The Baxter Trust

tiger. He still couldn’t quite accept it. His niece was in jail, and he was powerless to do anything about it. Him. A man of power. A man with connections. A man with influence. And he could do nothing.
    He’d gone to jail to see her and she hadn’t told him a thing. Not a thing. Except to say that she had her own lawyer, and he could damn well pay him. Fat chance! That weirdo. That twerp.
    And his own lawyers were powerless to help him. Marston, Marston, and Cramden had been besieging the D.A.’s office all day, but to no avail. She was arrested, it was an open-and-shut case, there was not the slightest possibility of bail. And that was that.
    He could get no information, that was the infuriating thing. If the cops had an open-and-shut case, what was it? No one was talking. The lid had never been on so tight. Even a personal call to the commissioner had been fruitless. There simply was no information to be had.
    Max shook his head. Jesus, what the hell were his attorneys doing? Or his detectives, for that matter? Should he call them again? How long had it been? He checked his watch. Ten minutes. Impossible. Only ten minutes?
    The house phone rang. God, let it be news. He dove for it.
    “Yes?”
    The voice of the doorman said, “Mr. Baxter, there is a Mr. Winslow down here. He insists on seeing you.”
    Max was ready for any information at this point. “All right. Send him up.”
    The voice of the doorman was apologetic. “Yes, Mr. Baxter. I must tell you, the gentleman is somewhat disheveled and he smells of liquor.”
    “I see. It’s all right. Send him up.”
    “Very well, Mr. Baxter.”
    Max hung up the phone and strolled out into the foyer. The elevator arrived, the door opened and Steve Winslow, as described, but very determined, emerged and strode up to him.
    “All right, Uncle Max,” he said. “Take out your checkbook.”
    Max prided himself on his self-control. It took a lot in this instance, but he merely raised his eyebrows, not his voice.
    “What the devil do you mean barging in here in this fashion?” he said coolly. “You smell of liquor and you look as if you’ve been in a barroom brawl.”
    Steve wasn’t about to take any shit. “Never mind that. Just take out your checkbook.”
    “Now see here—”
    “Take out your fucking checkbook.”
    The elevator man, who had been reluctant to bring Steve up at all, now hovered expectantly.
    Max waved him away. “That will be all, Frank,” he said.
    Frank somewhat reluctantly closed the door.
    Max stood aside and gestured Steve into the living room. His manner was still cool and polite.
    “And just why should I take out my checkbook?” he said as he ushered Steve in.
    “You are going to write me a check.”
    Max smiled. “I think not.”
    Steve wheeled around to face him. “I’m tired of working for nothing. You are going to give me a twenty-five-thousand-dollar retainer.”
    Max stared at him. “Twenty-five thousand dollars! You must be drunk.”
    “Did you know that your niece took drugs?” Steve snapped the words out, slapped him in the face with them. “Well, she does. Cocaine, to be exact. When the police get their hands on that bit of information you can kiss her ass goodbye.”
    Max recoiled, genuinely shaken. “Mr. Winslow—”
    “Not to mention the fact that she lied to the police about where she was at the time of the murder.”
    Max was still at sea. “She told you that?”
    “She sure did,” Steve said. “Which brings us to an interesting situation. Either I’m your niece’s attorney or I’m not.”
    “Well, you’re not.”
    Steve went on as if he hadn’t heard the interruption. “If I am your niece’s attorney, everything she told me is a privileged communication, and no power on earth can drag it out of me. If I’m not her attorney, the prosecution can put me on the stand and force me to tell everything I know.”
    Max stared at him. “But ... but ... they wouldn’t know to put you on the stand.”
    “Wanna bet?” Steve said. “I’ll bet you twenty-five thousand dollars that if I walk out that door without that check, inside of fifteen minutes the district attorney will get an anonymous tip to pick me up and shake me down.”
    Max stared at him, openmouthed. “Mr. Winslow,” he said. “That’s blackmail!”
    Steve nodded in grim satisfaction. “Yeah,” he said. “Ain’t it?”

25.
    S TEVE W INSLOW CAME OUT THE front door of Baxter’s building holding the check in his hand. He