Max Linklater wasn’t his real name. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but even the slipperiest of fish can get caught in a net, and his nom de plume had complicated things a bit.
It was a minor offense, after all. He’d been arrested in a raid on a nightclub in Pioneer Square. Not on account of Prohibition, thank God; that was over and done with. Finally. But admittedly, the Oasis was a risqué joint. Even though the owner paid bribes to the police to keep the doors open, every once in a while, some puffed-up politician had to make a show of ridding the world of moral degradation in all its forms. As if anybody believed it.
Max was hardly a stranger to courtrooms. This one in particular had a creaky floorboard that the bailiff stepped on every time he crossed from his table to the judge. Plus, that bailiff had a thing for the court stenographer, all winks and come hither looks between them.
No call to be nervous, but this time, Max was. He’d been before plenty of judges, just not this judge. From the way he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, anyone would think he was up for murder or something. Today, he’d consider himself lucky to squeak by with a fine.
He shook hands with his lawyer, Darius Cunningham, a go-getter fresh out of law school. Max was also greeted by a friend from the other side of the railing which separated the bad guys from the good guys. Loretta Cosgrove, a woman in her perennial thirty-ninth year, a fur coat draped nonchalantly over her shoulders and a necklace-earring set that most definitely was not glass, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him so hard it knocked his hat to the back of his head.
“Ooh, sweetie, did they hurt you?” she fussed, straightening his tie, her fur slipping off her shoulders.
“Nah,” Max said, catching her coat before it hit the floor. She smelled of lilacs and face powder, after a night in jail, heaven. “They shoved us around a bit, but it was just for show.”
“You poor thing,” she cooed. “Wait ’till I get you home.” And she meant it, too. Loretta was old enough to be his mother, but who the hell cared about that? She knew what she wanted, and she wasn’t silly about it.
“All rise.”
Darius elbowed Max in the ribs as the bailiff droned on.
“Court is now in session,” (creak) “the Honorable Judge William Cole presiding.”
Max’s expression dropped along with his head and his stomach did a flipper. Hat in hand, he turned forward, looking, for the benefit of his audience, like he was sorry for what he’d done.
“Next case: Max Linklater. The charge: Gross Moral Turpitude.” Max shot a surreptitious glance at Loretta and winked. He faced front again, resuming the role of penitent altar boy. He let out a breath, waiting for the firing squad to commence.
A disinterested Judge Cole had yet to look up from the bench as he received the documents from his bailiff. “Very well, Mr. Linklater. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” Max mumbled. He risked a peek at the judge, who still hadn’t taken any particular interest in this case.
The judge sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Young man, you’re going to have to speak up.”
Aw, hell. With resignation, Max raised his head and with a broad grin and a glint in his eye, said, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
Judge Cole finally looked up and stared, mouth agape. Red-faced, he shook himself and rifled through the papers in front of him, as if in search of some answer to his own apparent confusion. “I see… very well. Not… guilty. Well—erm...” He cleared his throat. “Bail is set at ten dollars.”
Down came the gavel. “Next case,” the bailiff announced. Max couldn’t believe his luck. They’d be out of there in ten minutes.
“Just a minute, bailiff,” Judge Cole said. He beckoned Max’s lawyer to approach the bench. “I want to see your client in my chambers.”
“Oh. Of course, Your Honor. Now?”
“Right now.” The judge stood. He banged his gavel and left the courtroom, black robes swirling ominously like the wings of a crow.
Poor Cunningham looked like he’d been called into the principal’s office. Max chuckled and gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. “Might as well get it over with.”
When Cunningham and Max were ushered into the judge’s chambers, they found him looking out the window, hands clasped behind his back. Without turning around, the judge said, “Thank you, Counsellor. You can leave us.”
“Excuse me?” Cunningham sputtered.
“You may go.”
“But, Your Honor, my client—”
“—Is my son.”
Darius looked to Max, who held up his hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged.”
“I trust we can rely on your discretion, Mr…”
“I don’t—oh!” The look on the judge’s face as he rounded on Cunningham caused the lawyer to take a step back. “Of… of course, Your Honor. C-Cunningham. I’m… that is…” He hooked a finger into his collar. “I’ll just wait outside, shall I?” He left the other two men in a pool of icy silence.
Max shoved his hands into his pockets, then pulled them out again, suddenly recalling how it annoyed his father when he did that. “I didn’t think you sat at Bond Court,” Max offered, with as much bonhomie as the situation would allow.
“Herman Phelps is on vacation.”
“Huh.” Max attempted a chuckle. “What are the odds?”
Judge Cole remained stony-faced. At length, he said, “Will you sit?”
They sat.
Max smoothed the brim of the slightly tattered fedora in his lap, bracing himself for the lecture to come. The room was indeed not his father’s somber chambers. There were the usual law books you’d expect on the bookshelf, certificates, and awards on the walls, but Herman Phelps had an extensive and rather humorous collection of fishing knick-knacks. They populated the desk, the windowsill, pretty much every flat surface. Wherever jolly Herman Phelps was vacationing, Max mused, at least someone was having a good time.
Finally, the judge sliced through the tension in the room. “Richard, are you a homosexual?”
“No, Dad,” Max said, throwing his head back with laughter. “I would have thought that to be the one thing you knew about me. Matter of fact, I was with a young lady last night.”
“Oh? And I suppose you got her arrested, too?”
“Course not. She had a chance to get away. That’s when I got up on the bar and made like Fred Astaire.” He decided not to mention that he also tended bar at said racy joint. That news would earn him no credit with his dad. “And by the way, it’s Max now.”
Judge Cole’s jaw clenched. “You took my father’s name.”
“Had a ring to it.”
The judge shifted in his seat, grunting his disapproval. “I take it you changed your name legally?”
“You don’t think I’d do anything illegal, do you, Dad?”
“Where have you been? We haven’t had word from you in two years. I thought you’d left Seattle behind.”
“Nope. Just the name.”
“What were you doing in a place like that?”
“A friend of mine was in the show.”
“Oh, so he’s a homosexual?”
“Actually, he’s a female impersonator. Pretty good, too.”
“Why? Why would a man do something like that?”
Max shrugged. “Why put on tights and a fake nose? For a chance to play Cyrano.”
“And these are the people you associate with now?”
“They’re my friends.”
Judge Cole sighed, perhaps inspired by the fishing paraphernalia, casting his net to draw the conversation toward a more productive direction. He absentmindedly turned a whale figurine over in his hands while he spoke. “Look here, Richard—er, Max. There were things… some things were said, when we last spoke… unpleasant things which were regrettable. Which I regret.”
Here it comes.
“What I’m trying to say, son, is I want you to come back home. Return to school, finish your law degree. And then, if you still wish to pursue this… occupation, I won’t stand in your way.” When he’d finished speaking, he looked at the whale figure with surprise, as if seeing it for the first time, and put it back where it came from.
Max stroked his unshaven chin. It was tempting to go back to a life of comfort and good food, in a house that was warm in the winter and where the roof didn’t leak. The apology came as a surprise, but Max knew the offer to have him come home, while generous, had plenty of strings attached.
His father could slash through Max’s insecurities with a surgeon’s skill. He’d derided his son’s high talk and big dreams every chance he got. Nothing but a law career was acceptable to the judge. His father must be giddy to learn that Max had accomplished exactly nothing in his time away, except pour drinks in a disreputable nightclub and fall in love with a certain little theater in the University District where he’d been hiding out, having the time of his life. Oh well, it was bound to come out anyway. And if his father really was extending an olive branch, who was Max to throw it away?
“It’s nice of you to say, Dad. But you don’t have to worry about me. Truth is, I’m happy. I became an actor.” No need to mention it was for no pay. “Not half bad either. You should come and see our next show at the Playhouse. It’s Taming of the Shrew. I’m playing Petruchio. Perfectly respectable,” he reassured his father. “All of Seattle’s elite come to see our shows. And since the name in the program is Max Linklater, no one need know we’re related.”
Max waited hopefully for a reply, but his father seemed ill at ease. He stood, sensing there was nothing much—and far too much—left to say to his father. “Are you going to tell Poppy you saw me?”
“Should I? You’re a poor influence on your sister, you know—running off like that. She was that worried.” Not that he was worried about his own son, but maybe that was too much to ask for. Their problems were mutual, after all. Not wishing to cause further consternation, Max went to the door.
“Wait,” his father said. “Max.”
Max sighed, expecting another lecture, but when he turned around, his father only held out his hand. For the first time in Max’s young life, they faced one another as equals. The look in his dad’s eye was unexpected. Was it fear? He waited a moment, but his dad said no more.
He accepted his father’s hand.
“So long, Dad.”
* * *
Cunningham approached Max in the hallway, hands on hips. “Why, you old son of—”
“—Judge, I know,” Max admitted.
“All those petty charges. You could have dropped a name and made them all go away.”
“We were never on very good terms.”
Loretta snapped her compact shut and tucked it into her handbag. “There you are.” She took Max’s elbow and steered him toward the bank of elevators.
The operator slid the glass door open. “Going down?”
“Third Avenue Lobby,” Loretta ordered. As they all entered the elevator, she added, “My car’s waiting downstairs. Can we give you a lift, Mr. Cunningham?”
“Thanks all the same, but I’ve got more people to see today. Plus, there’s Max’s bail to settle.”
“Fine day for lawyers,” Max mused, passing Cunningham a ten-spot. “Anyone heard who ordered the raid?”
Cunningham shook his head. “Somebody political or religious. Take your pick.”
“They’re bound to take the credit eventually,” Max agreed. “How did the ‘girls’ make out last night? We got separated.”
Loretta shared a look with Cunningham and answered, “A bit the worse for wear, I’m afraid.”
“Mrs. Cosgrove paid everyone’s bail,” Cunningham threw in. “Made sure there were taxis waiting at the back entrance for them, too.”
Max gave Loretta’s shoulder a squeeze. “Aw, honey. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. If I would’ve gotten arrested, my husband would have gone right through the roof.”
They left Cunningham on the elevator and exited the building. Max couldn’t get outside fast enough. He needed to feel the sun on his face. It was a brilliant October day, crisp and bright. A tingle of warmth was all it was, quickly stolen away when you ducked into shadow. He closed his eyes and drank it in.
“Max?”
“Hmm?”
“What did the judge say to you?”
“Suggested I mend my wicked ways.”
“Oh.” She tipped her head. “That was thoughtful.”
The driver was waiting by the car with the back door open. As they climbed in, Loretta said, “As soon as I get you home, I’m going to draw you a nice, long bath.”
“Aw, I can’t, doll. I’ve got rehearsal.”
Loretta looked like she might cry. “Fiddle. I forgot about that.”
“I’ll make it up to you.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “Tonight, we’ll go someplace nice.”
“No,” she said, looking up at him, worry lines showing her age. “Let’s stay in tonight. Our last night of freedom for a while.”
He drew her into his chest and settled himself on the plush leather seat of her Packard Dietrich Victoria. He’d been up all night, playing poker with the guards. He’d let them win, of course. Can’t have too many friends in a place like that. He was worried about what had become of his compatriots. One of the guards allowed he’d look in on the girls, but Max wasn’t sure he’d made good on that promise.
“Isn’t your husband going to wonder what happened to all your cash when he gets back?” he asked.
“I’ll tell Homer I needed a new hat.”
“You’re quite a girl, Loretta Cosgrove.”
CHAPTER 2
Detective Michael Flannigan pushed himself off the brick wall where he’d been leaning. He watched the plum-colored, buffed and polished Packard pull away from the curb, shaking his head.
He needed to get back to work. He’d wasted the whole morning in court, trying to figure out why he’d been ordered to raid that club. Why that club, why that night? It could as easily have been the fruity club next door, or the one down the block. Pioneer Square was lousy with them. There wasn’t even an open investigation on the Oasis, yet he was given the order to raid with full force, and he needed to know why.
He was looking for the reason, the target. Maybe he was hoping one of those smart-aleck lawyers would make a pointless speech about police harassment. Anything. He was looking for someone who stood out in some way, attracted attention to himself. He could have interviewed the prisoners last night, sure, but that would have been on the record.
Could it have had something to do with those murders he wasn’t supposed to be investigating? He had an idea who was behind it all, but nobody would thank him for shining a light on the scheme without some solid proof.
It was a pitiful parade of men in court that morning. Oh, some of them had the knack, they could pull off the female disguise pretty well, but after a night in jail, most of them looked like old bags in their dresses, wigs, and smeared make-up.
Then in came this cocky little twerp, looked like a rich, spoiled college kid. He wasn’t a fruit. Or leastways, he didn’t dress like one. A bit too handsome, though. The kid had a funny name, too: Linklater. Flannigan didn’t know any Linklaters among Seattle’s well-to-do, but he could have been a student from anywhere.
And who should stand up for him in the gallery but Mrs. Homer Cosgrove, herself? At first, Flannigan thought she might’ve been the kid’s mother. That is, until she kissed him on the mouth, in front of God and everyone.
Then the judge, who no doubt golfed with the golden boy’s daddy, said he wanted a private word. Probably promised him he’d expunge the record, so the kid wouldn’t have to suffer any inconvenient embarrassment.
But the charges were going to be dropped anyway. That was never the point. The point was to make some noise, maybe intimidate some people. But who?
