56

By five o’clock McCracken’s secretary was gone for the day, so I let myself in. After I told him what I’d learned about the lawyers, we sat quietly for a while and thought about it.

“You realize it doesn’t prove anything,” he said.

“I know.”

“A big law firm like that handles a lot of incorporation papers.”

“It does.”

“But it’s a hell of a coincidence.

“It is.”

We sat and thought about it some more.

“Be good if we could find out who owns the five companies,” he said.

“It would.”

“But there’s no way to find that out.”

“None that I know of, unless one of the lawyers decides to risk disbarment and betray a confidence.”

“Which isn’t goddamned likely.”

“No, it isn’t.”

He opened the inlaid cherrywood humidor on his desk, took out two maduro torpedoes, clipped the ends, and offered me one. He lit his with a wooden match, and I torched mine with the Colibri. We sat and smoked for a while.

“Did you remember to broadcast the description of the little thug?” I asked.

“To every insurance investigator I know,” he said. “Didn’t ring any bells.”

“He said he’d come back for me if I didn’t stop poking around.”

“And you haven’t.”

“Of course not.”

“What are you going to do when he comes?”

“Interview him.”

“Would that be before or after you kick his ass?”

“That’ll be up to him.”

The Cate Brothers riffed from my pants pocket. I checked caller ID, saw it was Dorcas, and let it go to voice mail. I was stuffing the phone back in my pocket when the band came back for an encore.

“Hi baby. Just wanted to let you know I can’t see you tonight. I’m meeting a source for dinner, and it could go late.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Definitely tomorrow. Miss you like crazy. Gotta run. Bye.”

Note to self: Change the ring tone to a song that doesn’t have the words losing you in the title.

“So,” I said. “Want to catch the Sox-Yankees game tonight?”

“You have tickets?” McCracken said.

“Yeah. Box seats at Hopes. I’ll call Rosie, see if she wants to join us.”

“Chief Lesbo?”

“Hey, I warned you about that.”

“But she is a lesbian, Mulligan. I know for sure now.”

“How’s that?”

“I asked her out, and she turned me down flat.”

“That’s how you can tell?”

“Of course.”

“You must meet a lot of lesbians.”

*  *  *

Rosie settled onto a bar stool between me and McCracken just as Derek Jeter dug in against our ace, Josh Beckett. Mike Mussina matched him pitch for pitch until Ramirez homered in the bottom of the fifth. A long rain delay provided plenty of time for beer and for McCracken to give it another try with Rosie.

“Sorry,” she said, “but you’re not my type.”

“What is your type?”

“That’s my type right there,” she said, pointing to the TV over the bar. The rain had finally stopped, and Manny Ramirez was running through the wet grass to take his position in front of the Green Monster. “Oh, my God, he’s so hot.”

Papelbon slammed the door on the Pinstripes in the ninth, Hopes erupted in the traditional “Yankees Suck” chant, somebody dumped a beer on an asshole in a Jeter jersey, and Annie grabbed the remote, switching the TV to the Channel 10 News. Then she made the rounds of the tables, snatching dollar bills and hiking her skirt up those long legs. A good time was had by all. Except the guy in the Jeter jersey.

That night, I stayed up late with a Tim Dorsey novel, hoping the little thug would finally make an appearance. About three in the morning, he did.