Lydia Lane. Judith Bowen
ne’er-do-wells, B & E artists, old broken-down has-beens of one kind or another.” Candace shuddered delicately. “You name it. Waiters who’ve been robbed of their holiday pay by bosses, people who say they’ve been framed by the police, you get the picture.” Candace rapped her lacquered nails on the tabletop. “He won’t give it up. Feels sorry for those people. Luckily, he still has regular clients who actually pay their bills.”
“Does he deal with murderers?” Her ex sounded like quite a guy.
“Oh, no!” Lydia frowned. “At least I don’t think so. Heavy-duty criminals, like serial killers or bikers or anything, would get some big downtown lawyer, don’t you think? No, I’m sure it’s not dangerous, just that it’s no place to bring up a girl with these people running in and out of his house.”
“Surely not his house!”
“Well, home office. But he ends up making friends with half of them and they end up in the house. He’s very social. Anyway, that’s next on the list. First we get him organized, then we get rid of that home office. We can work on that later.”
“We?”
“Well, me.” Candace giggled again. She had a very girlish laugh. “But I can see that we’re going to understand one another very well, Lydia. And that’s half the battle, isn’t it? Will you consider taking him on—please?”
Lydia smiled. She liked Candace, one of those pretty women who were an inch deep and a mile wide and didn’t care who knew. “I will. Of course, I’ll need to talk to your ex—what’s his name again?”
“Sam.” Candace scooped up the bill. “Sampson T. Pereira and you know what he always tells people the T stands for?”
“What?”
“Trouble!”
CHAPTER TWO
SAM STEPPED AWAY from the shower and walked nude over to the wooden bench he and Avie shared by their lockers. He grabbed a towel and began to mop his streaming head. “Candace called yesterday, Av.”
“Yeah?” Avie Berkowitz, his pal from grade school and regular partner—perennially losing partner—at Tuesday and Thursday squash sessions, was already dressed. He examined his chin in the mirror inside the locker door. “To talk to the kid?”
“No, to me.”
“Ah. Let me guess—she’s on your case again.”
“That’s it.” Sam rubbed his face briskly. “She wants me to make some changes. New year coming up and all that. Get the house under control. She’s got a point. You know what it’s like around there.” Sam managed to squeeze out a chuckle. “Matter of fact, she’s already got someone lined up for the job. A guest she had on her show.”
“That’s our girl Candace. Why do something yourself when you can get someone else to do it? And, preferably, get our boy Sam to pay for it.”
“You’re too hard on her, Av.”
“She’s a bitch.”
“She’s Amber’s mother. She’s not a bitch—she’s just superficial. That’s allowed.”
“If you say so.” Avie ran a comb through his sandy hair. Sam stopped toweling to admire the way his friend expertly camouflaged the shiny spot on the crown of his head with a few quick strokes. Avie was only thirty-three, Sam’s age, but he was already a little soft around the middle and a little thin on top. “So, she wants you to get someone in to redo your life? We’re talking about a woman, I presume.”
“Yeah.” Sam finished drying off and reached for his jeans. “I’m definitely thinking about it. Trouble is, it’s kind of weird. You remember Steve Lane?”
“Of course I do. Graduated bottom of our class, lineman for the B.C. Lions for two years, went into real estate, last I heard. What’s he do now?”
“Stockbroker—”
“Bay Street?” Avie looked incredulous.
“No, Winnipeg. Listen, this woman is Steve Lane’s little sister, believe it or not. She runs this trendy one-person business, shopping, doing closets, cooking, basically straightening out people’s lives.”
“Doing closets? I could use someone like that,” Avie muttered. He turned to Sam. “Good-looking?”
“A babe. Major babe. I saw her on Candace’s show.” Sam stepped into his briefs and jeans and pulled them up.
“Even better. Do I detect some hesitation, pal? Is there a problem?”
“Yeah, history.” Sam grinned. “She used to have a big crush on me. Some coincidence, eh?”
“No kidding?” Avie studied him with real interest. “That a factor?”
“Well, no.” Sam sucked in his stomach to do up his button and zipper. Avie wasn’t the only one getting a little soft. Time to go back to Guido’s Gym and start punching bags again. This uptown squash stuff was great, but pumping serious iron was what he really needed. “I never went out with her. Never even talked to her that I can remember. Steve told me she had the hots for me. When I heard that, I avoided her like a bad case of the—well, you know.”
“Why?” Avie slipped on his jacket.
“She was fifteen, for crying out loud!” Sam reached for his shirt. “Sixteen, maybe. I just feel weird about it.”
“Hey, she won’t even remember. Believe me, at fifteen, they’ve got crushes on anything with an Adam’s apple. No kidding, my sisters used to go through guys like penny candy at that age.” Avie should know; he had four sisters.
Sam had two sisters himself. Why didn’t he recall stuff like that? “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Avie slapped him on the shoulder as he buttoned his shirt. “Trust me, she won’t remember you. And even if she does—so what? Listen, I gotta go. Meeting somebody at five.” He winked and Sam laughed. “By the way, you got anything on for New Year’s?”
“Nope. Maybe go skating or watch the fireworks down at Ontario Place.”
Avie gave him a skeptical glance. “Really?”
“Yeah, we did it last year. It’s fun. This someone new you’re seeing?”
“Not exactly.” Avie winked again. “Brainy type from Accounting I’ve had my eye on for a while. We’re on for New Year’s Eve, too. You still seeing that pro tennis player? Delores something-or-other?”
“No.”
“Jessica? The art-school babe?”
“Not really.” Sam shrugged. “I’m going to a gallery launch with her in January, that’s all.”
“Okay. See you later.”
“Good luck.”
Sam picked up the socks he’d worn to the gym, walked over to the sink area and dropped them in the garbage can. He pulled a new pair from the twelve-pack of white athletic socks he kept in the locker. Shoving aside his motorcycle helmet, he sat down on the bench to pull them on.
Come to think of it, he hadn’t washed socks for years. Or briefs. He was embarrassed to send them out to the laundry, along with everything else. He recalled a law clerk laughing hysterically as he told Sam he’d read in the paper that Sylvester Stallone, the actor, always put on brand-new briefs straight out of the package, never wore a pair twice. They had to provide him with new ones wherever he went, on location. Brand-new briefs every day! Could you beat that?
Sam had tried to work up a laugh for the clerk’s sake—but, hey, what was so funny about that?
He zipped his leather jacket and picked up his helmet by the visor. Keys? He patted