kid has just been arrested. Tonight I couldn’t wait for the best, just a fast hundred and out the door. Breaking my ass to get back to zero. The people inside the big building were all worried about getting a sentence-and here I was, already serving mine.

My first customers were a black couple-the man about forty-five, still wearing work clothes, and his wife, dressed up her Pentecostal best. I stood there looking like one hell of a lawyer, but they didn’t move. So I did. “Pardon me, sir, are you here for your son’s arraignment tonight?”

“Yes-yes, I am. Are you the man from the Legal Aid?”

A slightly sardonic laugh, “No sir, you’ll be able to recognize them easily enough. They’ll be the kids wearing blue jeans with the long hair. Just pick out the first one you see who doesn’t even look like a lawyer.”

From the woman, “Oh my God. Harry, do you…” As I turned and acted like I was walking away to some important business, the man lightly touched my sleeve: “Sir, excuse me, are you a lawyer?”

“No, I’m a private investigator. I work for Mr. Blumberg. You know, Sam Blumberg,”-like the fat man’s name should mean something to them. “I’m here tonight on a case with Mr. Blumberg, but I think his last motion to suppress was so effective that the charges will be dismissed, so I won’t have anything else to do.”

“We don’t have a private lawyer. The police said that Henry would have Legal Aid-we didn’t have to have one.”