Chilling Out

I sat in a little honky tonk bar and waited for Clyde Ellingsworth, my mentor. I knew he was practicing around Tulsa lately, and thank God. I really needed to see him.
"Another," I said, cringing at my curt, harsh tone. I was having martinis, Bombay Sapphire gin, two olives. And were they hitting the spot.
I had dropped Dallas off at the Curtis' house. I had to get away. That Dallas made me edgy as hell. Ponyboy and Johnny, they were two fairly innocent kids caught up in a mess. But that Dallas Winston, he had the air of a hardened criminal, that deadly core.
And Ponyboy, dead parents, being raised by the brothers, stubbornly sticking by Johnny...
I sipped my drink. I liked the juniper taste of the gin, the balance of the sweet vermouth, the way the white liquors shimmer in the glass, wrapped coolly around the olives, the strange way the gin and vermouth don't truly seem to mix.
But Johnny, that kid, Christ. So damn tragic, the big haunted eyes, the obvious guilt and remorse. He damn near cried when he spoke about killing that kid. And his father beats him...
It was getting to me, they were getting to me, the intenseness of the situation. I had started to feel drawn in, losing objectivity, I understood why Dallas wanted them to stay at that church...I shook my head, popped an olive into my mouth.
"Dean," I looked up. Only Clyde called me Dean.
Clyde was a thin, dapper man with blonde hair shot through with silver in a halo around his shiny bald head.
"Clyde," I stood up, shook his hand.
"What's he having?" Clyde said to the bartender.
"Martini,"
"Two more," The bartender got to work. Clyde regarded me with his faded hazel eyes.
I wanted to tell him I was glad to see him but I popped the other olive into my mouth. He sat on the faded red leather stool next to me and took out his cigarette box and his engraved silver lighter, delicately plucked one of his fancy brown cigarettes from the box and lit it. I stared at the intricately scratched intertwinning "C" and "E" on the side of the lighter.
The bartender set the drinks in front of us on little square napkins. I watched the smoke twirl away from the end of Clyde's cigarette.
"Clyde, I've got a case," He raised his eyebrows and sipped his drink.
"The, uh, the two kids that killed that kid in the park, you've heard of it?" He nodded. I knew he'd heard of it. He read the paper like a hawk.
"High profile," he said, a touch of admiration in his voice. That pleased me.
"Yeah, I just dropped those two off at the police station, I've got to go see them tomorrow, I..." Clyde was patient while I gathered my thoughts together. But I felt them flying away. I kept seeing the glazed look in Johnny's eyes when he finished telling us how he killed Robert Sheldon, and the way Ponyboy had moved slightly in front of him when I first met them. Dallas' fingers around my throat.
"It's just, I, I spent the better part of the day with them and..." I sipped my martini, watching the olives swirl around the bottom. Clyde stubbed out his cigarette.
"This could be a capital punishment case," Clyde said, his voice measured, patient, the voice of a teacher. I nodded, wondering if the worry was showing in my eyes.
"Yeah," I swallowed, feeling suddenly over my head. Maybe Dallas was right and I didn't understand the politics here, didn't fully appreciate the socioeconomic split that had, oh what did Ponyboy say? I wracked my over tired, getting drunk little mind to remember. "Marked us as lousy," he had said.
"The kid who killed the other one, Johnny Cade, he seems like the last one who'd ever kill anyone, he's so self effacing, so unassuming, and I..." I was rambling. Clyde was looking at me like I'd lost it.
"Dean? Let me give you some advice," I looked at him, fully the student again.
"This case is important, they all are. It is important to those involved, to these boys, to you, but you must maintain a professional distance. You can not be parent, teacher, friend to these boys. They are clients, and as such are due representation in a court of law. Such representation you will provide, to the best of your ability,"
Clyde lit another cigarette, finished his drink. My head was clearing. I'd needed his clean perspective. I was aware of how persuasive Dallas Winston was, how forceful the pull of his personality.
"Dean," Clyde said, turning to me, "it's all anyone can expect of you."