Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (best fiction books to read TXT) 📗

Daddy brought Guy into the business, made him start at the bottom, shoveling shit, both literally and figuratively, just like my grandfather had done with him. But Guy is a lot like Daddy. He's not afraid of hard work and has great patience. It took over twenty years, but Guy pretty much runs everything now."

"And your mother?"

"So elegant and beautiful. I wanted to be just like her, at least until I went into my rebellious stage. Body piercing, drinking, drugs when I was twelve. Mom died of a heart attack when I was thirteen."

"I'm sorry."

"She was so young. She had always been frail, and she drank too much, especially the last two or three years. She was a lonely, unhappy woman."

"So your father raised you?"

"He tried. I was pretty wild as a teenager, and it horrified Daddy. He would have locked me in my room if he could."

There was a knock at the door. Chrissy reached across the table and took my hand. "Are we out of time? I really don't want you to go."

I took her hand between both of mine. "Relax. There's only a time limit in the movies. I'm your lawyer, and I can stay all day."

The door opened, and an enormous female jail guard toddled in, carrying a brown paper bag, a set of keys jiggling on her wide belt. She had cocoa skin and dreadlocked hair, and her nametag read "D. Scruggs."

"Hello, Do-lo," I said. "Chrissy, this is Dolores. If you have any problems—"

"You just call me, honey," Dolores said, smiling at my client. "One look at you, and I know you're in the wrong place."

"Thank you. I . . ."

Dolores was unloading takeout containers from the paper bag. The small room filled with the aroma of spicy pork.

"Chinese?" Chrissy asked. "You can order out here?"

"Jake can," Dolores said. "Anything he wants for his clients."

"How about bolt cutters with the moo shu?" I suggested.

"Don't be funning me," Dolores said, then turned to Chrissy. "Jake tell you about the last client he had who sat in that chair?"

Chrissy looked concerned. "No."

"Jake always advises his clients to show up in court clean and well dressed, ain't that right?"

"Do-lo, is this necessary?"

"So, this sister comes into the arraignment in a fancy suit, sort of avocado-colored, by one of your designers, like a . . ."

"Chanel?" Chrissy helped out.

"Yeah, something like that, with a double strand of pearls, the real thing. And Jake had just pleaded her not guilty to a home burglary, when there's this scream from the gallery. I mean, a woman screams bloody murder. Am I lying, Jake?"

"Actually, she screamed, 'Thief!' She was the victim, and she ran down the aisle yelling, 'That's my suit, my pearls!' "

"So, honey," Dolores said, "you be careful when you follow this mouthpiece's advice." Cackling with laughter, she headed out the door.

After a moment, Chrissy asked, "What was your defense?"

"The suit looked better on my client," I said.

"No, seriously."

"A wise old friend of mine taught me that lawyering is like playing poker. One of the first things you learn in poker is when to fold your cards. We pled guilty."

"Oh," Chrissy sighed, and I could tell she was wondering about my competence. Why should she be any different from anyone else? I opened the containers and peeled the chopsticks out of their paper. "Dolores seems very fond of you," Chrissy said. Probably wondering just how many of my clients end up in jail.

"Her name means 'sorrow' in Latin. My same wise old friend told me that. Do-lo put three of her own kids through college and is a foster mom to about a dozen more. Incorrigibles, kids nobody wants. When they get in trouble, which is often, I handle their cases."

"For free?"

"For some of Dolores's home-cooked ribs or special considerations for a hungry client."

Chrissy was already digging into the shredded cabbage and wood mushrooms of the moo shu pork. "God, this is good. Do you know what the food's like in this place?"

"Yeah, the Donner Party ate better in the winter of 1846."

We sat a moment in silence before I got us back on track. "Your father would have locked you in your room. . . ."

"And I would have done anything to get out. Out of the mansion, out of Palm Beach. When a talent scout spotted me on Worth Avenue and said I could be a top model, I told Daddy I was going to Paris, and he yelled, 'You're only sixteen!' So I said, 'Mom married you when she was seventeen.' "

"Touché."

"Yeah, but Daddy said he doubted she would have done it if she had a second chance."

I gobbled a spring roll. "So you went to Europe."

"I was so-o-o-o naive. I had a book of photos shot by an amateur in Lauderdale. They were laughable, really hideous. Poorly lit, dumb, stilted poses like a kid pretending to be a model, my hair sprayed into place like concrete."

"Did you get work?"

"Not at first."

Chrissy opened a plastic cup of hot tea and took a sip. "I took my book into the office of one of the scouts for a big Parisian agency. They call them rabatteurs, the men who beat the bushes to flush out the prey. Only in this case, instead of rabbits . . ."

"Young girls who want to be models."

"Right. He was right out of Central Casting, a little mustache, a lewd twinkle in his eye, and he wore a white silk scarf in the office. Anyway, he offers me a glass of wine and starts looking through the book. He laughs, says something to himself in French, laughs again. 'Do you know what a go-see is?' he asks me. I tell him, 'Sure, it's when a model takes her pictures to a client to get work.' Then he puts the book in his lap, unbuttons his fly, and lays out his dick, right at the fold. 'Oui, but for you to get work, chérie, a go-see is a go-suck.' "

"This guy must have gone to