April Fool by William Deverell Page B

nesting eagle, eggs–and I’d like photographs.”
    After adjournment, Santorini’s clerk corrals the lawyers. “The judge wants to see counsel. Especially you, Mr. Beauchamp.” She leans to his ear. “Even in those shoes.”
    Arthur reluctantly parades behind the others, finds Ed Santorini at his desk in shirtsleeves, his feet up, a benign smile that hides an intention to talk hard business.
    â€œYou’re looking in great shape, Arthur. Ten years younger than when I last saw you, if you want the truth. Must be the country air. Goddamn, come here, you old son of a bitch.” He stands, and Arthur moves toward him with hand extended, but is met by the full Italian embrace. “Best fucking lawyer on these Pacific shores. Bruised me up a few times.”
    â€œYou’re looking remarkably ageless yourself, Ed.”
    â€œI don’t want any jokes about bald eagles.”
    â€œNonsense, you look good without your feathers.”
    Santorini laughs again. “You reprobate. Hey, as we were carrying on in there, I started wondering, How do those birds mate on the wing? Must be something to see.” Selwyn Loo smiles pleasantly as a heavy silence sets in.
    Santorini resumes his seat, procoeeds briskly. “Okay, I’m not going to detain anyone, I just want this thing settled as painlessly as possible. Arthur, you’ve got your wife up that tree. Good-looking woman, from the pictures I’ve seen, and I’ll bet she’s a hell of a great gal. I don’t want her arrested–I don’t want anyone arrested here–and I don’t want anyone thrown in jail or fined. I just want those people off that tree, eagles or not, and I’m going to insist there be no logging until we straighten that out.”
    â€œWhat about the air surveillance, sir?” says Selwyn.
    â€œOkay, I want to be fair, let’s hold off on that for a while. Any problems with that, Paul?”
    Prudhomme agrees to advise his clients to comply.
    â€œAnd in that spirit, let’s see if the defendants can bend a little too, climb down from their perch. Will you talk to them, Arthur?”
    â€œWhat do you suggest I say?” He wants to tell Santorini that Margaret Blake doesn’t climb down from anything easily.
    â€œChrist, Arthur, use your famous velvet tongue, explain to your good wife I’m letting her off the hook–the other guy as well. I’ll protect their interests as long as they cooperate with me.”
    To Arthur, that sounds of disguised bullying. “Communications are not simple. One shouts.”
    â€œHeard you do it many times.”
    Twenty years ago, for instance, in open court–Arthur can’t remember all the words he used in describing Santorini. Only the expression horse’s ass lingers.
    â€œEddie, I do not intend to counsel persons, whether they be clients, friends, or wives, by shouting into half the nation’s microphones.”
    â€œThen go up the tree on that…what have they got, a rope ladder?” Santorini’s bonhomie has faded under Arthur’s gently scornful gaze, and he is flustered now, aware he is making demands that are patently unreasonable.
    â€œPerhaps I could swing like Tarzan through the boughs.”
    Lotis Rudnicki snorts with laughter. Santorini forces a stiff smile, studies her for a moment. “You’re sure we haven’t met, Miss Rudnicki?”
    â€œNot in the flesh, milord.”
    The comment demands elaboration, but Santorini opts not to seek it. “Arthur, I take it you’re not involved in this…this escapade. The plaintiff alleges a conspiracy, I’d hate to see you named in a writ. Along with whoever built that platform.”
    He stands. “Okay, we’ll use the weekend as a cooling-off time and meet again on Monday. No, I have a judges’seminar. Tuesday. I want a response to my offer of clemency. I don’t care how you lay down the law