The only good Lawyer

about the death of Woodrow Gant.”
    A pause—long enough that I almost asked if Pollard was still there—before the tinny voice returned with, “Are you good-looking?”
    What do you say? “Moderately.”
    “Even if you’re lying, a sense of humor might be refreshing, mightn’t it? Twelfth floor, and I’ll meet you at the lift.”
    A buzzing noise came from the security door, and I went through into the lobby. There were only three elevators, the middle one standing open. When I reached twelve, the door slid back to show a woman leaning against the opposite wall of the corridor fists on hips.
    Pollard was about thirty and tall, at least five-nine in flat sandals. Clothes consisted of a floppy green sweater over those long, black shorts that I think were developed originally for biking but now qualify as walk-around casual. The Spandex in the shorts might have had a girding effect, because while her legs were long, the thighs seemed barely thicker than her calves. The effect, however was not so much anorexic as athletic. Add straight, auburn hair that draped down on either side of a bony face more striking than pretty, and I had the feeling I’d seen Pollard somewhere before. Of more immediate concern, though, was the fact that her right hand wasn’t quite big enough to hide the bottom of a small can.
    “Pepper spray?” I said.
    The eyes went down to her right side, then came back up at me, almost sleepily. “Just in case you really were lying.”
    “I can show you some identification?”
    She shook her head. “No, you look the part. Come on.”
    Pollard walked with a loose-jointed elegance. Trailing behind her down the corridor, I said, “Are you an actress?”
    “No,” over the shoulder. “Model, though. Why?”
    “I thought your face was familiar.”
    “Just my... face?”
    A saucy smile as we reached her door, a book between it and the jamb, apparently to keep the door open against a spring of some kind. Pollard put her shoulder just below the peephole and waved me into an apartment that had a galley kitchen to the right and a living room dead ahead. The couch was a daybed covered with throw pillows against one wall. An entertainment center and some bookcases filled the second wall, and windows looking downhill toward Boston comprised the third. The only other furniture was a rocking chair and coffee table, and given the open door showing a shower curtain, there was no bedroom.
    I said, “Quite a view.”
    “It’s just a studio, but those windows make the space seem bigger don’t they? Couch or chair?”
    “Chair’s fine.”
    “Coffee or something stronger?”
    I sat down. “Nothing, thanks.”
    Pollard moved to the daybed, lowering herself into it so that her right leg was bent with the ankle curled under the knee of the other, left foot dangling like a silent wind chime. She seemed very aware of herself, as though trotting out a stock pose for approval.
    Pollard set the can of pepper spray on the coffee table. “Probably a Filene’s ad.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Where you saw me. I did a couple of Sunday supplement things last year, modeling corporate wear.” She vamped a little. “Chin down to illuminate the features, eyes wide open for that assertive, gal-in-charge look.”
    “Have you been modeling long?”
    “Too long. And too late for the coming thing.”
    “Which is?”
    “Unionization.”
    I thought back to a case I worked a while ago. “Don’t models usually go through agencies?”
    “Yes. But we’re independent contractors, not employees, so no health insurance or pension. Or even credit unions for borrowing money. Some girls in New York got started organizing, but, as I said, it’s a little late for me.”
    “Why?”
    “My best earning years are behind me, Mr.—is John all right?”
    “Sure.”
    “And I’m Jenifer, with one ‘n.’ Know why?”
    “Why your best years are—”
    “No.” A strident laugh. “No, I meant why only the one ‘n’ in ‘Jenifer.’ ”
    “Got me there.”
    “It’s because the name’s derived from ‘Guinevere,’ as in King Arthur and Lancelot.”
    “Learn something new every day.” Disappointment crossed Pollard’s perfect bone structure. “You’re not going to turn banal on me, are you?”
    “I’ll try harder.”
    “Do. We were off to such a good start, weren’t we?” I didn’t answer that.
    “Anyway,” said Pollard, “I never did make more than thirty thousand in my best year as a runway model, and I