“But they do.”
“Yeah. And they aren’t fucking around, either. They’re taking us into federal court for invasion of privacy, interstate theft—”
“Interstate?” I said.
“Sure. A lot of their clients don’t necessarily live in the Bay State. They got files on those discs for clients from across the Northeast and Midwest. Technically, Angie stole information that crossed state lines.”
“That’s a fine line,” I said.
“Of course it is. And they still have to prove I have the discs and a whole lot of other shit, but they must have a judge in their pocket because at ten this morning my publisher got an injunction slapped on him prohibiting the publication of any article on Grief Release which can be directly linked to information found only on those discs.”
“Well, then you got them,” I said.
“How so?”
“They can’t prove what’s on those discs if they don’t have them. And even if they have everything backed up on a hard drive, they can’t prove that what’s on the hard drive is necessarily what’s on those discs. Right?”
“Exactly. But that’s the beauty of the injunction. We can’t prove that what we intend to publish doesn’t come from those discs. Unless we’re stupid enough to produce them, of course, in which case they’re useless anyway.”
“Catch-twenty-two.”
“Bingo.”
“Still,” I said, “this sounds like a smokescreen, Rich. If they can’t prove you have the discs or that you even know about them, then sooner or later, some judge is going to say they don’t have a legal leg to stand on.”
“But we have to find that judge,” Richie said. “Which means filing appeals, maybe going to a federal superior court. Which takes time. Meanwhile, I have to run around and independently substantiate everything on those discs by using other sources. They’re eating up a clock on us, Patrick. That’s what they’re doing. And they’re succeeding.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. And I also don’t know how they got onto me so quick. Who’d you tell?”
“No one.”
“Bullshit.”
“Richie,” I said, “I didn’t even tell my client.”
“Who is your client, by the way?”
“Rich,” I said, “come on.”
There was a long dead pause on the line.
When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper. “You know what it takes to buy a federal judge?”
“A lot of money.”
“A lot of money,” he said. “And a lot of power, Patrick. I’ve been looking into the alleged head of the Church of Truth and Revelation, guy by the name of P. F. Nicholson Kett—”
“No shit? That’s his full name?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just, what a dorky name.”
“Yeah, well, P. F. Nicholson Kett is like a god and guru and high priest all rolled into one. And no one has seen him in over twenty years. He transmits messages through underlings, supposedly from his yacht off the coast of Florida. And he—”
“Florida,” I said.
“Right. Look, I think the guy’s bullshit. I think he died a long time ago and he was never much to begin with. He was just the face someone put on the Church.”
“And the face behind the face is?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But it ain’t P. F. Nicholson Kett. The guy was a moron. A former advertising copy editor from Madison, Wisconsin, who used to write porno scripts under an assumed name to make ends meet. The guy could barely spell his own name. But I’ve seen films and he had charisma. Plus he had that look in his eyes of all fanatics, part fervent belief, part comatose. So someone took this guy with good looks and charisma and propped his ass up to be a little tin god. And that someone, I’m sure of it, is the guy who’s suing my ass at the moment.”
On his end I heard the sudden eruption of several beeping phone lines.
“Call me later. Gotta run.”
“Bye,” I said, but he was already gone.
As I came out of the hotel onto the walkway that curled through a garden of palm trees and incongruous Australian pines, I saw Angie sitting on the chaise, her hand over her eyes to block the sun, looking up at a young guy in an orange Speedo so small that comparing it to a loincloth would probably be an insult to loincloths.
Another guy in a blue Speedo sat on the other side of the pool watching the two of them, and I could tell by the smile on his face that Orange Speedo was his pal.
Orange Speedo held a half-full bottle of Corona by his shiny hip, a lime floating in the foam, and as I approached, I heard him say, “You can be friendly, can’t you?”
“I can be friendly,” Angie said. “I’m just not in the mood right now.”
“Well, change your mood. You’re in the land of fun ’n’ sun, darlin’.”
Darlin’. Big mistake.
Angie shifted in her chaise, placed the case file on the ground by the chair. “The land of fun ’n’ sun?”
“Yeah!” The guy took a swig of the Corona. “Hey, you should be wearing your sunglasses.”
“Why’s that?”
“Protect those pretty eyes of yours.”
“You like my eyes,” she said in a tone I’d heard before. Run, I wanted to scream to the guy. Run, run, run.
He rested the beer on his hip. “Yeah. They’re feline.”
“Feline?”
“Like a cat’s,” he said and leaned over her.
“You like cats?”
“Love ’em.” He smiled.
“Then you should probably go to a pet store and buy one,” she said. “Because I get the feeling that’s the only pussy you’re going to get tonight.” She picked up the case file and opened it on her lap. “Know what I mean?”
I stepped off the path onto the pool patio as Orange Speedo took a step back and cocked his head and his hand tightened around the Corona bottle neck until his knuckles grew red.
“Hard to come up with a comeback to that one, ain’t it?” I smiled brightly.
“Hey, partner!” Angie said. “You braved the sun to join me. I’m touched. And you’re even wearing shorts.”
“Crack the case yet?” I squatted by her chaise.
“Nope. But I’m close. I can feel it.”