Bloody River Blues

about an hour after that a deal was struck: In exchange for a probation plea recommendationGaudia would hand over Peter Crimmins’s balls on a fourteen-karat gold plate.
    But now Gaudia was dead as a rock and Peter Crimmins knew that U.S. Attorney Peterson had yet another count he wished to add to those forty-four indictments: Crimmins’s murder of a government witness.
    Crimmins was lost in thought about this situation when the outer door to his office opened and his lawyer entered. They shook hands and the man sat. The lawyer was beefy, with an automatic pilot of a smile that would kick in at any time for no seeming reason. He played tennis on powerful legs and drove a Porsche. He said things like, “Pete, my man, I’d look at that deal with a proctoscope.” And “As your counselor and as your friend I’d advise you . . .”
    Crimmins had never told the man he was his friend.
    The lawyer now asked bluntly, “Where were you Friday night?”
    “What are you asking?”
    “I gotta know, Pete. Were you with anybody?”
    “You think I killed Gaudia?” Crimmins asked.
    “I don’t ask my clients if they’re guilty or not. I want to establish your alibi, not your innocence.”
    “Well, I’m telling you,” Crimmins said. “I didn’t kill anybody.”
    The lawyer tightened the titanium knot of his silk tie. “Did you hint to anybody—?”
    “No.” After the indictment he had stopped associating with his toughest muscle. He reminded the man of this.
    “Well, you could have set it up ahead of time. Hey, I’m just telling you what the cop’ll be thinking.”
    Crimmins raised his voice. “I didn’t do it.”
    The lawyer looked sideways and clearly did not believe this denial. “It’s not what I think. It’s what the U.S. Attorney is going to think. And I’ll tell you, with Gaudia gone, Peterson’s got you by a lot less short hairs than he did two days ago.”
    Crimmins knew this, of course. “You think the indictment won’t stick?”
    “Peterson’s a whore pup. Your conviction is his ticket to D.C. He believes in his soul you killed Gaudia and he’s going to turn you fucking—”
    “I don’t like those words you use,” Crimmins muttered.
    “—inside out. Your case gets thrown out, he’s going to lose his media defendant.”
    “There are plenty of defendants to go around.”
    The lawyer was losing patience. “But he wants you . You’re the one he told the world he was going to get. You’re the one he had. He’ll be a bitch in heat. Mark my words.”
    “This is selective prosecution.” Crimmins believed he knew enough law to be a lawyer himself.
    “I’ve got your closing statement all prepared, Pete. I don’t need to hear your version of it.”
    Why was Crimmins putting his life—well, his liberty and pursuit of happiness, at least—into the hands of this slick man with a resonant belly and a vicious backhand?
    “ If —for the sake of argument—you had to have an alibi—”
    “I—”
    “Humor me, Pete. If, if you had to have an alibi for the time that Gaudia was shot, would you have one?”
    Crimmins did not answer.
    The lawyer sighed. “All right. What I’m going to do is ask around some. See who knows what. See what Peterson’s going to do about this. I’ve got some friends’re cops. They owe me. Supposedly there’s a witness nobody’s found yet.”
    “A witness?”
    “It’s just a rumor. Some guy who saw the shooter.”
    The lawyer stood up. “Another thing: They think the getaway car was a Lincoln.”
    Crimmins was silent for a moment. He said softly, “I drive a Lincoln.”
    “A dark-colored Lincoln is what they said.”
    Peter Crimmins had selected Midnight Blue. He found it a comforting color.
    The lawyer walked to the door, pulling his short-brimmed hat on his bullet-shaped head.
    “Wait,” Peter Crimmins said.
    The lawyer stopped and turned.
    “This witness. I don’t care what you have to do. What it costs . . .”
    The lawyer was suddenly very uncomfortable. His hand went to his belly and he rubbed the spot where presumably his sumptuous breakfast was being digested. “You want me to—”
    “Find out who he is.”
    “And?”
    “Just find out,” Peter Crimmins whispered very softly as if every lampshade and picture frame in the room contained a microphone.

Chapter 5
    “HE’S LYING,” DONNIE Buffett said into the telephone.
    Detective Bob Gianno said, “No doubt about it.”
    “What he did,” Buffett continued, “he bent