Dead Ringer

“Really?” Be

“You’re welcome. Now what are you doing there?”

“Picking a lunch partner. It’s either my friend Sam or a potential client, Mort Abrams.” Be

“Oh, you lawyers have big problems.”

“Hey, it matters. At least today it does.”

“I’m just the undercover bodyguard. All I care about is where you’re go

“That’s all I care about too. And that, I already know.”

“Aha, I see,” David said, catching up, and Be

“You’re learning, sailor.”

Silverware jingled as busboys cleared empty tables, ice cubes clinked in scotch glasses carried on round trays, and waiters in white coats rustled as they moved professionally between the tables packed with lunchtime patrons, who were buzzing with laughter and conversation. The Palm was one of the most popular restaurants in the city because of location, not decor. The design was early steakhouse, and the walls were blanketed with hand-painted head shots of local celebrities, like TV weathermen. But with City Hall, the Criminal Justice Center, and major hotels within a three-block radius, politicians, lawyers, and tourists flocked to the place, gobbling down grilled New York strip steaks and humongous Gulf shrimp.

Be

“I am above size jokes, honey.” Sam scooped a cherrystone into his mouth and leaned over his plate of tiny clamshells, with a pool of gritty water at the bottom. “So tell me what progress the cops have made.”

“None. And thanks for the check, by the way. I did cash it, you devil.”

“Ain’t I a stinker?” They shared a table by the window, overlooking Broad Street. Indirect light brightened the spot, and Sam used it to examine his fingernails after he’d wiped his hands on the thick cloth napkin. “I’m so sorry about your client.”

“Me, too. Robert was a wonderful man. You would have loved him.”

“I’m sure. I love anybody who talks like Pepé Le Pew.” Sam sipped his ice water and eyed the traffic out the window, on Broad. “You think it was this tourist thing?”

“It’s a possibility.” Be

Sam set down his water in disbelief. “You are?”

“Yes.”

“You’re staying out of it?”

“Absolutely.” Be

“I quite agree.” Sam’s expression turned grave, the corners of his reddish mustache turning down. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss that somebody is out there targeting foreigners. The way the mood has been in this country lately, there’s a lot more xenophobia. It’s just another form of hate crime, and believe me, you don’t have to convince a gay man that hate crimes exist. I have a friend who’s gay and Iranian. He shaved his beard and went drag.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Be

“Sure do.” Sam sighed. “Anyway, I have to tell you, as bad as I felt for your client, I felt worse for you. I don’t want to think about what losing his case means for you, Be

“Not so fast,” Be

“Also I’d pick up the tab.”

“Okay, that, too. Sorry. Also, guess what? I was offered two million bucks for my firm this morning.”

“What?” Sam dropped his clam fork. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?” So Be

“Why?”

“No, three words. Sell, sell, sell.” Sam wet his lips “Or how about, sell right now. Or, sell it, honey.”

“I built that firm. I saw it through everything. I grew it to full staff. I worked my ass off. Why should I sell out?”

“It’s not selling out, it’s selling, and are you seriously asking me why? Why? You’re bankrupt, you idiot! Did you forget?” Sam rolled his eyes behind his hip glasses. “Be

“But Linette’s only buying us to keep the class. He doesn’t care about Rosato amp; Associates.”

“So what?”

“I don’t want to practice class-action law.”

“Who cares? If you’re right, Linette doesn’t want you to, either. Be a consultant. Show up and say hi. Put your name on the papers.”

“That’s not lawyering.”

“So quit after a respectable time period and go lawyer somewhere else. With that kind of money, you can start another firm.” Sam’s eyes flared with urgency as a waiter came over with their lunch entrées. The waiter’s pristine white jacket read Westley and he was an older man, and balding. With an efficient air, he set a salmon filet in front of Sam and a strip steak in front of Be

“Thank you,” Be

“No, miss,” the waiter answered matter-of-factly. “Yesterday was my day off.”

“Thank you,” Be

“Is anything the matter, miss?” the waiter asked, and Be

“No, thanks. Everything’s fine. I was just curious, is this the knife you give with every steak?”

“Yes.”

“There aren’t bigger ones?”

“No, I’m sure this will be fine for your purposes. We use it for the prime rib and the filet mignon. Though if you wish another, perhaps I could ask around in the kitchen.”

“No. No, thanks.” The waiter left, and Sam eyed her warily.

“Don’t tell me, lemme guess. St. Amien ate here last night, before he was knifed to death.”

Ouch. “I’m just curious, okay?”

“Stay out of it, Be

“I am. I will. I was just asking.”

“Right. Sure.” Sam picked up his fork and separated an end flake of his salmon, encrusted with dill and coarse pink peppercorn. “I’ll eat while you go over and depose the maitre d’.”