I woke up dancing cheek to cheek with the floor, feeling almost exactly like I’d been hit by a truck. Come to think, it was almost too bad I hadn’t been. It might have saved me some trouble.

            I was in bad shape, to say the least of it. In the space if a week I’d been shot at, beaten, and left to rot in an alleyway like a sack of garbage. The girl I was crazy about had hired me on to go start a mob war in a city full of people who had it hard enough just trying to keep their heads above water. And the carpet I was getting up close and personal with hadn’t been cleaned since I moved in. All that, and I was out of hooch. I could fix that last problem easy enough, but the rest would have to take a number.

            Getting up seemed like a decent start. I didn’t particularly want to, mind, but there was only so much I could accomplish on the floor. I felt around a bit, made sure everything was where I left it. My head felt like it was two sizes too small, but the thing was still attached. There was a pain in my leg, another in my ribs. I must have bounced off something on the way down and hit the ground hard. I flexed the fingers on my left hand. They all seemed to be working. Then I tried the right, couldn’t feel them at all. In fact, my whole arm seemed to numb from just above the wrist. Turned out it was pinned between my body and the carpet.

That certainly explained what else I was feeling. There was another pain in the middle of my chest, like something hard was knocking against my ribs. At first I thought it was just my heart. Then I guess it was my knuckles bunched up and pressed against the bottom of my collar bone. I rolled awkwardly onto my side, tried to pull the arm out from under me. As it came free I realized I’d been holding on to something. It was small and heavy, metallic. I let it fall from limp fingers as I pushed myself onto my knees. Then I looked down and saw what it was. If my eyes hadn’t been sunk deep in my head I think they’d have popped right out of their sockets.

It was a gun. My gun, if we’re being exact. Sully gave it to me after my first year at the County Prosecutor’s office. It had been his in the old days, he told me, and he considered the thing lucky. So I took it, said thanks, and stashed it deep in my closet. It gave me the creeps, if I’m being honest, just having it around. A guy who packs a heater tends to think he’s going to need it. And the idea of needing to maybe plug someone was just too much for me to live with day to day. I’d take it out of its case now and then, just to make sure my feelings hadn’t changed. Otherwise I left it alone.

Finding that I’d been sleeping on top of it was a fair bit of a shock. Like I said, it wasn’t as though I kept the thing ready at hand. I had to have gone into my closet to fetch it. And I only ever did that so I could remind myself that I hated the sight of the thing. These encounters always ended with me putting it away and trying to forget it was even there. I hardly ever picked it up and held it like I wanted to use it, and I never, ever carried it to another part of the apartment. So you can imagine I had a bit of trouble imagining how or why I’d passed out with it in my hand. There were only so many explanations, and none of them were pretty.

It was possible I’d got it into my head to wave the thing around in all the lowlife haunts I could name while asking real loud about a certain lady and her business concerns. Her stooges had to drink somewhere, and maybe they’d have taken me to see the boss if I asked them nice enough. Couldn’t say how something like that would end. Don’t suppose I’d have reacted all that well if they tried too hard to quiet me down. Then again, if they did what I asked them to, I don’t guess I’d have been in much of a state to be reasonable when I started asking the woman of the hour to explain herself. They’d all be well in their rights to want to toss me in a ditch. Not a pleasant way to go, I think, even if I’d done my share to deserve it.

It was also possible I’d had a shorter and sweeter end in mind. I’d been feeling low, got drunk, had a gun on the premises. Why not kill myself? That’s how that’s supposed to go, right? I mean, that’s what Hollywood really wants people to believe. Happens all the time, they say. Right out of the clear blue sky, they say. It’s a fragile thing, the human animal. Well, who am I to disagree with a stunning observation like that? Christ knows I’d thought about it before. Things got to seeming pretty bleak after I left the County Prosecutor’s. But it was always more of an idle thing. I’d wonder what would happen if I did decide to off myself, who would care, how the write-up would look in the paper. Nothing ever came of it. That is to say, nothing I was aware of.

            I managed to pull myself up onto the sofa and laid the gun down carefully on the coffee table. I still didn’t like the look of it, now that I was in my right mind to say so. It was small, like I said, and almost sleek. Seemed to me the designer worked too hard at making the prospect of killing somebody look as attractive as possible. All the same, I found myself staring at it. It was hard to know what to do next, or even how to feel, when it wasn’t clear exactly what it was I’d tried to do. Something horrible, I figured. There didn’t seem to be any other reason I’d go to the trouble of arming myself. But beyond that I was at what you’d call a loss.

            So I just sat a while, head pounding, tongue swollen in my mouth like a hunk of soggy leather. What I needed was a shower, a shave, and a couple pints of blood. But all I seemed to want was to wallow in my pain for a bit. And Christ, did it hurt.

            I realized at some point during this meditation of mine that what I’d usually do in that kind of situation is try to find the booby hatch and drop right out of sight. Twice I’d done that, more or less, and it seemed like I’d come up on number three. I’d go somewhere – Canada, maybe, up Vancouver way – try to find a job with an insurance company or a local branch of Pinkerton’s. The day to day wouldn’t be any better, but at least I could avoid the worst aspects of my current predicament. Sad to say, but it seemed like that was the best that I could hope for.

            I got about as far as trying to decide between selling my car and taking the train or driving up and trying to pawn the thing off there. Sure, I told myself, I’d done this sort of thing before, but under what kind of circumstances? I made sure to get out of Chicago before the darkness had a chance to touch me. And I left the County Prosecutor’s just about the instant they asked me to do something I couldn’t live with. Sully reassured me everything we’d done up to that point was above board and on the level. I’m inclined to take him at his word.

This time was different. This time I was reacting after the damage was done. I’d get in deeper by staying, there was no doubt in my mind. But there was no turning back the clock. The kid was dead, and Sam and Benny were probably next. And that’s just the stuff I could account for. If I walked away again, that’d be it. Those deaths would be on me for the rest of my miserable life. There was nothing I could do to make up for it and nothing I could pour down my throat that could make me forget.

Laying it out like that, I realized how angry the thing made me. I mean goddamned furious. The whiskey had covered it up before, but now it burned hot and bright like an arc-lamp. It was like I was stuck in a cycle repeating the same handful of years over, and over, and over again, and each time around things got just a little bit worse. I might have said I was being punished for something if I knew what the hell it was I could possibly have done. All my life I’d tried to do the right thing, or at least avoided the temptation to let the wrong thing slide. And what did I get for a reward? Goddamn misery.

Hell, it was worse than that now. Like some kind of cruel joke, I’d been maneuvered into taking part in exactly the kind of thing I’d spent over thirty years actively shunning. It was like whoever was running the show wanted to make it as clear as goddamn crystal that everything I’d done had been totally and completely pointless. The world was shit, I was shit, and I had just as well better embrace it. If I ran again, I’d be giving in. I’d deserve whatever the hell happened to me.

To hell with all that, I told myself. To hell with the crooks, the bent cops, the loopy dames, and the whole goddamn world. If we had to dance, then let’s dance. But it was my song this time, and we were going to let the thing play to the end. Being hungover and sore made all this seem pretty reasonable. I got up off the couch. I started moving.

I still wasn’t entirely sure of the direction. Forward would do for the moment, it seemed to me. A few calls would flesh things out. I made the first to Sully.

He picked up good and quick. “Sully,” I said, and then coughed like something had me by the throat. It sounded like I’d been drinking gravel all night.

The old man recognized me through the damage. “Jesus, kid,” he said. “You sound like hell. I tell you, I was worried the way you bolted out of the joint the other day. Thank Christ you’re still standing.”

“Just barely,” I said, “Which isn’t bad, considering.”

Sully chuckled. God love him, I could hear the relief in his voice. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll bet. So what’s up? You need bail money?”

“Worse,” I said. “I need a favor.”

He was real patient with me after that, listened to what I had to say. I think he could tell that I was in a funny sort of mood. When I finally made the ask he got real quiet on me. Then he told me he’d arrange things just as soon as he put down the phone. That’s another thing I owe him. He wouldn’t let me pay him back even if I could, but I keep a tally anyway. Favors like that are worth remembering. I’d asked to see the boss man, you see. That’s Sully’s boss, to be clear. King County Prosecuting Attorney Morgan Mitchell.

In point of fact, he wasn’t the one I was worried about. Mitchell and I had never met. It was his predecessor I had the beef with, and he’d long since been thrown overboard by an ambitious governor on a reform tip. Mitchell couldn’t have been much better, if Cato and Fitzroy were telling the truth about having him in their respective pockets, but at least he wasn’t going to call to mind any incidents of me screaming in his face. I didn’t leave well, is what I’m saying. That was why I needed Sully.

That was on account of the staff at the PA’s office not changing much since I left. They’re been some retirements, maybe a death from natural causes, but a goodly portion of the people I used to work with were still pushing paper and growing fat on government bread. They were mob snitches, a good number of them, or pensioned relatives of state and county officials. They didn’t cotton to me threatening their livelihoods by refusing to go along with a bit of low-level graft, so I’d let them know what I thought of them and theirs in no uncertain terms. At the time it didn’t seem like something I’d live to regret. I still wouldn’t take back a word of what I said, but just then it did look like I had a bit of a problem on my hands.

It was out of my hands if some of the lifers on Mitchell’s staff already let slip that an old co-worker of theirs didn’t understand what made the world go around. There wasn’t any particular reason for my name to have come up, of course, but there was no sense in underestimating your average citizen’s love of gossip. All the same, it seemed a safe enough bet that Mitchell didn’t trust their opinions any more than I did. They were holdovers, most of them. He only got to choose his personal staff.

No, the real issue was just getting into the building. I’d be sunk if any of my old compadres caught sight of me. The ones that were owned would be on the horn before the girl on Mitchell’s desk got the chance to offer me a cup of coffee. And the pensioners would most likely get to thinking I’d been brought in to clean house and start making panicked calls to their patrons. It wouldn’t take long for word of my movements to find its way to Cato, or Fitzroy, or both. Corruption knows corruption in this town.

This is what I needed Sully for. If I wanted to get into and out of the building without anyone but Mitchell himself knowing I was ever there, I’d need to make use of the rear service entrance. And, maybe more to the point, I’d need to be sure that no one was going to walk into the PA’s inner office because they thought he was in there alone. Sully could make sure the back door was unlocked just as easily as he could convince Mitchell’s secretary to pencil in something vaguely convincing on his calendar as cover for our conversation. All I had to do was walk in, walk out, and buy the old man a drink next time I saw him.

I had an idea about Mitchell, but not a clear one. Sully always said he was smart, ambitious, but a little too sharp for his own good. What he meant by that, I figure, was that Mitchell was better at pinning people to the wall than making them feel like he had their back. A person could go pretty far like that, just cutting their rivals to pieces. But they couldn’t go all the way to the top. A person needs friends in politics. Whether they support you because they like you or because they’ve hitched their wagon to your star, they’re the best insurance against a sudden turn of fortune. So far, Mitchell was lucky. He’d gone so far so fast that people like Cato and Fitzroy were tripping over themselves to make his acquaintance. But unless he learned how to make them feel protected, they’d cut him off at the knees the second it looked like he’d forgotten their number.

So I had that to look forward to, at least. The man would listen, because he was smart enough not to turn down an advantage when it walked in off the street. But we weren’t about to get chummy, him and I. And under no circumstances was I to trust him any more than was absolutely necessary. That seemed just as well to me. Lawyers make crummy friends, in my experience.

The PA had moved office since my day. The pile of bricks on Profanity Hill where we used to grind out convictions had been traded in for a smart little grey and white number on Third Street. I parked a block away and walked the rest of it in the rain. It was midday. People were coming and going to lunch. I tried not to look conspicuous, kept my head down, shuffled up the sidewalk. Nobody looked in my direction. I was relieved, maybe a little offended. It was possible no one remembered me. I had to remind myself that would have been ideal. The ego is a funny thing.

The back entrance was open, thank God and Sully. Inside were the doors to the service elevator and a stairwell that echoed like a church. I opted for the latter. The walls were the color of putty, and the steps a kind of black, rough marble. I climbed, listened. The main elevators rumbled up and down just on the other side of the plaster. Doors opened, doors closed. My shoes made a wet squeaking noise on the stairs.

Mitchell’s office was on the third floor, not far from the washrooms. I was supposed to duck out of the stairwell and into the john, and from there go through a private door that would take me to the big man’s chambers. The place was built that way, Sully explained to me, so that the PA could take a piss without his staff watching him come and go. I remember I asked him if he thought that kind of thing justified including it in the building plans. He assured me it was worth it. Just now it seemed like he was right. So long as nobody looked up from their desk while I was dashing from door to door – and especially so long as no one I knew was using the head when I passed through – it’d be like I was never there.

So I did as I was told. Two seconds let me catch my breath on the third floor landing. Then I pushed open the door a crack, looked out into the bullpen. Lot of desks, lot of paper, lot of people bent over their work. The entrance to the men’s washroom was maybe six or seven feet down the same stretch of hallway. I watched the crowd, counted five. Then I bolted. Eight, nine, ten steps – couldn’t have been more – and the door swung open without a sound. For a second I wondered what I’d do if an old colleague of mine was at the sink. Pull my hat down over my face, maybe. Or run the hell out of there. Both seemed about as sensible.

Thank Christ I caught a break. Nothing greeted me in the john but white tile, white porcelain, and the smell of smoke and disinfectant. I slipped by the washbasins without looking in the mirror. The door to Mitchell’s private entrance was unlocked and led to a short, dark hall lit by a single window high on the wall that faced the street. The door to the inner office was at the far end, heavy oak with brass fittings. I stopped in front of it, checked my watch, waited. Then I knocked. Thirty seconds went by. Then the bolt slid back. The door opened.

The man on the other side looked me up and down. The light was at his back. His face was shaded. “The errand boy usually comes in the front way,” he said, “So I guess you must be Parker.”

I nodded at the dark figure. “Sully told me you were smart,” I said. “Mind of I come in?”

The door opened wider. The man stood aside. I stepped into the golden light of the PA’s office while its occupant closed the door behind me. Then he gestured to a chair. I sat, amidst the panelling, the leather, the silver desk set, and the cut crystal, and watched as Morgan Mitchell poured himself a drink.

He looked about as finely-honed as his reputation claimed. His suit was grey, double-breasted, and exceedingly expensive. The cufflinks were the same, and the stick pin, and the shoes. He had a face to match the rest, keen and angular, framed by ash blonde hair and dark, slanted eyebrows. Just looking at him put a person in mind of a straight razor, or maybe a fox if they knew a good tailor. He’d cut your throat as soon as steal your chickens.

“How old are you?” I said. It was impulsive, sure, but I was curious. He looked awfully young for a man of his stature.

“Thirty-five,” he said without any hesitation. The fellow was proud.

I nodded, whistled. It’s what a person’s supposed to do. “How did that happen?” I said.

Mitchell slid in behind his desk and placed a glass of whiskey on the blotter. He didn’t offer one to me. I suppose he thought he had my number, figured I’d get to the point quicker with the promise hanging over me. The joke was on him. I drank before I came.

“By putting one foot in front of the other,” he said, “Same as everybody else.”

I nodded again, reached into my jacket for a cigarette and a light. Mitchell half-stood and pushed an ashtray in my direction. I thanked him, took a long drag, tried to make myself comfortable.

“Sure,” I said, “I figured that. But whose neck were you stepping on?”

The man smiled. “Anyone who’d let me,” he said.

“Hmm,” I said. “Probably they’d have done the same, huh?”

Mitchell sipped his drink, sat back in his chair. “That’s right,” he said.

I nodded a third time. Then I let my head fall to one side a little, sort of squinted at him. “So what makes you so special?” I said.

“I’m smarter than they are.” The man didn’t hesitate. He said it like it was a plain and simple fact. I was inclined to believe him.

“So I’m lucky you agreed to meet with me, then,” I said. “I mean to say, I should be flattered, yeah?”

Mitchell nodded. “You should,” he said.

I smiled. It was good to know where we stood with each other. Then I gestured like I was tipping my hat. “Okay,” I said. “So I’m flattered.”

Mitchell didn’t respond. I think he wanted to me to get to the point. There was just one more thing we needed to be clear about.

“Sully told you who I was?” I said as I leaned forward to ash my cigarette.

 The PA shrugged. “Yes,” he said, “But he didn’t have to. You’re a legend around these parts. They say your name like it’s some kind of warning.”

I felt my face tighten into a grimace. Then I made like I was picking a piece of ash off my tongue. I was still reasonably sure that I’d done the right thing by quitting. But the idea that people were still talking about it didn’t do much for my confidence. Mitchell didn’t need to know that, of course, though he’d probably guessed as much already.

“So why’d you agree to meet with me?” I said, feeling rawer than I’d expected to.

Mitchell got to looking thoughtful, made a vague gesture with his hands. “You stood on principle,” he said. “That was stupid. But it’s hard not to be intrigued by someone who decides to throw their career away just for that. So if I’m being honest, I guess I just wanted to see what an honest man actually looks like.”

I shrugged, took a long drag. “Right,” I said. “Well, sorry for the disappointment.”  

The PA nodded. “I might change my mind,” he said, “Once you tell me what it is you want. No promises, of course. But that is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Right,” I said. “It is.”

Mitchell half-glared at me when I didn’t follow up right away. “So,” he said, “Let’s have it.”

Thing is, I wasn’t sure exactly where to start. It was a complicated story I had to tell. And the way he figured into it maybe didn’t make him look so good. Seemed to me he wouldn’t have taken kindly to feeling like he was being judged by a two-bit PI who stank of bourbon and failure. I needed to go gentle, and under no circumstances let him know what I actually thought about the way he was using his office. Take it easy, I told to myself. Be nice.

“You make friends easy,” I said eventually.

Mitchell seemed to follow. He smirked, swirled his drink a little. “That’s because I’m so charming,” he said.

I leaned forward, tried to taper the end of my cigarette by rolling it around in the tray I’d been provided. “Yeah,” I said, “That’s what a couple of them told me when I talked to them last. All sorts of things they had to say about you. Good things, mind you. At least they seemed to think so.”

The PA wrinkled his nose, narrowed his eyes a little. “Which ones are these, again?” he said.

I shrugged. “The kind you wouldn’t want to be seen in public with,” I said.

“That’s a longer list than you might think,” said Mitchell. He was smirking again. He seemed to take to it naturally.

“The two fellows I’m talking about,” I said, “They each came to you with the same proposal. A business associate of theirs disappeared recently. They each think the other is responsible.”

Now Mitchell made a face. He was a little annoyed, I think, and a little impressed. Don’t ask me who got what.

“I think I know the gentlemen you mean,” he said. “What about them?”

I took a breath, hesitated for maybe half a second. Then I jumped. “Just so we’re clear,” I said, “They offered to turn over evidence against each other in exchange for you keeping their names out of the resulting investigation. That correct?”

The PA made s sucking sound with his teeth. He was looking at me more intently now than he had since I walked in.

“Something like that,” he said.

I nodded, glad I’d got that part right at least. “They tell you what else they expected for their trouble?” I said.

Mitchell shrugged. “After a fashion,” he said.

“So what was it?” I said.

The man took a deep breath before answering. I think maybe he was starting to wonder if it was too late to toss me out on my ear.

“Consideration,” he said, “To put it simply. The political order in this state is due for a change. New challenges call for a new style of government. But the transition can be destructive. They want to be on the right side of things. I can hardly blame them.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I guess not.” Then I rolled my cigarette between my fingers a while. I was thinking of how best to phrase the next bit.

“All the same,” I said eventually, “How do you figure they found out you’re planning to run for Governor?”

Mitchell frowned. “Who says I am?” he said.

I shrugged, scratched the underside of my chin. “Everybody,” I said, “More or less. You have a way of making people nervous.”

The man couldn’t stop himself from smiling. It was only for an instant – a flash, quickly snuffed – but unmistakable. I guess he liked the way I made him sound. It helped to know he was vain.

“You one of those people, Parker?” he said. The way he spoke just then, I think I was getting a bit of the voice he used when he was pressing a witness in court.

I sat back, sighed. “I just want to be on the right side of things,” I said.

Mitchell watched me for a bit, real steady. It seemed like he was waiting for me to flinch. Then he nodded, pushed his chair away from the desk, and walked across the room to the bar cabinet by the door. I couldn’t hear his footsteps, the carpet was so thick. But I did hear the sound of glasses clinking, ice cubes tinkling, whiskey pouring like liquid velvet. My mouth started to water. The man returned a minute later, handed me a scotch rocks, took a seat on the edge of his desk near my chair. I said thanks, drank deep. My restraint had been rewarded.

“So what about these friends of mine?” he said.

I came up for air just long enough to remember what the hell it was I wanted from the man. “They’re friends of mine, too,” I said. “At least, they’d tell you so. I’d call it something else.”

The PA nodded, rolled his eyes. “So would I,” he said, “When they’re not around. But what’s that got to do with me?”

“I’m the guy they’ve got helping you,” I said.

Mitchell suppressed a snigger. “How’s that now?” he said.

I drank a little more, loosened the knot in my tie. “I was working this case,” I said, “Had something to do with the two of them. So I ask around, like usual. Word gets back. They ask to see me. Both of them, I mean, separate from each other. So I go in, I talk. Again, both separately, they decide they want me to continue the investigation, offer to help me in any way they can. And they tell me that whatever I find will go to the County Prosecutor. Good to make friends with a fellow like that, they say. Guess they don’t know my history.”

Again, the man made a point of not laughing. “No,” he said, “I guess they don’t.” Then he shook his head and finally let himself chuckle a little.

“So what’s funny?” I said. I was maybe a little more tuned up than I needed to be.

Mitchell shrugged. “You quit here because you couldn’t stand being the PA’s investigator anymore,” he said. “Now you’re investigating a case that’s going to be turned over to the PA.”

I felt my lip pull back in a grimace. Six years and I was still the butt of a joke. “Almost,” I said. “I’m investigating a case that’s going to be turned over to the PA if I feel like he’s not going to waste what I give him.”

The mirthful twinkle went out of the man’s eyes. He showed me a tight little smile, nodded slowly. “That the deal you cut with our mutual friends?” he said.

“It’s the deal I’m willing to cut with you,” I said, “If you feel like you’re free to act.”

Mitchell sighed, shook his head again. Then he slid off the corner of his desk and walked slowly back around to his chair on the far side of it.

“I know you understand how this works,” he said once he was sitting down again. “You couldn’t hate it the way you do if you didn’t. So I’m not going to try to explain to you why what I think you’re asking me to do is a problem for me. But I’ll tell you this. I have plans for this city, this state. People will thank me when it’s over, rename streets and put up statues. But in the meantime they’ll fight me every inch. So I need the edge. I don’t care who gives it to me or what they want in return. Things fall my way, nobody will be in a position to make any demands. But that’s later. Right now, I’ve got to mind my manners.”

I looked at him over the rim of my glass as I breathed deep of the smoky perfume. Then I took a drink, savored it, started nodding. “Scared?” I said.

Mitchell didn’t like that much. His jaw tightened like he was about to have a fit. “Don’t try to handle me, Parker,” he said. “You haven’t got the size for it.”

I tried to look innocent. I don’t know that it was a good fit for me, but I gave it a shot. “Is that what I was doing?” I said.

The PA didn’t seem to hear me. He stared with cold eyes, tapped out a quick rhythm with his fingers on the blotter. “People won’t work with me,” he said, “If they don’t think they can trust me. Knowing that doesn’t make me scared. It makes me smart.”

“Sure,” I said, putting up a hand like I was trying to surrender. “I get it. You need them.”

A little color went into the man’s face. He was very controlled, very smooth. But I’d found the one thing that kept him from enjoying what he’d made for himself.

“Let’s be clear,” he said. “I don’t need anybody.”

 I met his gaze for a while, stone-faced. Then I flashed a smile. “No,” I said, “Of course not.”

“I’m using them,” said Mitchell, “Like they think they’re using me.”

“I can see that,” I said.

“And I’ll use them better,” he said, “If they think they can rely on me.”

I nodded, waved my glass in a sweeping sort of gesture. “Naturally,” I said. “You don’t have to convince me. But honestly, do you even like these people? I mean, don’t you find associating with them to be…I don’t know…below the dignity of the office?”

Mitchell made a kind of choking noise somewhere in his throat. “Are you kidding me?” he said. “Of course I don’t like them. The sweaty Irish pimp and the failed intellectual? I’ve scraped more attractive things off the bottom of my shoe. Even talking to them on the phone makes me feel like I’ve been rolling around in the gutter.”

It took an effort not to smile. “Okay,” I said, “So?”

The PA shrugged, shook his head, looked at me like I was stupid. “So nothing,” he said. “I don’t like half the people I’ve got on my staff. But I keep them around because it’s easier than explaining to the Governor and the local party boss why I can’t have some big money donor using my office as a sanitarian for his idiot relatives. I don’t need the trouble. I don’t want it.”

I leaned forward, elbows on the arms of my chair. “See,” I said, “That’s what always bugged me about the way this place was run. I didn’t like the bribes, and the favors, and the general griminess of it all, sure enough. But the thing that really stuck in my craw was the way the PA’s got to get permission to blow his goddamn nose. The Prosecuting Attorney is loyal to the people and to the law. The Governor doesn’t tell him what to do any more than the goddamn County Clerk. He decides who gets brought up and who doesn’t and on what charges. He decides who he negotiates with and who he leaves to dangle in the wind. And he sure as hell gets to choose who he puts on his goddamn staff. None of this tip-toeing around, you know? People should be tip-toeing around him.”

Mitchell wasn’t much impressed by my testament. He closed his eyes, shook his head. “Great, Parker,” he said. “That’s just great. I particularly like the bit about who I’m supposed to be loyal to.”

“I’m just saying-” was as far as he’d let me go. He was good and mad.

“I know what you’re saying,” he said. “I don’t care. You came in here to ask me for something? So ask. And then get the hell out.”

I shrugged, laid my empty glass on the edge of his desk, sat back like I was just getting comfortable. “All I want,” I said, “Is what anyone who comes in here dreams that you’ll give them.”

Mitchell stared at me while massaging his temple. A pair of veins was pulsing in his forehead. “Yeah,” he said. “What’s that?”

“A favor,” I said, and smiled and smiled.

The man at the desk shook his head. From the way he was staring at me I might have asked him for five minutes alone with his wife. “Jesus,” he said, “You’ve got nerve. After all that you ask me for a favor? I’m sitting here debating with myself whether I could get away with having you killed.”

I nodded as I stuck a fresh cigarette in my mouth and lit it. “I know,” I said. “I’m cheeky. But you’ll hear me out. Otherwise you’d have kicked me to the curb already.”

Mitchell closed his eyes, breathed deep. Then he snapped open his lids and fixed me with a long, hard stare. “For the last time,” he said, “Get on with it.”

I thanked God for Sully while I prepared to lay out my case. Either the old man had something bad on Mitchell or he’d done the new PA a good turn since he’d taken office the year before. I didn’t particularly care which it was. It got me in the door, and so far had kept me there longer than my charm alone could have managed.

“Cato and Fitzroy,” I said, “These friends of ours – they each want you to prosecute the other after I hand over evidence that one of them bumped off an associate of theirs who just happened to be a police detective.”

“Yes,” said the PA. It was a flat reply, deadpan. I think he was about done with me.

“And you’ve got no preference which of them ends up on the docket,” I said.

“None,” said the PA.

“Do you believe me when I tell you that they’ve asked me to look into the matter?” I said. “That whatever information they handed you would have come from me?” 

“For the moment,” said the PA.

I nodded, ashed my cigarette. “Fair enough,” I said. “So what would you say if I told you, in my capacity as a licensed private detective, that I don’t think either of these men are responsible for their associate’s death, that a third party is to blame, and that said third party is making a play for the dope racket by trying to set our two chums against each other?”

Mitchell perked up just a little. I don’t think he wanted to give me the satisfaction of looking interested, but he was. “I’d want evidence,” he said.

I nodded again. “Good,” I said. “That’s good. So, if I brought you that evidence – against Cato, Fitzroy, and this other person – you’d do everything in you power to put them all away?”

“I think,” said Mitchell, “That first I’d take a minute to ask myself what it is I’d be giving up in exchange for what could be a series of very significant convictions.”  

 “Take all the time you want,” I said. “I’m not asking you to give up anything.”

Mitchell sneered. “Bullshit,” he said.

I shrugged. “Usually,” I said. “Almost always. But not this time.”

The PA shook his head, wrinkled his nose. “So what’s the gag?” he said. “What do you get out of it?”

It’s funny. The conversation was going almost exactly how I wanted it to. I don’t guess Mitchell liked me much at that point, but he was listening. I had his interest. I’d laid out what I was willing to do for him and even got him to ask me what I wanted in return. But then I hesitated. A lifetime spent calling bullshit on people who make backroom deals doesn’t really prepare a person to start making backroom deals. I knew what I was proposing wasn’t half as bad as some of the things I’d seen. I was even willing to believe that my intentions really were honest and good. But I still felt like a shit-heel. Suppose I should have been used to it.

Anyway, it took me a second to answer the man. And when I did, finally, I kept things sort of vague. “If I asked you to look into someone – someone you wouldn’t have paid attention to otherwise – would you do it?” I said.

Mitchell looked thoughtful for a second. His eyebrows came together. His mouth was a thin, straight line. “Possibly,” he said.

“If I asked after a person your office was investigating, you’d let me know what you had on them?” I said.

“Probably,” said Mitchell.

“And if I was real nice about it, every now and then, for a minute, you’d look the other way while I did something I maybe shouldn’t?” I said.

The man pursed his lips again. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t think that’s something I can guarantee,” he said.

I nodded, brushed a bit of ash off my pant leg. “But you’d hear me out?” I said.

Mitchell nodded back, slowly. “Sure,” he said. “I’d hear you out.”

“Okay,” I said as I leaned forward to stub out my cigarette, “So that’s what I get.”

The man at the desk made a face. It was like he couldn’t decide if I was making a joke or mentally defective. “It’s not much,” he said.

“Maybe not,” I said, eyeing my empty glass, “But it’s all I want.”

Mitchell shook his head, sighed. “You’re not as stupid as they make you out to be,” he said, “But I’m not sure you aren’t crazy.”

All I could do was shrug. Then I picked up my glass and sort of waved it back and forth a little. My host got the message.

“Yes,” he said, “Fine. Help yourself. Then tell me what you’ve got to tell me”

I was only too happy to comply with the first part. Mitchell’s hooch stock was damned impressive for its size. He had some bourbon, some gin, a little brandy. I went straight for the scotch, uncorked two or three bottles before I found what I was looking for. It was a single malt, a good ten years older than me. It smelled the way angels in old paintings look. I poured a double, savored the smell a while, then carried it back to the chair by Mitchell’s desk.

“In two days,” I said once I got myself settled, “Maybe three, I’ll give you a call. I’ll have a location and a time for you. It’s important that you remember them. Once I’m confident that you will, I’ll spill the rest of it. I’ll tell you what Cato and Fitzroy told me when they brought me in. I’ll describe everything I’ve seen since I took this case. And I’ll explain, to the best of my ability, what I’m pretty sure has been going on in the background but I can’t really prove.”

Mitchell frowned. He didn’t like being dictated to, but that was only the beginning of his complaints. “Why wait?” he said. “What happens in two or three days?”

I swallowed some whiskey. The stuff tasted like a piece of old mahogany furniture. I nodded my appreciation. Mitchell just stared, waiting for me to answer.

“It should take you at least that long,” I said, “To make the necessary arrangements.”

The PA rolled his eyes, sighed, put his hand to his temple again. “You’re losing my interest,” he said.

I raised a hand, palm out, made a calming kind of gesture. “It’s nothing complicated,” I said, “Nothing you can’t figure out. Obviously I don’t want my name on any of this when it gets to press. Too many questions with awkward answers, you know. So I’d be obliged if you attributed everything I gave you to Mr. Sullivan out there in the bullpen. Lord knows he could use a break after what he puts up with.”

Mitchell flashed a hard, tight smile. “Yes,” he said, “I can imagine being a friend of yours would try any man’s patience.”

“It would,” I said, “And does.”

The man at the desk nodded, sighed, rubbed his eyes. “Fortunately for us both,” he said, “Mr. Sullivan is as valuable to this office as he is to you personally. Burnishing his reputation further – deserved or not – will do me no harm at all. This is provided, of course, he agrees to your proposal.”

I nodded. “He will,” I said. “You can be sure.”

“Fine,” said Mitchell. Good. What else?”

“What else,” I said, “Is a procedural matter. It’s the part that might take a day or two to clear.”

Mitchell cocked an eyebrow. His voice was cold, rigid. “Yes?” he said. “And how is that?”

I tried to sound casual. “There’s a fellow I know,” I said, “A flatfoot with the city PD. He’s on the arson desk now, but I think he’d be a choice addition to the vice squad.”

The man nodded. He looked smug, just then, satisfied. I guess it amused him to see a holier-than-thou like me try to play the patronage game.

“I see,” he said. “You want him on the investigation?”

I shook my head as I swallowed another mouthful of fine Highland eye-opener. “No,” I said, “I want him to lead it.”

Mitchell’s other eyebrow shot up. His expression made it look like he’d just got a whiff of something rotten. “That’s not your call,” he said.

“It’s not yours either,” I said with a shrug, “Technically speaking. But with everybody wanting to be your friend these days, it seems to me you wouldn’t have much trouble getting the commander over at the vice desk to take a suggestion of yours under advisement.”

The PA shook his head, spat out a harsh, humourless laugh. “You think it’s that easy?” he said.

“No,” I said, “I don’t. I think it’s a giant pain in the neck. But I’m asking you to do it anyway if you want my help with this thing.”

Mitchell leaned forward on his elbows. If his desk wasn’t five feet deep we’d have been sitting nose to nose. “I don’t need your help, Parker,” he said. “Lord knows why I should want it. You want these people gone? So do I. Cato, Fitzroy, and anyone else who thinks this town belongs to them. But I’ve got people for that. And I’ve got time to see it through. You seem to want this done right now. Maybe you’ve even got an idea of how to do it. But you haven’t done much to convince me that your way is better than mine.”

He had a point, I’ll say. So far my case was all carrot and no stick. He wanted my way to sound better before he’d agree to it. So the obvious thing to do was to make his way sound worse.

“Fair enough,” I said, setting down my glass a minute. “How about it’s like this? You help me clear out the two biggest rackets in town or I sell my story to the papers. They ask me why I didn’t go to the law – and I’ll make sure they do – it gets out that you turned me away so you could do things on your terms. Maybe I don’t know politics like I know horses, but it seems to me the voters don’t usually go for that sort of thing.”

The PA listened, took a breath, sighed. He handled a direct threat better than I would have. The worst he did was shake his head a little. He seemed more disappointed than angry.

“I’m supposed to believe you think the papers can get this right?” he said. “That they’ll tell the story you want people to hear?”

I shrugged. “No,” I said. “But it’s not like they’re going to make things worse.”

Mitchell actually laughed at that. Then he shook his head some more. “So what?” he said. “Your pitch is help me or I destroy you?”

“Looks that way,” I said.

The man at the desk sighed again. He nodded. “Maybe,” he said, “From where you’re sitting. From where I’m sitting, it looks an awful lot like someone who would normally have jumped at the chance to bury me if it came his way is sitting in my office trying to ask me for a favor. He’s not doing a great job of it, mind you, but the fact that he’s here at all makes me think something’s up that he’s not telling. And if that’s true – if for the first time in his life he’s willing to compromise his precious ideals to actually get something done – he’s not just doing to walk out and take his chances with a bunch of ink-stained scandal-mongers.”

It was hard not to be impressed. Whatever I thought about the way he used his power, he knew what the hell he was doing. He’d told me as much, so I guess I should’ve played things a little closer to the vest. But like he said, this wasn’t how I normally operated. It was hard enough asking someone like him for help. The way he kept pushing back was only making it harder.

Mitchell watched me with a kind of casual interest as I mulled over his read on things. Smart as he was, I think he knew we were at an impasse. So I figured I ought to confirm that for him, make sure we were on the same page.

“He might feel that way, sure,” I said. “But if he’s as bugged as you say about getting something done, I don’t guess he’d let something like that hold him up.”

The PA nodded slowly. He was resigned, but not defeated. “No,” he said, “I guess not.”

For a while after that we just sat there, each in his corner waiting for the other to flinch. It’s what they call in the pictures a Mexican Standoff. Neither of us wanted to pull the trigger, of course. But then neither of us wanted to back down, either. Call it a matter of pride. I suppose I should have been the bigger man – being, in this situation, the smaller man. But it seemed to me the Prosecuting Attorney had enough self-respect to stake me this one time. He’d get his back in the end.

Mitchell eventually came around to seeing it my way. He must have, or else he wouldn’t have said what he did. He kept it casual, off-hand. He was good at that when he wanted to be.

“What was his name?” he said, scratching his chin like it was something he was trying to remember.

I swirled what was left of my drink, made a face like I was confused. “Who,” I said, “The cop?”

Mitchell’s lips pulled tight into a smirk. I should have given him a break, I know, but I don’t think I was built for it. Anyway, he let me off easy.

“Yes, the cop,” he said. “Who else are we talking about?”

“Webb,” I said with a nod, “Arson. Sully can give you the details.”   

“I’m sure,” said the PA. Then he cocked his chin in my direction. “Why him?”

I shrugged, sighed. “Because,” I said, “He’s an honest man. And because I trust him.”

Mitchell raised his brows again. He nodded. “I don’t suppose that comes easy for you,” he said.

I nodded back. “No,” I said, “It does not.”

That seemed to satisfy the man; or maybe not that quite as much as the whole conversation. He didn’t like being handled, like he said, and now he’d shown me why. He was too smart for it. I wasn’t about to argue. So now we had each other’s measure. I think that made him feel more comfortable. Not that he respected me, or anything like that. But now he could be sure I had some reason to respect him. He wasn’t far off, I’ll say. I admire people who won’t let me push them around, even if I still end up hating most of them personally.

The PA sat quiet for a bit, eyeing me carefully. I tried not to take it personal. Then he gave a little nod, pulled over a pad of paper, started to scribble something down.

“Three days,” he said. “Call this number. I’ll see what can be done. No promises.”

I took the page he tore off, stowed it, finished my drink. Then I stood up and set the glass down on the desk. “Naturally,” I said. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll see myself out.”

Mitchell nodded. He didn’t get up, didn’t try to shake my hand. “You do that,” he said.

Halfway to the door he called out my name. I turned. He was still seated, one elbow on the desk, slowly massaging his right temple. I’d given him a headache, I guess. It’s been known to happen.

“If this turns out to be a setup,” he said, “I’ll strangle you to death myself.”

I nodded, shrugged. “With good reason,” I said. “See you around.” 

Next Chapter: The Woman in the Cave