Bino's Blues Read online

  “No way it’s luck,” Bino said, “and there’s not going to be any next time. Unless I get strokes. Hundreds of ’em.” He selected a red Sonofagun dryer from among the half dozen or so on the counter, and blew his hair dry as he watched the jewelry show.

  And quite a show it was. Rusty spread out a towel to hold his rings, then lovingly slipped the gold expansion band around his wrist and clenched his hand to look his Rolex over. There were fifteen twenty-point diamonds encircling the face, and on Rusty’s big, muscular forearm the watch was right at home.

  Next came the rings. There were two, both for pinkies, and Rusty held his hands palms down to model each one in turn. When he’d finished, jade gleamed dully from Rusty’s left pinky while a sparkler which Bino figured for two carats, minimum, glinted on the other hand. The pale line on Rusty’s wedding ring finger was darkening and blending with the rest of his tan, Rusty and Rhonda having split the blankets. Rusty hadn’t mentioned his problems on the home front; Bino figured it was none of his business and had kept his nose where it belonged.

  Rusty looked at the top of Bino’s head. “Careful, buddy, you’ll burn your hair up.” He had deep brown eyes framed by dark lashes and brows.

  Bino winced; he’d been standing with the dryer trained on one spot. He punched the off switch, laid the Sonofagun on the counter, and rubbed his head where his scalp still burned. So I was starstruck, Bino thought. Hell, Rusty is a star. Star at everything. Swings a golf club like a Masters champ, plays poker like Amarillo Slim. Handles himself around the courthouse like the reincarnation of Clarence Darrow, perhaps even more Hollywood than Racehorse Haynes himself.

  Rusty walked to the opening which led from the showers, then paused and turned. From behind him came the soft click of poker chips. A loud but muffled voice said from the card room, “Fifty-two cards in the deck and I got to catch the fucking queen.” The voice sounded like Barney Dalton’s.

  Rusty said casually, “Look, I don’t like taking your money, so how about I buy you dinner at Arthur’s? Maybe after then we make a few spots.”

  Bino thought it over. “Well, we do need to talk about the trial next week.”

  Rusty’s gaze shifted slightly. “Okay, that, too. But first I’ve got a client I want you to meet.”

  Bino leaned his shoulder against the wall between the two gleaming white urinals, disinfectant tablets in the bowls like dull green pucks. “Well … sure. A client?”

  Rusty smiled. “White collar guy. You’ll like him.”

  “I don’t guess I ...Sure, a white collar guy. No holdup men or anything. But we do need to visit about the trial.”

  “No problem,” Rusty said, checking his watch. “What time you want to meet?”

  “I’m going to get belly-up in the poker game awhile, get my money back,” Bino said. “Up to you, after that.”

  “Say eight, then.” Rusty looked thoughtful, then said, “I’m baching it now, in case you haven’t heard.”

  “I’ve heard,” Bino said.

  Rusty motioned as if batting mosquitoes. “Yeah, just one of those things. See you at eight, buddy.” Rusty left.

  Bino took long, determined strides through the drifting card room smoke, then flopped into the one open seat in the Texas Hold ’Em game. Nine tanned faces turned in his direction. “Deal me in,” Bino said.

  Bino made it to Arthur’s fifteen minutes late and with a buck eighty-five in his pocket, wondering if perhaps there were a couple of bets he shouldn’t have called. No way, he thought, it’s just bad luck, nothing wrong with my poker playing. Slight possibility he shouldn’t have drawn for inside straights a couple of times, but other than that …

  Arthur’s was the restaurant on the ground floor of Campbell Centre, a gold-tinted, mirror-walled tower rammed twenty stories above the intersection of Northwest Highway and Central Expressway, and definitely catered to the big-buck crowd. Bino slowed his white Lincoln Town Car to wheel into the parking lot, and steered between Caddys, Mercedeses, and even one Bentley on his way to the canopied en-tryway. He did his best to dodge the valet parking attendants but didn’t make it; a gold-jacketed teenager jogged from the curb and waited directly in the Line’s path. Bino jammed on the brakes, got out, and accepted a pasteboard ticket. The kid hesitated with the car door open. Bino grinned. The attendant grinned back, but didn’t move. Finally, Bino dug out his last dollar and handed it over. The kid drove away with a squeal of rubber. Bino entered Arthur’s. Cocktail hour music soothed his eardrums, accompanied by the clink of glasses and the hubbub of muted conversation.

  Just inside the entryway was a long horseshoe bar. Three men in gold vests and black bow ties hustled about behind the counter, freepouring from spout-corked bottles, whipping margaritas into a frothy pink in electric blenders, and mixing martinis in chrome cocktail shakers. Daylight savings time was hell on happy hour; though it was after eight, sunlight filtered in through the stained-glass windows and only about half of the seats at the bar were occupied. Green ferns protruded from hanging baskets at intervals around the bar and over the windows. The customers were businessmen—guys with razored hair dressed in suits—and women in everything from cocktail dresses to shorts and halters. Bino touched the Crooked River Country Club emblem knitted on his shirt as he sat on a barstool near the front. He fingered the three quarters and a dime in his pocket and hoped like hell to spot Rusty before anyone asked him what he wanted to drink. Jesus Christ, he didn’t even have his credit cards.

  Alongside a tiny dance floor at the far end of the room, a three-piece combo played. The young lady singing with the group wasn’t bad at all. Her strapless green dress was cut from some kind of shiny spacesuit material which molded to her curves like skin. Luxuriant jet-black hair hung halfway to her waist in back, and there was an almost Oriental slant to her eyes. The number was “Misty,” which she sang in a strong closing-time alto, and Bino got the impression that she was trying hard to keep the rock out of her tone and the rhythm in her hips to a minimum because this was Arthur’s and not some jive joint on Lower Greenville Avenue. He decided that he’d like to catch her act when she was really letting her hair down.

  One bartender, a thin balding guy in his forties, bent over close to where Bino sat. “What’ll it be, sir?”

  Bino lip-synced the words along with the singer and pretended that he hadn’t heard.

  The bartender cleared his throat and said, louder this time, “What’ll it be, sir?” From two seats away, a gray-haired man swiveled his head and shot an irritated glance in Bino’s direction.

  Bino leaned close to the bartender. “How much is a beer?”

  Bushy, untrimmed eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Huh?”

  Bino glanced to his right. The gray-haired guy was openly staring. Bino said in a now slightly hoarse whisper, “I said, how much is a beer?”

  The bartender threw a can-you-believe-this-guy glance at a cocktail waitress, and said to Bino, “In Arthur’s, you’re asking how much a drink costs?”

  Warmth crept around Bino’s collar and up the side of his neck. He thrust his jaw forward. “That’s what I said. How much is a beer?” Visible from the corner of his eye, the gray-haired man said something to the woman seated beside him. Both of them laughed.

  The bartender scowled. “It’s two bucks, Mac.” All of the “sir” was gone from his tone.

  Bino managed a weak grin. “Oh.” At that instant he spotted Rusty.

  Rusty stood near the bend in the horseshoe with his forearms crossed on the leather padding and one foot propped against the rail, listening to a man who talked nonstop from his seat on a barstool. Even white teeth flashed as Rusty nodded and smiled at the man.

  Bino said to the bartender, “Excuse me. I see a guy I know down there.” He rose.

  The bartender’s eyes narrowed. “I’m watching you, Mac. You put the touch on one of our customers for a drink and I’ll throw you ou
t on your ass. We don’t like freeloaders in here.” He grabbed a towel and wiped down the counter.

  Bino moved along the bar. Customers swiveled in irritation as he said, louder than necessary, “Rusty. It’s me. Am I late?” His voice cracked. A woman snatched up her purse and clutched it to her chest as he went by.

  Rusty backed off and raised a hand. “Yeah, hey. This is the guy I was telling you about. Pete Kinder, meet Bino Phillips.”

  Rusty’s companion was in his thirties and too fat. He wore a light gray suit, and his throat hung out over his collar in folds. His complexion was an unhealthy red and he looked worried. His handshake was weak, his palm clammy. He said in a flat tone, “Glad to meet you, Beano.”

  Bino nodded hello. “It’s Bye-no” he corrected. “Just like Rusty pronounced it.” White hackles rose. Bino decided he wasn’t going to particularly like this guy.

  Rusty said, “Look, there’s an open table. Let’s carry our drinks over and … What’re you drinking, Bino? Like I said, buddy, on me.” He waved a ten-spot, and Bino’s friend the bartender came over.

  Bino ordered J&B and soda. The bartender mixed the drink with his gaze riveted on the ten-dollar bill, and didn’t slide the glass over until he’d rung the money up in the register and delivered the change. Rusty left a dollar on the bar. The bartender pocketed the tip and seemed happier. Rusty led the way to a rectangular table for four, and sat alone on one side with Bino and Kinder across from him. Onstage, the singer whispered into a dusky rendition of “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.” She still seemed to be holding back, but her delivery wasn’t bad at all.

  “Now this guy,” Rusty said, gesturing at Bino, “this guy I got to tell you, Pete. This mild-looking man over here was one of the best basketball players ever to come from these parts. Took his college ball club all the way to the Final Four one year. He’s done it all in the federal arena, even got a federal judge acquitted a couple of years back. Bino, Pete’s got a problem.” Now showing Bino the hopeful, getting-something-for-nothing look. “Since you’ve got experience, we thought we’d, you know, pick your brain.”

  Bino sipped his Scotch and soda and did his best to look attentive. “Yeah? What’s the problem?”

  Kinder suddenly blurted out, “I’ve just gotten indicted. Me, Pete Kinder, can you believe it?” His hands shook.

  Bino chewed an ice cube. No way should Rusty Benson need help from another lawyer in handling a criminal case. What in hell was going on? As Rusty toyed with his drink, Bino said to Kinder, “Sounds like you’ve got some bad news.”

  Kinder banged a chubby fist on the table. “It’s a bullshit indictment, and old Rusty over there’s going to show ’em in court.” He gulped liquor as ii for emphasis.

  Just another innocent guy, Bino thought, the woods are full of ’em. He said to Rusty, “What’s this case all about?” Darkness was falling fast outside. The bar’s interior was dimmer now, more in keeping with a nightspot. A leggy waitress passed the table carrying a tray.

  Rusty sipped whiskey. “This is the type of case I wouldn’t ordinarily handle, a federal mail fraud deal. But Pete’s a personal friend and … well, I wanted some advice from a real expert. Which is you.” He showed a wink, really spreading it on thick, verbally backslapping his client and Bino at once.

  All of which translated: Kinder is some kind of mail order swindler with a big cash flow, good for one helluva fee. And since Rusty was picking up the tab, Bino was now obligated to help string Kinder along. No such thing as a free lunch, Bino thought. He kept his mouth shut. Rusty went on.

  “I’ve spent quite a bit of time with Pete over the past couple of days, all day yesterday and last night.” Here Rusty looked to Kinder, who nodded without taking his gaze away from his drink. “In a nutshell,” Rusty said, “Pete’s business is telephone solicitations. Vegas packages, a couple of hundred bucks buys you two nights at the Sahara, Dunes, whatever. Hundred dollars’ house chips, drinks, two or three shows. The package is sold over an eight hundred line, the guy gives his credit card number and gets billed.”

  Rusty took a small handful of nuts from a bowl and munched away as he said, “So, anyway. Things were rocking along pretty well for Pete, but … well, we think he pissed off a few bureaucrats down the line. He sent out two hundred thousand pieces of solicitation mail every week. I couldn’t get the post office to give me the exact figures, but there’s what, a million and a half population in Dallas? Christ, if everybody sent a letter a week, then Pete’s mail would account for better than ten percent of the total volume. On top of which he dumps it all on the post office in one load. Now what I think is, somebody in the U.S. Mail’s fine organization started bitching about handling all that mail, called up the postal inspectors and told them, Hey, anybody that’s sending this much mail has to be up to no good. Get on this guy.

  “So one day out of the blue,” Rusty said, “along comes this news team from Channel 8, boom, walks right into Pete’s office and starts shooting pictures. They didn’t have an appointment, so Pete ran them the hell out of there. Made a great picture for TV, Pete shaking his fist and calling one of the interviewers a moron. What was it you said?”

  Kinder perked up. “I told the guy that if he had an IQ greater than one, he’d better haul ass.”

  “The next thing you know,” Rusty said, “there Pete is on 20/20, John Stossel in person doing the hatchet job. And, friend, when that guy smears somebody, they’re smeared big-time.”

  Something stirred in Bino’s memory, a 20/20 piece he’d seen one night, a scene inside a posh office with a guy standing behind a desk, snarling and wagging his finger at John Stossel, who’d seemed tickled to death by the insults. Not real good PR. Bino looked sideways at Pete Kinder. Yep, this was the same guy.

  “The rest of the story’s a first-class nightmare,” Rusty said. “The day after two-oh, two-oh airs the piece, Pete’s banks all panic and freeze his accounts. They’re all credit-card deposit accounts, and the banks say they’re afraid everybody’s going to want a refund after what they’ve seen on television. And of course that’s exactly what happened, all these people who bought Pete’s Vegas package suddenly decide the whole thing’s a swindle and demand their money back. Pete’s hands were tied. The banks wouldn’t release the money to Pete so he could make the refunds, and the sorry bastards at the bank wouldn’t refund it directly to the customers, either. Hell, those banks were getting interest on that money, what did they care? And, of course, that’s exactly what the postal inspectors were trying to achieve when they called up the newspeople and put them on the story to begin with. Bam, next came the indictment.”

  “What Rusty’s telling you,” Kinder said, “that’s the nuts and bolts of it. There wasn’t a single fucking complaint against me, not one, before the 20/20 show. I can prove that. Sure, we’re a boiler room operation and that makes me suspect from the get-go. But a crime? What a bunch of bullshit. Rusty tells me we might have one helluva lawsuit when this is over. What do you think, Beano?”

  “Bye-no.” Bino’s gaze shifted back and forth between Kinder and Rusty, Rusty with a Go-Pete-Go expression, Kinder’s look anxious. Onstage the combo was into “Feelin’ Groovy.” Smooth. Bino lifted his J&B, then paused with the rim of his glass inches from his mouth. “Stop whining,” he said, then took a long pull. He set his glass down. “And cop out.”

  Kinder said, “Huh?”

  Bino turned to face the chubby red-faced man with the pugilistic attitude. Bino said, “Cop out. Plead guilty. You’ll get two years, maybe three. If you go to trial you’ll get seven minimum, maybe as much as fifteen years.”

  Kinder said, “What the living fuck … ?”

  Rusty seemed about to choke on the cashews. He coughed and said, “What are you talking about? If there’s ever been an innocent man, it’s old Pete here.”

  And, Bino thought, if ever there’s been a man about to get taken to the cleane
rs for a legal fee, that’s old Pete as well. He briefly wondered if Rusty was going to kick him in the shins under the table. Bino rocked back, lifting the front legs of his chair off the floor. “What I believe in,” Bino said, “is people not bullshitting each other. I represent guys like you all the time, Pete, and do a good job of it. But don’t come on innocent with me. A guilty guy’s a helluva lot easier to defend. You got guys hustling people on the phone, I’ll lay five to one the mooch thinks he’s getting a plane ticket when he’s not, and that your price is based on space available at the hotel, which most of the time there isn’t any. And the money’s not refundable, right?”

  Kinder’s beet red complexion was suddenly pale. “Christ, it says right on the package … ”

  “ ‘Based on space available,’ ” Bino said. “In letters about one centimeter high. Plus, aside from the fact you’re screwing people, nobody beats a mail fraud case. Nobody. It’s the broadest statute there is, and they’ll convict you on it.”

  The cocktail waitress paraded by, and Rusty held up three fingers. She nodded and headed for the bar, her firm behind wiggling and her short skirt popping from side to side. As Kinder watched her go, Rusty nudged Bino under the table. Bino ignored the guy.

  “You asked my advice,” Bino said. “Okay, here’s what I’d do. The U.S. Attorney’s not going to drop any charges, but he thinks trying a case like yours is a massive pain in the ass. He’ll make a good deal, drop everything down to one count, and you’ll get two years. Do it in a country club without a fence around it. With good time and halfway house, you’ll be out in thirteen months. If you go to trial you’ve got rocks in your head.”

  Kinder pushed back his chair and rose. He was trembling all over. “I appreciate the information,” he began, then firmed up his lips and said, “No, hell, I don’t, either. I’m not pleading guilty. The feds can shove it up their asses. For that matter, so can you. Thanks for your time … Beano.” He nodded curtly to his lawyer. “Rusty.” Then he was gone in the direction of the exit, very nearly colliding with a woman near the bar as he stalked away.