Page 10 of Two Kinds of Stranger

I swung around just in time to see Jan holding open the doctor’s office door while his client in the orange shirt, now with crutches on each arm, managed to maneuver himself out onto the street. He walked stiffly now, throwing one crutch forward with his weight, then swinging his body, and then the other crutch. He was also wearing a back support, kind of like a girdle around his waist, except the thick part was on his lower back. I didn’t know how effective it would be at supporting his back, but it at least helped hide some of his offensive orange shirt.

I looked up the street, saw the bicycle courier crouching behind a parked car. He got back on his bike and cycled away.

I heard another car come up onto my level.

This time BMW. M series. Midnight blue.

I turned away from Jan and his client and approached the young man getting out of the BMW. His name was Chris Doyle, a young up-and-coming assistant district attorney. Smart and fair. At least one of those qualities meant he wouldn’t have a future in the district attorney’s office. He wasn’t long out of law school, and I figured he would last another six months before he’d go for a job in one of the old white-shoe law firms in Manhattan with his real-world criminal experience, his contacts in the DA’s office, and his heart full of the pride and fulfilment that comes from public service. But you can’t live on pride. Chris was working on a big payday that would come with a corporate job.

‘Hey, man,’ I said.

‘Eddie, you waiting to beat me up?’ he asked, with a smile.

‘I don’t beat anyone up any more, Chris. I’ve got people who do that for me.’

‘Is Bloch on the other side of that pillar, then?’

‘Nah, she likes you. Especially after that deal for little Jackie.’

Chris had taken pity on an old client of mine. Jackie was a great card player and an excellent hustler in his time. He got caught with cash that he couldn’t account for when he was busted for assaulting an asshole who came after him with a ten-pound hammer. Jackie had cleaned the guy out at the card table and acted in self-defense. The police don’t like Jackie, and they don’t like illegal card games, so they arrested him. Chris did him and me a solid, and let Jackie plead out the charges for six months’ probation and a confiscation order on the cash.

‘You walking to court?’ I asked.

‘Why do I get the impression you want something from me?’

‘I don’t know what would give you that idea, but now that we’re on our way to court together I figure I may as well pick your brains on money laundering. . .’

Chris had written a few articles for various law-review publications on the Banking Act and digital fraud. He knew what he was talking about. We found the elevator. Chris went in first and I followed.

He leaned over to hit the button for the lobby.

I asked him a question about digital fraud and RICO.

I didn’t listen as he started to answer. I didn’t want to know anything about digital fraud and RICO.

I just wanted to wait until he was distracted, focusing on the elevator panel, leaning over, turning away from me, so I could steal his car keys from his jacket pocket.

I learned from the best. My old man. Smart hands, he used to call it. To execute a clean pocket dip, you need to master two contradictory movements simultaneously. You need to be fast. And you need to be soft. Specifically, soft fingers. Moving yourarm at speed tends to tense the muscles–the key is to keep a light wrist. A tense wrist means hard fingers, which means the mark will feel the lift.

I put his car keys in my pocket, and pretended to listen while he regaled me with the latest legal developments in an area of law that few understand. The elevator took us to the ground floor and we walked around the corner together, through Brooklyn Park to the courthouse. I told Chris he should go on ahead, I had to meet a client outside.

In truth, I just didn’t want him to see me pulling his car keys out of my pocket and putting them in the plastic tray as I went through security screening.

He went into the building ahead of me. I waited ten minutes, then followed.

Civil court is on level three. Criminal, level four.

I took the elevator to the third floor and found my client pacing the hallway. Lawyers and their clients lined the benches and slouched against the painted concrete walls. Morrie was dressed in a white shirt, open at the collar, and black pants. His stomach hung, reassuringly, over his belt. Morrie liked cannoli.

‘Eddie, where’ve you been?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been preparing. How are you feeling, Morrie?’

‘I’m going out of my mind. I can’t believe this. I swear to you I swept the floor the night before this happened. We hadn’t cut any meat that morning, so I don’t know how this man slips on a piece of prosciutto? It’s not possible.’

‘I know. I believe you,’ I said.

‘I don’t have much money, Eddie. What with Gloria sick in the hospital. . .’