Cliff Walk: A Liam Mulligan Novel (11 page)

In honor of the occasion, I’d shed my usual sweatshirt, jeans, and Reeboks in favor of Dockers, a white dress shirt, a Jerry Garcia tie, and buffed brogans. I’d topped off the ensemble with a double-breasted navy blue Sears blazer that went out of style when Roebuck was still around. It was the only suit jacket I owned since I left my new one behind on an Amtrak train last year. I hadn’t worn the blazer in a long time, but it still fit, more or less. It wasn’t loose enough to conceal a large handgun, however, so I’d reluctantly left the Colt locked in my file drawer.

Yolanda Mosley-Jones had declined to see me in her office, explaining that nosy reporters were banned from the firm’s inner sanctum. After some whining on my part, she’d agreed to meet for lunch. When I slipped into the place, she was already there, sitting at the bar sipping a pale yellow something from a martini glass and fiddling with her BlackBerry. She didn’t see me come in, so I stood there and watched her for a moment, admiring the legs she came in on.

Yolanda was more alluring fully clothed than the babes at Shakehouse were naked. I stood there a little longer, trying to come up with a good opening line, but the sight of her had me flustered. She spotted me in the mirror over the bar, tucked the BlackBerry into her purse, and spun toward me, giving me a better look at those perfect legs entwined around the luckiest barstool in town.

I never understood how some women can dress so simply yet ooze elegance. Yolanda was encased in a black silk suit that must have been made for her. Beneath the jacket, buttoned just low enough to jump-start my imagination, no blouse was evident. Instead, a cascade of thin gold chains sparked against skin so black it was nearly blue, and fell
there.

“Sit,” she said, patting the adjacent barstool. “Our table will be ready in a couple of minutes.”

I sat and discovered my blazer didn’t fit as well as I thought. The top button strained to hold the fabric across my belly.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

“A wildberry apple vodka Hawaiian sherbet.”

Good God, I thought, but what I said was, “Ready for another?”

“Not quite yet.” Her voice was so smoky I could smell it.

The bartender sidled over, and I asked for a Killian’s. They didn’t carry it, so I settled for a Samuel Adams.

“I hear they gave you Brady Coyle’s old corner office,” I said.

“Yes.”

“And made you a partner.”

“True.”

“Things are working out for you, then.”

“They are.”

“No blowback from that favor you did for me last year?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“No, of course not. It never happened. But if it
had
happened and you’d gotten caught, which you didn’t, you could have been fired. Even disbarred. I don’t think I ever properly thanked you. That was a noble thing you never did.”

She stared at me now as if she were being accosted by a lunatic. I was about to blabber something equally incoherent when the maître d’ came to the rescue. He seated us at a cozy table for two, and romance was in the air. Or maybe it was just the smell of something spicy she’d dabbed on her skin.

Yolanda studied the menu while an elderly waiter too short to ride the Cyclone at Six Flags fetched fresh drinks and filled our water glasses. I scanned the prices. The
Dispatch
’s bean counters might have preferred paying for that blow job.

“Claus,” she said without looking up, “I’ll start with the pan-fried calamari and hot cherry peppers. And for my entrée, the sushi-grade sesame seared tuna with gingered rice.”

“An excellent choice! And for the gentleman?”

“Ah … I’m gonna skip the appetizer and have the signature cheeseburger with fries.”

Claus sniffed at me and went away.

“I’ve been reading about the layoffs at the
Dispatch,
” Yolanda said. “I guess they must be clamping down on expense account lunches, too, huh?”

“That they are.”

“Oh, Claus?” She waved the little waiter back. “Scratch the gentleman’s order and bring him the smoked salmon appetizer and the sliced filet mignon with cipollini onions and wild mushrooms.”

“Certainly, madam,” he said. Then he smirked at me and turned away.

“Trying to get me fired?” I said.

“No worries. It’s on the firm.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s against
Dispatch
policy.”

“And why would that be?”

“Afraid it might make me beholden, I guess.” Her lips parted in a half smile, as if she knew what I wanted to be holdin’.

“So we won’t tell them,” she said.

“Ah,” I said. “You lawyers know all the tricks.”

“Besides,” she said, “this way I can snatch a few morsels from your plate.” And when Claus returned with the appetizers, she pinched a sliver of my salmon with her fingers and popped it into that mouth.

“So I understand you are representing Vanessa Maniella,” I said.

“I’m not at liberty to confirm that.”

“She gave your name to the state police, Yolanda.”

“I can’t confirm that, either.”

“Do you also represent her father?”

“Same answer.”

“He
is
dead, right?”

“I couldn’t say.” She lifted another chunk of my smoked salmon and added, “I warned you I wasn’t going to be much help.”

“So far, you haven’t been any.”

“Told ya.”

“Except, of course, for the inspiration I get from your presence.”

“There is always that,” she said. That half smile again.

“You know what puzzles me most?” I asked.

“Rap music? Black Republicans? How we lawyers can live with ourselves?”

“Well, yeah, but I was also wondering why Vanessa Maniella refuses to go to the morgue to ID the body.”

“Maybe you should ask
her
about that.”

“I would,” I said, “but some very large men in her employ have advised against it.”

“I see.”

“I was going to tell them where to go,” I said, “but I was afraid I might scare them to death.”

Claus was back now, refilling water glasses and whisking our empty plates away to the kitchen. Moments later he returned with the entrées, and we dug in.

“Mulligan?”

“Um?”

“Know what puzzles
me
most?”

“What would that be?”

“Why haven’t you unbuttoned that blazer? It’s obviously a bit tight on you, and I can tell you’re uncomfortable.”

“Not as uncomfortable as I’d be if I unbuttoned it.”

“And why is that?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, it’s like this. There was an old coffee cup on my desk. I thought it was empty, but…”

She was chuckling now, and I hadn’t even reached the good part.

“When I stood up to come here,” I said, “I knocked it over and, uh … I didn’t have time to go home to change.”

“So you have a coffee stain on your nice white shirt.”

“A little spot, yeah.”

“Open up,” she said, nodding toward the groaning button.

“What for?”

“Because it would amuse me.”

“If that’s what it takes,” I said, and unbuttoned the jacket.

“Oh, snap!”

“Yeah.”

“You sure it was just a cup? Looks like the whole damn pot.”

She was laughing harder now, her head thrown back. It made her look even more beautiful.

That’s when Claus reappeared and said, “Are we ready for dessert? Coffee, perhaps?” His timing was impeccable.

“No coffee for me,” I said. “I already have some.”

Yolanda put her elbows on the table, folded her hands, and rested her chin on them.

“You really are charming in a klutzy sort of way.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Claus spotted the stain and smirked at me again.

“Two Irish coffees,” Yolanda told him, “and we’ll share a slice of cheesecake with strawberries.”

“Right away.”

“And Claus?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Stop throwin’ shade at my friend if you expect the usual tip.”

Claus skittered away. I’d never seen anyone skitter before, but I’m pretty sure that’s what it was.

“You didn’t have to defend me,” I said after he’d gone. “I think I could have taken him.”

She rested her chin on her hands again and gave me an appraising look. I tried my best to appear irresistible, no easy thing with my torso drenched in Folgers.

“Hey,” I said, “do you like the blues?”

“I’m a Chicago girl, West Side. Damn right I like the blues. On the drive in from East Greenwich this morning, I jammed all the Littles on my iPod.”

“The Littles?”

“You know. Little Milton, Little Walter, Little Buddy Doyle…”

“Cool.”

“On the way home, I’m gonna switch to the Bigs. Big Bill Dolson, Big Pete Pearson, Big Time Sarah…”

“I never thought to sort them by weight class.”

I opened my mouth to say something more, but Claus was back with the coffee and cheesecake, and I saw no need to make him a party to my imminent rejection. Yolanda scooped a bit of the cheesecake into her mouth, closed her eyes, and went, “Mmmm.” I wanted to hear that sound again, but without cheesecake in the picture.

“So listen,” I said when Claus was gone, “Buddy Guy’s at the House of Blues in Boston a week from Saturday. Why don’t we go?”

“Not happenin’, Mulligan.”

“You don’t like Buddy Guy?”

“You just don’t know. I
adore
Buddy Guy. It’s you I’ve got a problem with.”

“Problem?”

“I told you before, Mulligan. I’m not into white boys.”

“It’s been a long time since I was a boy.”

“I’ll give you that, but you can’t outgrow being white.”

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m black Irish.”

“Doesn’t count,” she said, but her eyes were dancing.

“I’ve got rhythm, too.”

“Yeah, right,” she said. “You’re a regular James Brown.”

“We have so much in common, Yolanda.”

“This I’ve
got
to hear.”

“There’s the blues, for starters. We both dig Buddy Guy. And we’re city kids, both of us raised in one of America’s throbbing metropolises.”

“I thought you grew up here.”

“That I did.”

“Providence throbs?”

“Daily.”

“I haven’t noticed any throbbing.”

A thought popped into my head, but I suppressed it before it escaped. Instead, I said, “Buddy Guy’s from Chicago, too.”

“Actually, he was born in Louisiana.”

“Well, yeah. But his club’s in Chicago.”

“Before I moved here,” she said, “I used to hang out at his joint all the time. Don’t hear music like that anywhere else. Sometimes Buddy even showed up to jam.”

“You’re talking about Legends,” I said.

“Damn straight.” She eyed the colossal coffee stain. “Maybe you’re smarter than you look.”

“I’d almost have to be.”

She smiled at that, but part of her was still in Chicago. “The chitlins and cornbread at Legends were as good as my mama’s.”

I’d never met a chitlin, but it seemed unwise to bring that up. Instead, I played another card.

“My favorite poet’s from Chicago. She’s West Side, just like you.”

“Gwendolyn Brooks?”

“Patricia Smith.”

Yolanda looked skeptical, so I tossed out a few lines:

I always shudder when I pray,

so your name must be a prayer.

Saying your name colors my mouth,

frees loose this river, changes my skin,

turns my spine to string. I pray all the time now.

Amen.

“My, my,” she said. “Aren’t
you
full of surprises. What next? Maybe warble a verse or two of ‘Lift Every Voice and Sing’?”

“I can if you want me to,” I said, “but Claus would ask us to leave.”

“Better wait till we finish dessert.”

“You know,” I said, “Patricia reads in Boston every now and then. Next time, we should go see her.”

“Got a thing for sistas from Chi-Town, do you?”

“Just two of them.”

“Maybe you should ask
her
out.”

“She’s married.”

“So are you, last heard.”

“Yeah, but mine’s all over except for the lawyering.”

She thought about that for a moment while I idly compared her with Dorcas and almost laughed out loud.

“So Buddy Guy’s in Boston next week,” she said.

“Yes, he is.”

“Buddy’s no joke.”

“And I have two tickets.”

“Okay, let’s do this.”

“Great.”

“But we’re just going together. We’re not
goin’
together.”

“Of course not.”

“So you better keep that mouth and those hands to yourself.”

Not the final disposition of the case, I hoped. After a change of venue, perhaps she might entertain a plea bargain.

18

I was on my way back to the office when Peggi called.

“I didn’t find anything weird on his desktop,” she said.

“What about the laptop?”

“He left it behind when he headed out a few minutes ago for a meeting at the Rhode Island Hospital. I’ve got it open in front of me, but it’s password protected.”

“Try his birthday?”

“Yeah. Forward and backward. Also tried his wedding anniversary, his wife’s name, his kids’ names, his dog’s name, and all their birthdays. Except for the dog’s. I don’t know that one.”

“Well, it’s not something random,” I said. “He would have picked a name or number that means something him. Does he have a boat?”

“Yeah. The
Caped Crusader.
I tried it already.”

“His wife’s maiden name?”

“Tried it.”

“Siblings?”

“Tried them, too.”

“Parents’ names?”

“Don’t know what they were.”

“What about his middle name?”

“It’s Bruce. Already tried it.”

“Charles
Bruce
Wayne?”

“Yeah.”

“That explains the boat. Try ‘Batman.’”

She chuckled and said, “Didn’t think of that.… Nope. Doesn’t work.… Hold on a sec.” She put down the phone, and it was several minutes before she picked it up again. “I tried Robin, Batgirl, Joker, Penguin, Riddler, Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Two-Face, Commissioner Gordon, Gotham, and Batmobile. None of them worked.”