PG-13, Smoking, drinking, pool hustling, legal maneuvering and colorful language.

The Wallet-Chapter 2

Harry's Place

Harry's, one of the first bars within walking distance of the courthouse and several city services, was established in the late 1930's. Over time, it had become a regular after work destination for white collar and civil servants at all levels of government. On any evening, suits and uniforms of every description could be found clustered along the bar, nestled in cozy booths, gathered around tables, or boisterously playing pool in the billiard area.

It was near the end of the week. A small group sat talking, nursing their drinks at the bar and casually glancing over at another small group who was watching the only action that evening, a game of high stakes 8 ball on table one. A young hustler had worked all afternoon taking several hundred dollars from anyone who could be suckered into a game. The patrons of Harry's were anxiously watching the final shot in a winner take all game with his latest competitor.

The cocky young man, dressed in tight jeans and a silky red shirt, opened to reveal several large gold chains, stood casually and confidently to the side of the pool table. A small group watched anxiously as the final shot was being set-up. None of the enraptured acknowledged the entrance of a newcomer.

Perry Mason opened the outer door, blocking the blowing rain, and then quickly closed it behind him. He knocked the rain from his hat and coat before hanging them in the alcove. A few eyes looked up from their food as he made his way along the booths heading to the bar and noted that its patrons were watching the pool table as well as the small group assembled observing the action. The attorney checked his watch and realized he was a little late, the storm slowing his trip to Harry's.

His eyes scanned the bar for Robertson without success until he turned toward the poolroom. The older attorney stood chalking his cue stick, broad shoulders squared, a determined set to his chin. The tip of his rolled red necktie peeked out of his shirt pocket like a coiled snake, the tie matching the red suspenders on his gray slacks.

Earlier, the hustler had bragged about his winnings and had dared to call Robertson 'old man'. The lawyer's eyes sparked with anger, his voice restrained as he publically challenged the young man; he would match the young man's winnings in a winner take all game. On the corner of the next pool table, a stack of twenty dollar bills was weighted down by a whiskey glass. A third party watched over the potential winnings of close to one thousand dollars.

Sidling up behind the standing crowd, Mason moved to gain a clear view of the table and took note of the placement of both the black 8 ball and the white cue ball. The alignment was way off, the side pocket at a bad angle. The knack of striking it just so was key in keeping the cue ball from joining the 8 and scratching the game. The young hustler grew nervous as Robertson eyed the table, carefully chalking the tip of his stick.

"We don't have all day, old man. You know how this is going to play out," he taunted, hoping to distract and unnerve the older player, thus giving him the advantage. Gasps and groans were heard in the crowd at the young man's bravado.

Robertson positioned himself along the table's edge, ignoring the taunts, as he bent and moved the stick between his fingers.

"What's he doing?" someone whispered from behind Mason.

Perry's eyes narrowed, noting the shot did seem odd but not impossible. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth as he realized it would be one he'd try if he were caught between a rock and a hard place. The smile broadened as he recalled all too well the challenge of those tight places and the mental gymnastics in maneuvering around them. He felt his own adrenalin rise as he placed himself in the other attorney's position.

Someone whispered to the people behind the gathered observers to keep the noise down.

Robertson's body became rigid. Precisely he flexed and moved his arm; the cue slipped back and forth between his fingers. The tip moved up and around the curved surface of the white ball as he adjusted its position and calculated the speed of its impending rotation.

Mason watched the methodical movement. His own mind visualized the spin the ball would have to take as it hit the cushioned rail, careening off and striking the outer edge of the black 8 ball and propelling it backward and into the corner pocket.

Robertson called the pocket and struck the cue ball, sending it on its path, the room so quiet the impact could be heard. Mason watched the white ball strike the rail and bank off, striking the edge of the 8 ball and causing it to spin and rotate toward the corner pocket. The cue traveled down the table toward the center pocket. A simultaneous gasp could be heard as the 8 ball dropped in the hole, the white cue still traveling, its momentum slowing as it reached the center pocket. Then it stopped, only an inch from the opening's edge.

The 'old man' stood and dropped the end of the cue stick to the floor, his eyes darting to his challenger who suddenly resembled an adolescent boy in his silky red shirt and jeans. The third party who had guarded the cash picked up the winnings and handed it over to Robertson.

Not even looking at the money, his eyes still on the young hustler, he shoved it in his pant's pocket and laid the pool cue on the table. The young man stepped back a few steps but stopped when he saw the attorney's outstretched hand. Sheepishly he extended his hand and felt a tug as Robertson pulled him toward him, their faces now within inches of each other, the attorney's lips within inches of his ear. Mason watched closely as the older man whispered something into his ear and watched the color rapidly drain from the youngster's face.

Robertson abruptly stepped back and turned to the crowd. "The drinks are on the house." He walked to the bar and pulled out the wad of bills and placed it on the counter for the bartender. "Jimmy, rounds for every one till it's gone. I'd like a bottle of Jim Beam Black if you please and two glasses."

"Yes, sir," the bartender replied, taking the money from the counter and returning with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. The crowd pressed toward the bar, unaware the young hustler had quickly slipped out the door and outside into the storm.

Mason moved to Robertson's side. "Not bad, Mr. Robertson."

Tom Robertson turned to Mason and smiled. "Mr. Mason, how nice of you to brave the elements to join me tonight. Let's find a table with a little privacy."

The older attorney led the way, carrying the bottle and glasses. He picked up his suit jacket from the adjoining pool table, found an empty corner table in the billiard room, and sat down.

With a twist, he broke the seal on the bottle of whiskey and poured the amber liquid into their glasses. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting," he began. "I had to be 'hustled'. The whole process took a little longer than expected."

Perry nodded, leaning back in the chair, fingers laced together in front of him. "I didn't mind. Like everyone else, I was enjoying the show. It seems the young man suddenly grew ill and had to leave. I believe it was right after you whispered in his ear."

Robertson swirled the liquid in the glass, a smile spreading across his face. "You noticed that did you. Sometimes I have to give a little fatherly advice about manners and respecting your elders. Where I grew up you never disrespected your elders." His dark eyes narrowed as he watched Mason's amazing blue ones. "But then you already know that, don't you? I'm sure part of this afternoon was spent doing your homework….or having someone do it for you."

Perry's own eyes narrowed, noting the contradiction between the smiling lips and the cool penetrating dark eyes, and remained silent. "I bet you gave him more than friendly advice by the way the color drained from his smug little face. Losing his money was the least of his concerns."

Roberson shrugged, and took a sip of the whiskey. "Drink up, Mason. You know it seems awkward, this Mr. Mason, Mr. Robertson thing. Call me Tom."

The younger attorney smiled slightly and took a sip of the whiskey. "O.K., Tom."

Tom leaned back in his chair, took the bottle and refilled their glasses. "I'm afraid I have a penchant for bourbon whiskey among other things. Let's drink a toast." Mason nodded, the men bringing their glasses together in a toast.

"To fast women, beautiful horses, and bourbon whiskey. God Bless Kentucky."

Mason finished the glass and chuckled. "Laura's father-in-law, amazing. I wonder what she thinks of this man? Is theson anything like his father?"

"Do you believe in fate?" Robertson asked studying Mason, noting the lawyer's handsome features, broad shoulders, and cautious manner. He decided the man's eyes were his most expressive part, both warm and cool. "My little tigress, I can see why you are attracted to him. He would captivate you with his charm and good looks while presenting you with a mental and intellectual challenge you couldn't resist."

"It depends. I'd like to think I control my fate, rather than it controlling me."

Tom nodded. "A practical man, I like that. But you have to admit that there are events that take place around us that present us with unexpected opportunities."

"Like the young hustler?" Mason asked.

Tom extended his index finger in the attorney's direction. "Exactly! He came in this bar as the player, suckering his victims. Then as fate would have it, he opened his mouth to the wrong man. The player was played. The little bastard had the nerve to call me 'old man'."

Perry's eyes twinkled and he shook his head. "Old man, eh. That was tempting fate."

"I believe in fate, Perry." Tom stared off, his voice growing soft and wistful. "Several years ago I met Thomas 'Bull' Johnson fly fishing for brown trout on the South Platte. What a marvelous river: cold, fast-moving, and the most beautiful country on earth. I remember Bull moved into our pool as Moore and I were gathering our gear. We chatted at bit and hit it off right away. He told me he had a young lawyer with him, his protégé and gestured up stream. I realize now, that young lawyer was you."

He turned and captured Mason's eyes with his. "I couldn't see your face as you stood in the pool upstream, but I watched you work your line and rod, broad skillful sweeps mimicking the Golden Stonefly adult. You can tell a great deal about a man when he works a fly. You can tell if he's patient, skilled, determined, and thoughtful. I was impressed with you. I told Bull and he agreed you had promise, but I don't think he wanted to share you with me. Fate almost brought us together so many years ago. I wonder how things might have been if it had."

Perry's eyes narrowed, matching the intensity in the older lawyer's gaze, when suddenly Tom looked away. "I wish we could have met." Robertson's voice took on an edgy tone. "Damn, Moore. As always… he was in a hurry….. had to rush back and meet some woman… some redhead he was chasing." Abruptly his mood changed as he shook his head regretfully and smiled.

Mason felt an odd mix of comfort and unease, similar to the feeling a snake charmer experiences with a swaying cobra. The swaying, the music, all seem easy and tranquil till the snake breaks with the expected response and unexpectedly strikes, delivering its lethal dose. Tom's scene with the young hustler played over and over in his mind: the extended hand, the young man's face near Tom's, its color quickly draining. Like the cobra, he charmed the young man to a handshake then struck with words eliciting fear.

"Then again, we've been given a second chance." Tom stated as his hand slipped inside his coat pocket and pulled out a long checkbook and laid it on the table.

Perry sipped from his glass, carefully keeping his reaction to the man's suggestion deep within himself. He studied the checkbook and the man. Robertson was fit for his age, a striking man with silvery gray hair and a flawless patrician face. The man had presence. He had acquired his fortune through grit, brawn, and cunning. "You were correct, Della; he's one smooth operator."

"It's been bothering me all this time why you turned down my invitation to interview for my firm. You would be a senior partner by now. Maybe the timing or incentive hasn't been right. Maybe meeting this afternoon is the opportunity that's been waiting to happen." He leaned slightly forward. "You see, Perry, I'm a man who know what he likes….and will go to great lengths to get it."

His eyes swept over Mason's face noting every nuance, every facial tick, watching for a reaction and getting none. "I've found that everything in this world has a price. I think you know that, Perry. In your area of expertise, the price is the ultimate price, a life… murder. With the right price and conditions anything can be acquired. That's what I do. I acquire things and I'm very good at it."

Perry felt an icy cloud form between them, the muscles in his jaws flexed, his eyes narrowing. Robertson's fingers gently moved over the checkbook, his eyes watching Mason as he continued. "I think fate was working today when I found Miss Street's wallet. A simple event, the returning of a missing wallet has brought us together again." He paused slightly. "And now the opportunity… you see my secretary, Greta, wants to retire." Tom opened the checkbook, slipped out the pen and began to fill in the check and stopped after the amount, leaving the signature line blank.

Mason's heart raced. "What the hell?

"I feel it's only fair that you be compensated, Perry."

Perry Mason's eyes narrowed beneath a furrowed brow. "Compensated for what, Robertson?"

Tom looked surprised and turned the check around for the lawyer to see. "Why it's your compensation for Della Street. An experienced and highly trained legal secretary is hard to find and ones like your Miss Street are even rarer.

Do you see enough zeroes, Perry? You could upgrade your office space, hire several secretaries and have enough left over for a thirty two foot sail boat." The older lawyer watched his companion's eyes widen slightly then take on a frosty gleam. He continued his narrative. "I need a new secretary and your Miss Street has impressed me greatly with her keen insight and secretarial credentials. Don't worry, I'll make sure all her needs and conditions are met. As a matter of fact, she'll be my personal assistant; she'll have the best of everything. She will travel with me where ever I go… and I travel very well."

Mason pushed the glass across the table, his eyes blazing. "You've got a hell'va lot of nerve, Robertson. I'm not for sale and neither is Miss Street. If you'd truly done your homework, you would know my character, my ethics, and my friendships aren't for sale. I can't be bought!"

The older man stared blankly, watching the barely contained fire and fury in his tablemate before he reached across and gripped Mason's forearm. He felt the lawyer bristle and stiffen beneath his touch, on the verge of striking him. Tightening his grip further, he quickly leaned closer to Mason's face and whispered, "Don't worry Perry. If Della were my secretary, I'd be in love with her too."

Robertson abruptly released his grip, leaned back and enjoyed watching the shocked expression spread across the other man's face. Then he stated firmly. "You heard me. You're in love with her, and for you, there will never be enough zeroes on this check." Tom ripped the check from the book, folded it and slipped it in the lawyer's breast pocket.

For a moment, Perry Mason felt as if the air had been pressed from his lungs. He glanced down at his pocket and then back up at Robertson. The older man took a sip of the bourbon and smiled; his voice soft and wistful. "I can see why Laura loves you….why she worked so hard to pave a way for you…..wanted you to choose being with her over anything or anyone else. It was a victory she relished."

He motioned with his glass. "The fire, the fury, the devotion, …. you are her 'ideal man'." Tom's laugh held a bitter edge as he mused, "and all the rest of us… are mere mortals."

Perry watched Robertson slip the checkbook back in his jacket pocket. His eyelids lowered as he studied the older attorney relax and enjoy his little game.

"You're a son of a bitch," Mason breathed.

"Yes, I am," Tom admitted, then laughed and added, "I'd still like for us to trout fish sometime. And bring Della along; I'd like to see if her talents extend to fishing."

"Yes, I believe in fate," he sighed. He gave Perry a knowing look. "When I discovered the delightful Miss Street was your secretary after observing how she anxiously watched and waited for you, I understood why you turned down my interview. You had found what you wanted right here. You are a lucky man. I envy you."

Mason smiled and took out the check and looked at it. "I can imagine you do envy me, Tom. In your case, you do seem to have a quite a dilemma." He paused and could see he had piqued the attorney's interest. "You seem to appreciate and understand what makes Laura tick very well, far more than I ever could. And now that I've meet you, I can see why you were interested in her and I think that interest wasn't solely professional."

For a moment, Robertson ceased to breathe. His features softened as their eyes met, the protective shield lowered. His lips pulled into an awkward smile. "Fate can be cruel, can't it?"

Mason heaved a sigh, feeling the bitter irony of Tom's situation and empathized with the man. It was hard for a man not to be sucked into Laura's appeal unless there was something much stronger pulling him another way, replacing the desire. "Yes it can." Swirling the amber liquid in his glass, Perry drained it and placed the check back in his pocket. Game over.

Tom inhaled deeply, cleared his voice, composing himself. He glanced down at his watch and then nodded at the check and added, "We've had our fun, Perry. Now you and Miss Street can have yours. I believe she's finished watching Casablanca by now; you'd better hurry."

Mason slipped from the table and stood, amazed by their strange rollercoaster ride. Tom stood and extended his hand across the table and the lawyer shook it.

"I've enjoyed meeting both you and your delightful Miss Street. Please give Della my warmest regards. You're masterful, Perry. If I'm ever charged with murder, you'd be the first I'd call."

Mason shook his head, turned, and walked pass the group at the bar who were still enjoying the round of drinks complements of Tom Robertson. The lawyer paused a moment and glanced back into the billiard room, watching as Tom casually refilled his glass of bourbon, slipped a gold cigarette case and lighter from his jacket, lit the cigarette, leaned back with his feet propped in a chair, his eyes staring off into space. Mason smiled slightly.

~~~tbc~~~