The only good Lawyer

track. “Doggies over horses. Cheaper to get in, not so much hoopla between the races, so the action comes faster. And there ain’t no human factor, remember?”
    “I remember. In fact, I’d like to talk with you about the ‘human factor.’ ”
    Gant checked his watch. A big, bright one, with lots of bells and whistles on the face of it. “I got time before I have to lay my bet down on the next race.”
    “New watch?”
    He looked at it again. “Kind of.”
    “Your ship came in.”
    “Say what?”
    “The insurance on your brother’s life.”
    “Oh, yeah. That.” Gant made his tone even more casual. “Guess I got kind of mad at you over to the house.”
    “Kind of. The insurance must let you clear up a lot of debts.”
    The P.A. announcer said, “Post time in just under eight minutes,” as a cloud came over Gant’s eyes. “Meaning like what?”
    I decided not to mention the scene I’d witnessed with Trinh and Huong at the coffee shop. “You said you’d borrowed from your brother. Now you can repay the estate.”
    “Oh, right, right, right.” The sly smile. “So, what you want to know about the ‘human factor’?”
    “I’m still trying to figure out who shot your brother.” A shrug that settled into a laugh. “Man, I told you last time. The police, they got the mother’.”
    “Except they have the wrong one.”
    No more laugh. “Now what you mean?”
    “Just what I said. Alan Spaeth didn’t do it.”
    “Aw, man. Come on, come on, come on. You didn’t see that dude in Woodrow’s office there the way I did. He was like a maniac. Ranting and raving.”
    “Everybody gets mad. You got mad at me in your mother’s house. Does that mean you’d kill me?”
    The sly smile again. “Got no reason to kill you. I’m what they call ‘a man of wealth and taste’ now.” Somehow it sounded better when Mick Jagger used to sing it.
    Just then, men and boys wearing red windbreakers began walking leashed and muzzled greyhounds toward the starting gate at the far left end of the track. As the dog wearing number “7” came even with us, he stopped and lifted a leg.
    Grover Gant smiled wider. “Seven, you get all that out of your system, now.”
    I said, “Your brother wasn’t the only one killed.”
    The wider smile froze. “Hey, man, you keep confusing me.”
    “Confusion isn’t the half of it, my friend. The guy Spaeth says would be his alibi was found dead this morning.”
    “Alibi?”
    I thought that was an odd part of my statement for Gant to home in on. “Spaeth claims he spent the night your brother was shot getting drunk with a man named Michael Mantle. This morning the police found Mantle dead in an abandoned building.”
    “I don’t go into no abandoned buildings, man.” Gant glanced left, right, and behind him. “Life’s dangerous enough when there’s people around you.” Which made me wonder who Gant might worry would spot him, provided Grover in Wonderland had used part of the insurance proceeds to pay off the balance of his “coffee shop” debt to Nguyen Trinh.
    I heard a lot of yowling and barking from the starting gate. The handlers in the red windbreakers were all jogging up the track toward us.
    Grover Gant said, “I got to put my bet down.”
    As he turned, I stepped in front of him.
    “Hey, man, it’s almost post time.”
    I said, “Missing one race won’t kill you.”
    “Shit, shit, shit,” but he stayed with me.
    “So, to sum up, you don’t know a thing about the departed Mr. Mantle.”
    “Don’t know,” said Gant, “and don’t want to know.”
    “The police got a tip, telephoned into a hospital.”
    “Last I heard, hospital can’t help no dead man.”
    “Clever thing, though. You kill somebody and want him found at the right time, you call a number that doesn’t tape-record your voice as it comes in over the telephone.”
    “Yeah, well, that leaves me off whatever hook you trying to put me on, man.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “One thing I ain’t—and ain’t never been —is clever. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be needing Woodrow to die, put me on Easy Street, you hear what I’m saying?” Unfortunately I did. And worse, as the fat man hustled toward the betting counter I believed him. Setting up what had to be an elaborate frame of Alan Spaeth—down to the indirect reporting of one body on that road and another in that cellar—required brains, and Grover Gant didn’t seem nearly clever enough to pull it off.
    However we both knew