Client Privilege by William G. Tapply Page B

all.”
    “Ambience it is. Twelve-thirty?”
    “Twelve-thirty is fine.”
    I thought of calling Pops, then I thought better of it. He couldn’t help me. I thought of calling Xerxes Garrett, the good young defense attorney who had clerked for me for a year while studying for the bar. But at this point, I didn’t figure I needed an attorney. Not yet. If they decided they wanted to arrest me…
    I did want to get a line on Wayne Churchill. I wanted to find out something I could give to Sylvestro and Finnigan so they’d leave me alone, something that would provide somebody with a motive to murder him, an enemy, a weakness, a secret. I knew there was something. After all, somebody had murdered him.
    Mickey was waiting for me at the bar at the Union Oyster House when I got there. Her slim, muscular legs were crossed, and she had hiked her skirt up over her knees to display them to their best advantage. She was hunched over a glass of Scotch. A thin black cigar was burning in the ashtray by her elbow. I eased onto the stool beside her. The young woman behind the bar said, “Sir?”
    “Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, please.”
    Mickey turned to look at me. Her monkey face broke into a grin, spreading tiny crinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. I bent to kiss her cheek, and she managed to get her mouth in the way of my aim. Before I could pull back, she had flicked her tongue out, licking my lips.
    “Come on, Mickey. Behave.”
    “Ah, you old fart, Coyne. Always were a prude.”
    “I never particularly thought so.”
    “Trust me,” she said. “You always were a prude.”
    My drink arrived. I lit a cigarette. She puffed on her cigar. I noticed that she inhaled it. The blush on her cheeks and the glitter in her eyes told me that the Scotch she was sipping wasn’t her first.
    The Union Oyster House is down near Haymarket Square. It’s more than a hundred years old, and it has managed to retain its somewhat down-at-the-heels mystique, which tourists and natives alike continue to find charming. The narrow warren of burnished wood-paneled rooms, the uneven plank floors, and the general aura of earthy good nature are features that, I’m certain, the management nurtures.
    I like the food. The seafood is always fresh, well prepared, and priced right. And I confess, I like the ambience, too.
    Mickey and I inquired after each other’s health and sex lives. She was a good deal more forthcoming than I on both subjects. When I finished my drink, I said, “Want to eat?”
    She nodded, so we found the hostess, who led us upstairs into one of the dining rooms. We ordered more drinks from the waitress. After she left, I said, “What’d you find?”
    “Get right down to business, eh, Counselor?”
    “It’s important to me, Mickey.”
    She nodded. “I suppose it is. Okay. You want to know about Wayne Churchill. Sorry to report, I didn’t learn who killed him. Man in his business, of course, was bound to have enemies. I oughta know. Unfortunately, so far none of them has stepped forward to take credit for it. He had a girlfriend—”
    “Gretchen Warde.”
    “Right.” She nodded. “The one who found his body. She appears to be the cops’ number one suspect.”
    “Where’s that put me?”
    “Number two.”
    “What’s supposed to be the girl’s motive?”
    Mickey shrugged. “The usual, I suppose. Jealousy, whatnot. Rumors I hear are that there were probably other women.”
    “Rumors?”
    “You know. Things people say. Nothing you can print. I also hear the cops found some coke in his apartment. The man evidently was your average yuppie cokehead. They’re keeping that out of the papers.”
    “But you heard it.”
    She grinned.
    “Isn’t that significant?”
    Mickey rolled her eyes. “This day and age, Brady, it’d be more significant if they didn’t find that little Baggie with white stuff in it.”
    I sighed. “I guess I’m naive.”
    “You said it, pal.”
    I shook my head. “And you found out all