Gladiator-At-Law

Chapter Three

Charles mundin, LL.B., entered Republican Hall through the back way.

He found Del Dworcas in the balcony—the Hall was a busted, slightly remodeled movie house—telling the cameramen how to place their cameras, the sound men how to line up their parabolic mikes and the electricians how to use their lights. For that was the kind of hairpin Del Dworcas was.

Mundin stood on the sidelines faintly hoping that one of the cameramen would take out a few of Dworcas's front teeth with a tripod leg, but they kept their tempers admirably. He sighed and tapped the chairman on the shoulder.

Dworcas gave him the big hello and asked him to wait in the manager's office for him—he had to get these TV people squared away, but it wouldn't take more than a few minutes. "Did you see that fellow Bligh?" he asked. "Yeah? Good. Soak him, Charlie; you got to make a living, you know. Some friend of my kid brother's. Now go on down to the office. Couple of people there for you to talk to." He looked palpably mysterious.

Mundin sighed again; but that, too, was the kind of hairpin Del Dworcas was. At the foot of the stairs he yelled in astonishment: "Great God Almighty! Prince Wilhelm the Fourth!"

William Choate IV jerked around and looked confused, then stuck out a hand for Mundin to grasp. He was a pudgy little man of Mundin's age, classmate from John Marshall, heir to a mighty corporate practice, tidy dresser, former friend, solid citizen, four-star jerk. "Why, hello, Charles," he said uncertainly. "Good to see you."

"Likewise. What are you doing here?"

Choate made a mighty effort and produced a shrug. "Oh," he said, "you know."

"Meaning that even a corporation lawyer has political dealings once in a while?" Mundin helped him out.

"That's it exactly!" Choate was pleased; it was just like old times. Mundin had always helped him out, all the way through John Marshall Law.

Mundin looked at his former protege with emotions that were only distantly related to envy. "It's a pleasure to run into you, Willie," he said. "They keeping you busy?"

"Busy? Whew! You'll never know, Charles." That was an unfortunate remark, Mundin admitted to himself. Busy—— "You know the I. G. Farben reorganization?"

"By reputation," Mundin said bitterly. "I'm in criminal practice right now. Incidentally, I had an interesting case today——"

"Yes," Choate said. "Well, you might say I've won my spurs. The old man made me counsel for the Group E Debenture Holder's Protective Committee. Old Haskell died in harness, you know. Think of it—forty years as counsel for the Protective Committee! And with a hearing before the Referee in Receivership coming up. Well, I won my spurs, as you might say. I argued before the referee this morning, and I got a four-year stay!"

"Well," Charles Mundin said. 'To use a figure of speech, you certainly won your spurs, didn't you?"

"I thought you'd see it that way," Choate beamed. "I simply pointed out to old Rodeheaver that rushing through an immediate execution of receivership would work a hardship on the committee, and I asked for more time to prepare our roits for the trust offices. Old Rodeheaver just thought it over and decided it would be in the public interest to grant a stay. And, Charles, he congratulated me on my presentation! He said he had never heard the argument read better!"

"Well done," said Charles. It was impossible to resent this imbecile. A faint spark of technical interest made him ask, "How did you prove hardship?"

Choate waved airily. "Oh, that was easy. We have this smart little fellow in the office, some kind of cousin of mine, I guess. He handles all the briefs. A real specialist; not much at the "big picture," you know, but very good in his field. He could prove old Green, Charlesworth were starving in the gutter if you told him to. I'm joking, of course," he added hastily.

Poor Willie, thought Mundin. Too dumb for Harvard Law, too dumb for Columbia, though he was rich enough to buy and sell them both. That's how he wound up at John Marshall, a poor man's school which carried him for eight years of conditions and repeats until sheer attrition of memorizing had worn grooves in his brain that carried him through his exams. Mundin had written most of his papers, and nothing but good-heartedness and a gentle, sheep's gaze had got him through the orals.

And poor dumb Willie glowed, "You know what that little job is worth? The firm's putting in for two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, Charles! And as counsel for record I get half!"

That did it. Mundin licked his lips. "Willie," he said hoarsely, "Willie——"

He cut it oft there. His mind played out the conversation to its end: The abject begging, Willie, you owe me something, give me a job, I can be a smart little fellow as well as anybody's cousin. And the dismally embarrassed, Gosh, Charles, be fair, the old man would never understand, what would you do if you were in my place?

Hopeless, Mundin knew the answer. In Willie's place, he would keep the lucrative practice of corporate law right in the grip of the Choate family. He would sit on top of his practice with a shotgun in his lap. And if anybody tried to take it away from him he would blast with both barrels and then club him with the butt until he stopped twitching. . . .

"Yes, Charles?" Willie was patient and expectant.

"Nothing," said Mundin heavily. "You were saying there's more work to do?"

"More work?" Willie beamed. "Why, with any luck I'll hand the Group E Debenture Holders' Protective Committee down to William Choate the Fifth! The reorganization's only been going for forty-three years. Soon lots of principals in the case will be dead, and then we'll have trusts and estates in the picture. Sub-committees! Sub-sub-committees! I tell you, Charles, it's great to be on the firing line of the law."

"Thank you, Willie," Mundin said gently. "Must you go now?"

Willie said, "Must I? Oh. Yes, I guess I must. It's been good seeing you, Charles. Keep up the good work."

Mundin stared impotently at his pudgy back. Then he turned wearily and went on to Dworcas's office, not very optimistically. But it was the only thing he could think of to do, apart from suicide. And he wasn't ready for that, yet.

Dworcas had still not arrived. The manager's office, back of the closed-up ticket booth, was tiny and crowded with bales of literature. The people waiting there were a young man and a young woman, obviously brother and sister. Big sister, kid brother; they were maybe twenty-eight and twenty-two."

The girl got up from behind one of the battered desks. Mannish. No lipstick, cropped hair, green slacks, a loose plaid shirt. She gripped his hand crunchingly.

"I'm Norma Lavin," she said. "Mr. Mundin?"

"Yes." Mannish. Now, why was good old Del passing this screwball on to him?

"This is my brother Don."

"Pleased to meet you." Don Lavin had something weird and something familiar about him. His eyes drew attention. Mundin had often read of "shining eyes" and accepted it as one of those things you read that don't mean anything. Now he was disconcerted to find that he was looking into a pair of eyes that did shine.

"Please sit down," he said to them, clearing a chair for himself. He decided it was simply Lavin's habit to blink infrequently. It made his eyes look varnished, gave the youngster a peering, fanatic look.

The girl said, "Mr. Dworcas tells us you're a lawyer, Mr. Mundin, as well as a valuable political associate."

"Yes," he said. He automatically handed her one of the fancy penny-each cards from his right breast pocket. Don Lavin looked somewhat as if he had been conditioned. That was it. Like a court clerk or one of the participants in a Field Day—or, he guessed, a criminal after the compulsory third-rep treatment.

"Yes," he said. "I'm a lawyer. I wouldn't swear to that other part"

"Umph," she said. "You're the best we can do. We got nowhere in Washington, we got nowhere in Chicago, we got nowhere in New York. We'll try local courts here. Dworcas passed us on to you. Well, we have to start somewhere."

"Somewhere," her brother dreamily agreed.

"Look, Miss Lavin," Mundin began.

"Just Lavin."

"Okay. Lavin, or Spike, or Butch, or whatever you want me to call you. If you're through with the insults, will you tell me what you want?"

Del Dworcas stuck his head in the door. "You people getting along okay? Fine!" He vanished again.

The girl said, "We want to retain you as attorney for a stockholders' committee. The G.M.L. Homes thing."

G.M.L. Homes, Mundin thought, irritated. That's silly. G.M.L.—why, that means the bubble-houses. Not just the houses, of course—the bubble-cities, too; the real estate in practically continental lots; the private roads, the belt lines, the power reactors. . . .

"Nonsense." It wasn't a very funny joke.

The shiny-eyed boy said abruptly, "The 'L' stands for Lavin. Did you know that?"

Something kicked Mundin in the stomach. He grunted. Suppose—just suppose, now—that maybe it isn't a joke, he thought detachedly. Ridiculous, of course, but just suppose——

G.M.L. Homes.

Such things didn't happen to Charles Mundin, LL.D. To squash it once and for all, he said, flat out, "I'm not licensed to practice corporate law, you know. Try William Choate the Fourth; he was——"

"We just did. He said no."

They make it sound real, Mundin thought admiringly. Of course, it couldn't be. Somewhere in the rules it was written down inexpungibly: Charles Mundin will never get a fat case. Therefore this thing would piffle out, of course.

"Well?" demanded the girl.

"I said I'm not licensed to practice corporate law."

"That's all right," the girl said contemptuously. "Did you think we didn't know that? We have an old banger we dug up who still has his license. He can't work, but we can use his name as attorney of record."

Well. He began hazily. "It's naturally interesting——"

She interrupted. "Naturally, Mundin, naturally. Will you get the hell off the dime? Yes or no. Tell us."

Dworcas stuck his head in again. "Mundin. I'm awfully sorry, but I've got to have the office for a while. Why don't you and your friends go over for a cup of coffee?"

Hussein's place across the street was pretty full, but they found a low table on the aisle.

The old-timers stared with dull, insulting curiosity at the strange face of Don Lavin. The kids in zoot hats with five-inch brims looked once and then looked away quickly. You didn't stare at a man who had obviously been conditioned: Not any more than in the old days you stared at the cropped ears of a convicted robber or asked a eunuch what it was like.

Norma Lavin got no stares at all. Young and old, the customers looked coldly right through her. The Ay-rabs blamed women like her for the disconcerting way their own women were changing under their very eyes.

Hussein himself came over. "Always a pleasure, Mr. Ur-munn," he beamed. "What will you have?"

"Coffee, please," Mundin said. Don Lavin shook his head absently. Norma said nothing.

"Majun for the lady?" Hussein asked blandly. "Fresh from Mexico this week. Very strong. Peppermint, raspberry, grape?"

Norma Lavin icily said, "No." Hussein went away beaming. He had delivered a complicated triple insult—by calling her a lady, offering her a narcotic and, at that, a narcotic traditionally beloved by Islamic ladies denied the consolation of love by ugliness or age.

Mundin masked his nervousness by studying his watch. "We have about ten minutes," he said. "If you can give me an idea of what you have in mind——"

Somebody coming down the aisle stumbled over Don Lavin's foot.

"I beg your pardon," Lavin said dreamily.

"What's the idea of tripping me?" asked a bored voice. It was a cop—a big man with an intelligent, humorous face.

"It was an accident, officer," Mundin said.

"Here we go again," Norma Lavin muttered.

"I was talking to this gentleman, I believe," the cop said. He asked Don Lavin again, "I said, what's the idea of tripping me? You a cop-hater or something?"

"I'm really very sorry," Lavin said. "Please accept my apology."

"He won't," Norma Lavin said to Mundin, aside.

"Officer," Mundin said sharply, "it was an accident. I'm Charles Mundin. Former candidate for the Council in the 27th, Regular Republican. I'll vouch for this gentleman."

"Yes, your Honor," the cop said, absently saluting. He turned to Lavin. "Suppose we show some identification, cop-hater."

Lavin took out a wallet and spilled cards on the table. The cop inspected them and muttered: "Dreadful. Dreadful. Social Security account card says you're Donald W. Lavin, but Selective Service registration says you're Don Lavin, no middle initial. And I see your draft registration is with an Omaha board but you have a resident's parking permit for Coshocton, Ohio. Tell me, did you ever notify Omaha that you're a resident of Coshocton?"

"Of course he did," Mundin said quickly.

Lavin said dreamily. "I'm extremely sorry, officer. I didn't. I registered in Omaha because I happened to be passing through on my eighteenth birthday. I simply never got around to changing."

The cop decisively scooped up the cards and said, "You'd better come along with me, Lavin. Your career of crime has gone far enough. It's a lucky thing I tripped over you."

Mundin noted that he had dropped the pretense of having been tripped. "Officer," he said, "I'm taking your shield number. I'm going to tell my very good friend Del Dworcas about this nonsense. Shortly after that, you'll find yourself on foot patrol in Belly Rave—the two-to-ten shift. Unless you care to apologize and get the hell out of here."

The officer grinned and shrugged. "What can I do?" he asked helplessly. "I'm a regular Javert. When I see the law broken, my blood boils. Come along, Dangerous Don."

Lavin smiled meagerly at his sister, who sat with a thundercloud scowl on her brow, and went along.

Mundin's voice was shaking with anger. "Don't worry," he told Norma Lavin. "I'll have him out of the station house right after the meeting. And that cop is going to wish he hadn't been born."

"Never mind. I'll get him out," she said. "Five times in three weeks. I'm used to it."

"What's the angle?" Mundin exploded.

Hussein came up with coffee in little cups. "Nice fella, that Jimmy Lyons," he said chattily. "For cop, that is."

"Who is he?" Mundin snapped.

"Precinct captain's man. Very good to know. The uniform is just patrolman, but when you talk to Jimmy Lyons you talk right into the precinct captain's ear. If you pay shakedown and two days later other cop comes around for more shakedown, you tell Jimmy Lyons. The cop gets transferred to Belly Rave. Maybe worse. You know," Hussein grinned confidentially, "before I come to America everybody tells me how different from Iraq. But once here—not so different."

Norma Lavin stood up and said, "I'm going to get my brother sprung before they start switching him around the precincts again." Her voice was leaden. "I suppose this is the end of the road, Mundin. But if you still want to consider taking our case, here's the address. Unfortunately there's no phone." She hesitated.

She began, "I hope you'll——" It was almost a cry for help. She bit off the words, dropped a coin and a card on the table and strode from the coffee shop. The Ay-rabs looked icily through her as she went.

Mundin managed to see Dworcas for a minute. "Del," he said, "what's with these Lavin people? What do you know about them?" Dworcas's face was open and friendly—Mundin knew how little that could be relied on.

"Not much, Charlie. They wanted a lawyer. We've worked together; I thought of you."

"Right after you thought of Willie Choate?" Dworcas was patient. "What the hell, Charlie? Choate wouldn't touch it, I knew that. But they wanted to talk to somebody big."

"Sure." Mundin hesitated, but already Dworcas was beginning to pick at papers on his desk. "Del, one thing. Some cop named Jimmy Lyons picked the boy up in Hussein's, no reason that I could see. The—the boy was conditioned, I think."

"Um. Jimmy Lyons? He's the captain's man. I'll call." Dworcas called, while Mundin thought about the complications of life on the firing-line of the law. There had not been, at John Marshall, a course in How to Get Along with Ward-feeders. But there should have been, thought Mundin, there should have been. Let us put you up to take a fall in the year when we aren't going to win the Council, and your name turns up on the slate of poll-watchers. Give us a hand at speeches, and when a case drops in our lap, we'll think of you. . . . Dworcas came up smiling.

"The sister bailed him out. They just wanted to cool him off—the kid gave Lyons some lip, evidently, and Lyons got sore. What the hell, cops are human."

"Del, the kid didn't give Lyons any lip. Lyons was looking for it."

"Sure, Charlie, sure." Del's eyes were beginning to rove. Mundin let him go.

He plucked the girl's card out of his pocket and turned it over, bemused. G.M.L. Homes, he thought. Corporate practice. A shrewd, hard cop looking for trouble. It's not generally known that the "L" stands for Lavin.

And a cry for help.

The card said Norma Lavin, with an address in Coshocton, Ohio, and a phone number. These were scratched out, and written in was 37595 Willowdale Crescent.

An address in Belly Rave!

Mundin shook his head slowly and worriedly. But there had been a cry for help.