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  “I mean I can’t remember,” he said. “It was a funny-sounding name. I didn’t want us to go there, but Carl wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “All right, we’ll get the name later. What was the fight about?”

  “It was about his drinking. And what it was doing to Mom. And about the people he was hanging with.”

  “What people?”

  “He was involved with some actor, a snot-faced kid. Arrogant. I didn’t like him. I can’t remember his name.”

  “Anybody else?”

  Eric looked at the ceiling. “There was that real conservative guy, Mr. Perfect Hair.”

  “Morgan Barstler?”

  “I think that may have been his name.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Eric shook his head. “That was it. But mainly it was about getting him to AA, and he needed to go, and how Mom was so worried about him all the time.”

  “Where were you when your brother was killed?”

  He started to open his mouth. Stopped. Looked down.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “It’s kind of hard for me to say.”

  “You have to say.”

  “I was sort of with someone.”

  “Okay. Give me the who and the where.”

  “It’s complicated,” he said.

  “Let’s try to sort it out,” I said.

  “I’m married.”

  “That’s what’s complicated?”

  “My wife, see, she’s not the most understanding, know what I mean?”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you were with another woman when Carl was killed?”

  “You’re pretty good at sorting things out.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “But my wife—”

  “I’m not a marriage counselor, Eric. I’m a lawyer. My job is to represent you to the best of my ability, but I can’t do that if you don’t give up the very evidence that may lead to your acquittal. If you were with another woman, I want to know who she is, now.”

  “That’s just the thing,” Eric said.

  “Don’t tell me she was a pro.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Oh, I just thought of the absolute worst thing for you to tell me, that’s all.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “So your alibi witness is a hooker?”

  “Is that bad?”

  “It’s very bad,” I said.

  “She’s not really a hooker,” Eric said. “More of an escort.”

  “Ah, now that’s a relief.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “So is the fact that it’s very bad. A provider of sexual services is not exactly a great witness to put on the stand.”

  “I don’t even know if I can find her again,” he said.

  “Boy, this just keeps getting better and better.”

  “I’m telling you the absolute truth!”

  “How long were you with her?”

  “A couple hours.”

  “And what time was this?”

  “Like nine or so.”

  “Where?”

  “Long Beach.”

  Which is a good long drive from West Hollywood. “Did you use an escort service?”

  “Kind of.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I used a guy a bartender told me about.”

  “You have the guy’s name?”

  Eric looked at me hard. “You’re the man. I didn’t do this thing. You can get me off, can’t you?”

  “I’m not representing you yet. There’s a conflict here. I repped your brother.”

  “So?”

  “You’re going to have to tell a judge that you want me to be your lawyer, and you don’t care about any conflict.”

  “I don’t. I know you’re good. I want you.”

  “Then you have two choices. You can help me find this alibi witness you have, or you can start planning what you’re going to do with twenty-five to life.”

  He thought about it. His forehead pinched. He looked at the table. Took a deep breath. Then he said, “Okay, Turk Bacon. That’s the guy.”

  “He’s the one between you and Miss Long Beach?”

  “Yeah,” Eric said.

  “Now you’re being straight with me. That’s a good start. How do I find this Turk Bacon? I don’t imagine he’s listed in the white pages.”

  “The bartender at a place called Addie Qs. Her name’s Tosca.”

  “All right. Next time I see you is at the arraignment.” I started to get up. “By the way, has your wife been to see you?”

  “No.”

  “She has to be told,” I said. “You want me to be the bearer of the news?”

  “Maybe you better,” he said. “She might reach through this glass and kill me if I told her. Oh man, I messed up big time.”

  I didn’t argue with him.

  48

  WHEN I GOT back to reception, Sister Mary was sitting next to a Hispanic woman. It looked like she was comforting her.

  She was, in other words, doing her thing, just as I’d been doing mine. I chatted with a deputy sheriff until she was finished.

  As we drove toward the freeway I said, “So you want to talk about Sister Hildegarde now?”

  “What? Why?”

  “She’s trying to muscle you out.”

  Sister Mary looked straight ahead. “You don’t know the first thing about what we do.”

  She was right, and I reminded myself again not to get involved in the workings of a religious community whose religion I did not share. Then I ignored the reminder.

  “I know this,” I said. “You and Sister Hildegarde are like Oscar and Felix.”

  “You’re calling us the Odd Couple?”

  “Only it’s not neatness you argue about, it’s nun stuff.”

  “Nun stuff?”

  “Theological term,” I said. “But you’ve talked about it before. You want to go back to when nuns were nuns. When they brushed their teeth with Brillo. Sister Hildegarde is more, what’s the word, progressive? She likes politics. You like to pray. You two are bound to clash.”

  “That’s always part of community life,” she said. “It’s why God puts us together. To learn how to humble ourselves.”

  “There’s a difference between humility and doormats,” I said.

  “And between lawyers and nuns,” she said. “Speaking of which, what did your client say?”

  I pulled onto the 101, heading toward Hollywood. “It’s what he didn’t say that bothers me.”

  “Is he guilty?”

  “Not for me to say.”

  “Can’t you tell if he’s guilty or not?”

  “Not my job,” I said.

  “Don’t you even want to know?”

  “No.”

  “Why in heaven’s name not?”

  “Leave heaven out of it,” I said. “I got enough trouble on earth. And the answer is, I don’t want to know. I want to know the evidence. Unless I think a plea deal and allocution is best, I want to be free to do my job. Can you work under those conditions?”

  “Yes, Mr. Buchanan, I believe I can.”

  “Good. Let’s get a drink.”

  “Excuse me?”

  49

  WE KILLED A little time in Hollywood first. Went to a bookstore. Browsed.

  Sister Mary picked up a copy of Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander by Merton.

  I found a book called Never Plead Guilty, about a lawyer named Jake Ehrlich. According to the back of the book, Ehrlich was a legendary criminal lawyer back in the mid-twentieth century.

  A quick scan told me this was a guy who loved to fight it out in court. And he was apparently pretty good—if gaining acquittals for almost all his clients accused of murder is pretty good.

  “Here,” I said, when I met up with her at the front of the store. “My book versus your book. Your guy pleads guilty, my guy says never.”

  “Never confess?” she said. “Did you noti
ce I’m Catholic?”

  “So that’s it. I knew there was something about you. The clothes. The beads. You’re a nun, aren’t you?”

  “And you’re a failed comedian, am I right?”

  “Looks like I need that drink. Let’s go.”

  50

  AROUND FOUR-THIRTY WE drove to Addie Qs. It was at the eastern mouth of the Sunset Strip, just past Crescent Heights. Upscale, catering to professionals.

  A number of whom were at the bar for what the sign said was happy hour.

  We sat at the end of the bar. The conversation got very quiet as we did. Heads craned our way.

  One middle-aged joker said, way too loudly, “Hey, a nun and a parrot walk into a bar…”

  A healthy knot of the people cracked up.

  “What about the Irishman?” Sister Mary said.

  The guy slapped the bar top. “That’s a good one! Have a drink on me, Sister.”

  The bartender was tall, buff, Asian. She was dressed in the color of night. Her hair was long and black. She came over with an expressionless look and a scent of gardenia, and asked what we’d have. Sister Mary ordered a Coke. I did the same.

  “Tosca?” I said.

  The bartender blinked. She had long, curling black lashes over exotic, ebony eyes. She could have been the star in one of those Hong Kong woman-who-kicks-male-tail-with-bad-lip-syncing movies.

  “I’m asking for a friend,” I said.

  She scooped ice into a couple of glasses and put them on the rubber collar of the bar. She grabbed the soda gun and started filling the glasses with Coke. “What friend would that be?”

  “Eric Richess,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I know him.” She put two red cocktail napkins on the bar, then the glasses on the napkins.

  “How about Turk Bacon?” I said.

  She stiffened like drywall. “Who are you? And who is she?”

  “My name’s Buchanan. And this is Sister Mary Veritas of the Benedictine order. I’m a lawyer, she’s a nun. If you put us together, you get a perfectly balanced human being.”

  Tosca just looked at me.

  “I’m here,” I said, “because Eric Richess is accused of murder and I’m representing him. And we need to find the lady he was with on the night of the killing.”

  “So what does that have to do with me?” Tosca said.

  “You can put me in touch with the said Mr. Bacon,” I said.

  She shook her head. “Don’t know him.”

  “Is this the part where we slip you a twenty?” Sister Mary asked.

  I looked at her. She was looking at the bartender, hard.

  “Excuse me?” Tosca said.

  “Because you clearly do know Mr. Bacon,” Sister Mary said. “If you want us to grease your palm, just say so.”

  For a second, Tosca the Bartender looked like someone had thrown a drink in her face. Then: “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. And I’m refusing to serve you anymore. You can leave now.”

  “You’re refusing to serve a nun?” I said.

  “That’s what I’m doing,” Tosca said.

  “You’ve heard of anti-discrimination laws, haven’t you?”

  “Hey, we can—”

  “And the free exercise of religion that is guaranteed under the Constitution?”

  “I didn’t say anything—”

  “I’m pretty sure I can convince a court that kicking a nun out of a bar is discriminatory.”

  “And I’m not even drunk,” Sister Mary said.

  “Yet,” I said.

  Sister Mary gave me a kick under the bar.

  Tosca narrowed her eyes, blinking those big lashes a couple of times. I was aware that people were calling to her, but she wasn’t moving. A former extra from The Sopranos came over and stood next to Tosca. He was ample in girth, had black hair, and wore a fine black suit and gold tie.

  “There a problem?” he said, with a smile. He did a double take on Sister Mary.

  “We’d like to finish our drinks,” I said.

  “They’re asking questions,” Tosca said. “They’re not here to drink.”

  The suit looked at the bar top. “Are those not drinks?”

  “Strictly for show,” Tosca said.

  “We have other customers,” the guy said to Tosca. She shot us a couple of glares and headed for the other side of the bar.

  The Sopranos extra said, “You two enjoy yourselves. But let us run our business, huh?”

  51

  “I’M NOT DRUNK yet?” Sister Mary said.

  “Nice touch, wasn’t it?” I said. We were on the freeway heading back to St. Monica’s.

  “Oh yeah. Very smooth and respectful.”

  “You ever been drunk?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Just asking.”

  “Rather personal question,” she said.

  “If we’re going to be working together, I need to know if my partner’s a lush.”

  “You’re really on a roll today.”

  “In a courtroom, I’d object to your answer as non-responsive.”

  “You’re in a car, pal. Drive.”

  I shut up. Talking to a nun about alcohol consumption is probably not a wise thing, especially if she has elbows.

  But then, just before I got on the 118 west, she said, “Once.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “With my friend Julie James. We were thirteen. We went to a movie. Toy Story. And we had a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “You got drunk on Boone’s Farm wine while watching Toy Story?”

  “I remember about half the movie,” she said. “Then I remember thinking the world was a whirligig and I got very, very sick. Right there in the theater.”

  “A very touching story,” I said. “Are you sure you’re off the sauce now?”

  “I can’t remember the last bar fight I was in,” she said. “So I must be fine.”

  I smiled. “I’m trying to picture you doing that, and I’m having trouble.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, well, you’re Sister Mary Veritas.”

  “And veritas is Latin for truth, so there you go.” She put her head back on the seat. “Truth is, I did some things in high school I’m not proud of.”

  “Cool. Like what?”

  “Please drop me at the homeless shelter,” she said. “Sister Hildegarde wanted me to pick up some fruitcake tins.”

  “Sure. Getting back to high school—”

  “Just drive, can’t you?”

  52

  THE SHELTER RUN by St. Monica’s and a couple of churches is off Van Nuys Boulevard near Hansen Dam Park. It’s a converted apartment complex with a wrought-iron gate and a big parking lot in the middle. I pulled in and parked and Sister Mary told me to wait and not get into any trouble, and I said, Thank you, Sister, and put my head back and looked out my rearview mirror.

  I was wondering if among those wandering around like lost souls on a ghost ship was the guy sending Sister Mary e-mails. I tried to read faces, see if anybody was homing in on Sister Mary as she walked.

  Turns out, several people were. Men, women, and children. They were gathering around her as if she were some sort of event, or a visiting celebrity.

  But I could tell from their expressions, and hers, that she was the opposite of the glitterati. She was relating to each person on a completely equal basis. She did not pick and choose, she did not assume any air of superiority or intrinsic goodness.

  She just was there, for them. She made each one feel important. Several obviously knew her, and were happy in their greeting. Sister Mary seemed happy, too.

  It hit me, those words she had quoted from Merton. His revelation in Louisville. Sister Mary was living it, right here. These people were part of her, and she of them, and she loved them all.

  I wondered if I would ever feel that way about anything. Or anybody. Or if
I wanted the risk.

  Somebody slapped the roof of my car and said, “Dude!”

  I turned to the driver’s-side window and saw my old friend Only, the toking psychic. He was bent over to look in the car, smiling. “What are you doing here, man?” he said.

  “Driving a nun around,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  He looked at the ground. “I got fired again.”

  “From the psychic hotline?”

  He nodded sheepishly.

  “It wasn’t for smoking on the job, was it?” I said.

  He shook his head. “I got mad at a guy on the phone. He was all ripping me because I wouldn’t tell him what stocks to pick. He started calling me names, man. So I told him a plague of boils was gonna grow on his butt. So he complained.”

  “For that little thing?”

  “So now I’m out on the street.”

  “You’ll get another shot,” I said. “You toning down the weed?”

  “I can’t afford it, man. My back hurts and I gotta get a job.”

  “You will,” I said. “They’ll help you out here.”

  “Never thought I’d be living near nuns,” he said.

  “You and me both,” I said.

  53

  AFTER DROPPING SISTER Mary off at St. Monica’s, I called Kate and told her I’d seen Eric, and that he’d be arraigned tomorrow, and that it would be short and Eric would just plead not guilty. She didn’t need to be there.

  I asked her for Eric’s wife’s number and said I needed to speak to her.

  “Just be aware,” Kate said, “that she’s… excitable.”

  Whatever that meant.

  I called the number and a woman with a slight southern accent picked up.

  “Is this Fayette Richess?” I said.

  “Who is this?”

  “Ty Buchanan, Eric’s lawyer. I wonder if we could talk.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Can I come to where you are? I’d like to talk face-to-face if I may.”

  “Why?”

  “Just to fill you in on a few things.”

  “You can fill me in now, can’t you?”

  “There’s some information I’d rather not relate over the phone. It’s about the case.”

  “I figured it was about the case, why else would you be calling me? And no, it’s not convenient to talk just now. I have a life I can’t put on hold because Eric’s been arrested.”