Lance Bormann knew himself to be an attorney of some importance, and these days, he wasn’t used to waiting for anyone. His schedule was such that people waited for him, sometimes for hours. If clients felt that Lance’s time was very valuable, perhaps they wouldn’t mind paying a very high price for that time. Even someone as famous as Max Jackson had been made to wait.
Only with Joe O’Brian, the investigator, did Lance forego the game. He had a feeling Joe wouldn’t buy it. And Joe, he needed.
Again, he checked his watch.
Forty minutes late. Why weren’t planes ever on time?
From where he sat at the bar watching the gate, he noticed the flight agent pull the time card that had been posted and replace it with new numbers. Lance groaned. Another twenty minutes. For a moment, he wished he’d smoked the roach in the ashtray of his car on the way to the airport, then he thought better about it.
Patience, he told himself. Bert will be here soon. Have another scotch instead.
He lifted his finger to the bartender.
Bert Parker was one of the numerous colleagues who had entertained Lance on a well-needed week’s vacation in New York six months ago. Lance had already heard about Bert before that meeting. Feature news stories had given Bert the same reputation in New York that Lance held in the Bay Area, but at second glance, Lance clearly recognized the differences. He was a laid-back Californian; Bert, a tough, aggressive, no-nonsense New Yorker, who had worked with labor parties, conscientious objectors, and drug cases. In fact, Lance was a little jealous at the breadth of Bert’s law and trial experience.
On his last night in New York, Lance and Bert had talked their way through a bottle of scotch. During that evening, Lance’s college ideas were dug from slumber and met with equal enthusiasm. A quarter of a bottle down and Lance had not only eagerly described his views on human rights and tyranny but also had whispered his secrets about his secretary and her friends. Bert responded with intimacies of a labor strike and details of his recent divorce. Half a bottle down, and they had worked their way through a long discussion of the Selective Service Act, the draft, and the historical roots of pacifism, and each knew the other’s drug preferences—alcohol, pot, and cocaine. Three-quarters of a bottle and Lance got loose-lipped about the fees he asked and the quantities of money to which his clients had access. Bert enlivened his imagination with the cost of living in New York City and what could be had at a price. By the bottle’s inevitable end, both men had sloppily pontificated on the question of the legality of war and the criminalization of large segments of an otherwise moral population because of the marijuana laws. At sunrise, they had stood watching the brightening sky on Bert’s balcony, arms around each other’s shoulders, glasses raised high, exclaiming to the world in loud voices, eternal friendship.
Despite a two-day hangover, the initial spirit of goodwill carried itself. Long distance conferences on tough cases, as well as three further trips to New York, had solidified the relationship.
During the last months, Lance’s caseload had increased dramatically. Several cases had been refused, some of them with substantial sums involved. Frustration and lack of time had prompted Lance to approach Bert with the proposition of a partnership. Confiding in him the amount of his yearly income, he gave Bert proposed estimates of his projected income over the next five years. With a raised eyebrow and a smile, Bert agreed to an equal partnership.
But money, Bert had said, was not the deciding factor for him. What really decided him was the challenge of the job. Working as a team, he and Lance would be a two-sided sword that could cut away the bullshit, a new act that would leave audiences spellbound.
Turning in his resignation at the law firm where he was an associate, Bert completed his pending cases, packed and shipped his belongings, and boarded a plane for California.
“TWA Flight 467, now arriving from New York City, Gate 6.”
Lance glanced down at his watch and quickly downed the third double scotch in time to see Bert emerge from the gangway.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Bert called. “Sorry we’re late. Some instrument wasn’t working, and we sat on the ground for an hour in New York.”
“Welcome to California! Let’s get your luggage. I’ve a lot to tell you.”
Settling into Lance’s Porsche, Bert caressed the armrest as though he wouldn’t mind owning one either. Then Lance began to brief him.
“You’ll love the office building. Old brick, lots of ivy covering the walls. Both offices have a view of the bay and the Golden Gate.”
“Have any of my boxes arrived?”
“Plenty. I didn’t know if you wanted my secretary to start unpacking for you.”
“I can do it. Thanks for putting me up until I find a place to rent.”
“Rent? This is California. What you want to do is buy. Prices just keep going up. You can’t lose. A friend of mine offered to hold a special house until today. We’re going there now. The biggest news is the case I just took. Max Jackson. Ever hear the name?”
“Max Jackson?” Bert pronounced the name slowly, running it over in his mind. “Isn’t he a rock promoter who branched out? Owns a few restaurants, theatres—one here, one in L.A., one in New York. If I recall, there’s a recording studio too. Just started pressing his own releases.”
“Yeah. He has a big house worth about half a mil in Marin County. Sausalito. Anyway, last week, Jackson got popped. He had almost a kilo of pot in his basement, some smaller quantities of stash, a little acid, some mescaline, MDA, coke, bits of hash. There was some money in the house—a few grand.”
“Just a few things,” Bert grinned.
“Personal stash. But the interesting thing is that Jackson never sold to anyone. Doesn’t need to make money that way. The state boys showed up at his place with a warrant and found everything after going in. When I asked on what evidence the warrant had been issued, I was told ‘information based on a confidential reliable informant.’ Those words rang a bell. I started reviewing old cases. In each instance, the arresting officer is a man named Dolph Bremer, top honcho for the northern part of the state. Mostly Humboldt County and the Bay Area.”
“Did you ask Jackson if he’d admitted anyone to his house he didn’t know?”
“Yes. He couldn’t remember anyone. He went through agonizing days of trying to figure out which one of his friends might have screwed him. I asked him to think of the anomalies—repairmen, meter readers, neighbors. Then he remembered a young kid whose car had broken down. He’d asked to use the phone. All he could remember was that the kid was tall and skinny.”
“You think that’s it?”
“It’s a stab in the dark. I’m hiring an investigator to look into it. His name’s Joe O’Brian.”
“O’Brian. A nice Irish name.”
“You’ll meet him soon. He’s good. If there’s a connection, Joe will find it.”
“What do you know about this man Bremer?”
“Very little. He’s been in the Bay Area for maybe eight months. He’s dedicated, tough. The work is personal with him.”
“What’s the rest of the Berkeley squad like?”
“Lieutenant Hanson’s in charge of the narcotics department. He’s not a bad guy, as cops go. But the state boys have the power, especially two of Bremer’s protégés—Wilson and Phillips. And Bremer’s the boss. Believe me, he lets no one have any doubt about that.”
Lance drove his car around the Arlington Circle and up Marin Street, where the road climbed at a forty-five degree angle. He could feel Bert squirm on the incline.
“You’ll get used to the hills,” he told him, turning down a side street and onto a narrow lane. “Here we are.”
They stood beside the car and looked over the Berkeley campus with the Campanile gleaming white in the sunlight. For as far as they could see, there were residential areas—north to Richmond, south to Oakland and San Jose. A brisk breeze had cleared the air to crystal sharpness, highlighting the shape of the Bay and its islands. Three bridges connecting the Bay Area were arched high above sapphire-colored water. In the west, the city of San Francisco sat on its peninsula, crowded with tall skyscrapers. Beyond the city lay the ocean and the Farallon Islands.
“Not bad, huh?” Lance pronounced. “And that’s just the view. Come and see the house.”