The Third Brother. Andrew Welsh-Huggins
the purported images of the Islamic State flag and suicide bomber videos.
“I can’t do it until tomorrow. I’m at practice right now. We’re just on a break.” Bonnie played for the Arch City Rollers, the city’s roller derby team, when she wasn’t running her own website development company and bailing me out of technological problems beyond my capability, which was often.
“One thing?” she said.
“Sure.”
“You still, um, owe me for the last job. It’s not much, like a hundred bucks,” she added apologetically. “But—”
“Right. I’m sorry about that. I’ll stick it in the mail right now. Or I could drop it by.”
“Maybe just do quick pay, with your bank? I’m pretty busy the next couple of days. And I sort of need the money.”
“No problem. No problem at all. I’ll do it right now.”
“Thanks. And I’ll take a look at your guy tomorrow. Just e-mail me the details.”
“By the way, it’s a national security case. Be careful about, you know . . .”
“Covering my tracks?”
“Something like that.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, SWEATING a bit from the uphill climb from my house, I walked inside Jury of Their Pours at Mound and High. Despite my lobbying over the years, the courthouse watering hole had never deigned to stock Black Label. There’s no accounting for taste. I settled for a draft Yuengling and a bowl of bar nuts instead. I drained the shoulders off the beer and munched some nuts. I needed to clear my head. Owing Bonnie money like that was embarrassing. It wasn’t that I didn’t have it, especially since Cohen had just written me a fat retainer check. It’s just that I didn’t have a whole lot to spare. And losing eighty bucks in groceries is not a small deal in the world I live in, bracketed by hefty child support payments and a cash-flow ledger that looks like a seismograph machine on a bad day in fracking country.
I looked around the bar as if hoping to find solace in the display of framed newspaper clippings of some of the great trials of the century. “Not Guilty” screamed the headline in the Dispatch the day after O.J. walked free. Below that front page, which hung on the opposite wall, sat a female defense attorney I’d seen here and there. She was chatting with an assistant male prosecutor I knew just well enough to say hi to. We nodded our hellos. They were doing a decent job of pretending to talk shop in an oh-so-professional-way, but their body language wasn’t fooling anyone. I drank my beer and munched some nuts and enjoyed the floor show. A few minutes later the door opened and another customer walked in.
“Moose around?” the newcomer said, seating himself with one bar stool between us.
The bartender shook his head.
“Any idea where he is?”
“Went to see his mom, over in Martins Ferry.”
“Is she OK?”
“I don’t think so. Something about hospice.”
“Sorry to hear that.” He ordered a Coke. He was black, light-skinned, with blue eyes and a look of preoccupation. He pulled out his phone and made a couple of calls. One was to someone named Buck, the other to an acquaintance who apparently went by Big Dog. He left voicemails both times. He didn’t sound happy about it. He sighed and looked at his watch and took a gulp of his drink and glanced around. He settled on me with a look of surprise.
“Woody Hayes. I’ll be damned.”
I almost turned away. I still get called by my old nickname a lot and normally want nothing to do with it. But there was something about those blue eyes.
“I go by Andy now.”
“Andy?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“It’s my name.”
“Huh.” He checked his phone as if hoping against hope that someone had returned his call in the fifteen seconds since he’d last checked it. He returned his attention to me.
“Michigan State, your sophomore year, third and thirteen, forty-two yard line, three minutes on the clock, up by twenty points. Snap’s fumbled, you recover, drop back another five yards, roll left, scramble, juke this lineman who wasn’t much wider than a double-wide beer cooler, look into the eyes of that guy’s bigger cousin, and just as he nails you, you fire a perfect spiral and hit Drew Wade for the first down.”
I stared at him.
“What?” he said.
“Other than the fact you’d probably make a hell of a good Jeopardy contestant, that’s pathetic, if you don’t mind me saying so. Who remembers that kind of shit? Especially a play that didn’t matter.”
“It mattered to you. And for the record, I remember that shit. Don’t tell me you went by Andy then.”
I gave him another stare. On the TV above the bottles of hard liquor the Indians were losing the first game of an afternoon doubleheader. At the end of the bar warm laughter indicated that final deliberations were underway for the two lawyers. Someplace in East Lansing, a baby was crying.
“OK,” I said. I stuck out my hand. “Woody Hayes.”
“That’s more like it,” he said, accepting with a firm grip. “Otto Mulligan.”
“Buy you a drink?”
“No thanks. I stick to the soft stuff.”
“Another one of those, then.”
He shook his head. “Can’t stay. I’m working. Supposed to be working.”
“What do you do?”
“Bail bonds. Got a shop around the corner.” He gestured out the door with his thumb. He took a card out of his wallet and handed it to me. It said:
Get Otto Here!
24-Hour Bail Bonds. Flexible Payment Plan.
Same Day Service.
Otto Mulligan, Licensed Bail Agent
“Are you new? I haven’t seen you around.”
“I’m old as dirt. Been out of town a few years. Came back because my dad was passing. Think I’m back for good now.”
“Sorry about your dad.”
“Thanks. You and half of Columbus, it turns out.”
“Really? Who was he, if I may ask?”
“Patrick Mulligan.”
“Judge Mulligan?”
“One and the same.”
Half of Columbus made sense. Mulligan was a legendary common pleas judge and pillar of the local Democratic Party who’d served forty years on the bench. His death had warranted a front-page news article in the Dispatch. As Irish as they came. Unlike the man sitting on a bar stool beside me.
“So—”
“Ever heard of Joyce Brown?”
I shook my head.
“Jazz singer, out on the east side. Most beautiful voice you’d ever want to hear. Little whispery now, but she’s still got it.”
“And she—?”
“She’s my mom. And yes, black is beautiful.”
“Your mom—but not Judge Mulligan’s wife.”
“No indeed.”
“Does Mrs. Mulligan know?”
“She