Killing Time

By Michael Mahn

In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans, anarchy and chaos rule. Dozens of foul-play situations are reported as corpses are discovered in empty houses and buildings. Scores are being settled. A former assistant district attorney, Henry Xavier OGrady, known to his friends as Irish Henry, is in the midst of it.

Henry encounters Martin the Kid Montague, a writer and a witness to the JFK assassination. The Kid has feared for his life since that event. Henry and the Kid each have their own enemies, a direct result of how well they do their jobs. Some of these enemies are the same, namely the local mob, but others are jealous co-workers. The pairs troubled histories catch up with them in the Big Easy and lead to a denouement that offers insight to the tragic event in Dallas.

With touches of international intrigue and romance, this mystery novel offers an alternative theory to the lingering question of the JFK assassination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jun 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781480848092

Michael Mahn

Michael Mahn is an attorney who has a military background and a keen interest in one of Americas lingering mysteries: the JFK assassination.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 Michael Mahn.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4808-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4809-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017908095

Archway Publishing rev. date: 7/19/2017

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 54

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

THEY NEEDED KILLING, DETECTIVE, AND you can kiss my bloody ass if you think I’m going to say I’m sorry they’re dead, Henry O’Grady said. The sweat dripped from his face onto the plain steel table in the center of the moldy-smelling room. A hint of an Irish brogue gave undertone to his statement. He wiped his brow and pushed back his thick, close cropped, dark hair. It was matted after a week in the city without a decent bath or shower, save for a brief visit to Marie’s apartment. Her place was located in the French Quarter, above O’Malley’s Pub on Burgundy Street, where Henry joined her in a hot tub, which wasn’t hot because the power had failed, yet was substantially warmed by Marie’s physical energy.

That was two days ago, in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Now, Henry Xavier O’Grady, known to his friends as Irish Henry, was sitting across the table from Quintus Travillere, a homicide detective for the New Orleans Police Department. Travillere didn’t look much better than O’Grady, though his hotel accommodations were substantially more refined than O’Grady’s shared quarters at O’Malley’s.

The NOPD had taken over the Hyatt Regency, with its well-supplied wine cellar, stock of whiskey in the hotel lounge, deep reserves of meat and dry goods, ample clothing, and generators that kept the power working until yesterday, when the fuel supply ran out. When the whiskey ran out, the NOPD would move elsewhere.

Listen, O’Grady, I’m not going to take any of your shit. Just answer my damn questions. We’ve got three people dead. You were reported at the scene when they died.

Says who?

Says, among others, the Kid.

And who else?

The hotel clerk. Travillere paused and stepped back, awaiting O’Grady’s next question, and then got mad.

Dammit, O’Grady, I’m the one asking questions around here.

Maybe so, Quint, but have you identified the deceased? He paused, staring into Travillere’s eyes. Hell, I know the answer. You don’t know who they are because they weren’t carrying normal ID, which tells us they were professionals. Right?

Travillere nodded.

Yeh, as I thought. And they weren’t from these parts, were they? Again, silence from the detective, which itself was an answer.

Exactly, O’Grady answered his own question. That was obvious from the way they were dressed. Do you agree? If not, tell me why, please.

Travillere avoided his stare and scribbled on his notepad. O’Grady continued his monologue.

Of course they were not local. They were a hit squad, if you ask me, which you haven’t asked, but I saved you a question. A pack of damnable assassins they were, and as all the saints in heaven would tell ye, Quint, they were hunting the Kid or me. Now, my dear and honorable investigator, please tell me why ye might think they are locals?

I don’t know why. That’s why you’re here. You killed them.

And you know damn well that it was self-defense. It was an ambush, Quint. Damn lucky I had my Glock.

Is it registered?

Is that why I’m here, Quint? Checking friggin’ handgun registrations? You’re wasting my damn time. I demand some answers. Who in the hell were those people? Find out who they are, where they’re from, and you’ll be on the trail to learning who sent them, and a whole lot more. Can ye do that, might I ask?

Irish Henry leaned back in his chair and stared intently at Travillere. His deep green eyes burned into the detective’s french vanilla eyes. Quint tried to keep a poker face and to avoid flinching from the intensity of the look. Henry paused and then grinned. Travillere knew his performance was being watched. He had to turn up the heat.

The Kid is spilling the beans, O’Grady.

Bullshit. The Kid was inside the damn lobby of the hotel when the gunfire started, and a good thing he was, Quint, or he’d be dead. If he’s spilling beans, it’s all gas.

The Kid is sitting in the next room, talking to Sergeant Farnsworth. The Kid has fingered you, Henry. You’re going down. You’d better give me something, or else we’re going to get an indictment.

Quintus, Henry said, leaning forward. In a soft voice, he whispered, Listen to me closely, now. I know you’ve got your boys behind the glass, watching and listening. I know you lads are under a lot of pressure. Hell, you’ve got scores of dead bodies all over this friggin’ flooded city, and lots of them show signs of foul play. I saw four floating in the damn canal before walking over here. Now, why would it be that these three are that damn important?

Henry noticed that Travillere flinched, just a slight tremor that flickered from the corner of his eye, as if he were suddenly squirming. He shot a glance toward the one-way mirror, behind which nervously stood Chief Lanny Landrieu, who was listening to every word. These were not just any dead bodies. The squint confirmed to O’Grady what he had suspected. This was important to the chief. Why? he wondered.

Before Travillere began his interview of O’Grady, the chief told the detective that the national fingerprint database had no records on the three victims. Quint thought that was very odd. The chief was acting strange about this situation, the detective thought, as if he were being pressured farther up the line. If so, from where? Not much was organized and coherent in the city in the aftermath of Katrina, and it seemed most curious that the chief was pressing for progress on this particular investigation.

Travillere didn’t allow such thoughts to interrupt his work. He was paid to do whatever the chief wanted done. Whatever. Whenever. He never asked the chief any questions, and wouldn’t start now. He needn’t do so because he knew him like the back of his dark brown hand.

Listen, O’Grady, I’m the one asking the questions here. Got that?

You’ve already told me that, Quint. Now, are you going to tell me the names of those assassins or not?

I’m not telling you squat, except that this is your last chance. The Kid is telling it all, right now.

Henry ignored his statement. He knew what he needed to know. Quint didn’t know the names. He was fishing, hoping to catch some information to help identify the bodies. The heat was on the detective. The homicide squad had been told to focus on these murders.

Don’t play that friggin’ game with me about the Kid. You couldn’t get anything from him, even if he knew something. You’re fishing, Travillere, and you’d have better luck out by the levies. Now, if you’re not going to charge me, let me go, or read me my rights.

Henry rose and walked over to the open window, gazing out at the devastation that had engulfed the city. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and fumbled in his pocket for the Zippo lighter, still looking at the flooded streets, battered shops and general destruction caused first by the hurricane and then aggravated by New Orleans’ most common resource: looters, vandals, and thugs.

This is a nonsmoking building, Travillere said in a monotone.

Henry snorted, scoffing, and didn’t remove his gaze from the city, such as it was. He held his cigarette, unlit, and placed it between his lips. Sadness crossed his face as he looked upon the city, which he had not seen from this elevation since the storm hit. The Big Easy was a mess, in many ways. New Orleans was the murder capital of America, a distinction well earned and taken from Detroit, which was no small feat.

Every night brought a new batch to the morgue. The NOPD had the largest backlog of unsolved homicides in the country. Ironically, the large volume eased the pressure by the media and others to keep track of the totally inept and corrupt pursuit, or the lack thereof, of investigations and prosecutions by local public officials. Only when inner-city violence touched the suburbs or a tourist, and the press got excited, did city officials get motivated.

Now, with Hurricane Katrina freshly departed, numerous bodies were floating in the floodwaters, and dozens of foul-play situations were being reported as corpses were being discovered in empty houses and buildings. Scores were being settled. Anarchy ruled. People were being killed over food, shelter, and women, though killing over women was nothing new.

Where are you staying? the detective asked Henry.

Wherever I can find some Jameson and a little company.

Don’t leave the city. We will want to talk to you further.

As if I could get the hell out of here now, Henry snapped, rising, and walking toward the door. I may come by the Hyatt and visit the lounge, so you can keep an eye on me.

Travillere did not respond. They stared at each other. Henry spoke again. Or if you prefer, you can come over to O’Malley’s and buy me a Guinness.

Henry paused in front of the mirror, at the right side. He suspected the chief would be on the other side of the glass, looking from the left, probably standing beside a member of the district attorney’s office, who would be in the middle, and some NOPD clerk on the right side, monitoring the video and audio. He’d been on the observer’s side of the glass more than once during his days as an assistant DA.

O’Grady lowered his brow, staring into the glass as he pulled out the lighter, inscribed with the outline of a German shepherd and well-worn remains of lettering, ‘K-9 Vietnam.’ Without taking his eyes off the focal point, he lit up and exhaled, blowing smoke into the face behind the mirror. He clasped shut the lighter with a practiced style and slid it back into his pants.

On the other side of the glass, Chief Landrieu ground his teeth, his face barely ten inches from O’Grady’s glower.

Maria Gonzalez, the assistant DA, shrugged. O’Grady’s a tough character, Chief. You know we can’t hold him. It’s a wonder he was able to put down all three of the shooters. They were carrying sophisticated weapons. Not anything you’d find at Boudreau’s Pawn Shop, she said. Then she added, The kind, you might say, that professional hit men use.

Landrieu was silent, returning the stare at O’Grady, as if they were facing-off in the center of a boxing ring, and touching gloves before the brawl.

Chapter 2

WHO LET YOU IN? ASKED Phillip Ormand, an alias of Martin Morgan Montague, also known as the Kid, after Sergeant Joe Farnsworth had introduced himself and leaned across the table to shake his hand.

Excuse me? said Farnsworth, with his hand still outstretched .

Show me your invitation and I’ll let you stay, the Kid said.

Wise guy, eh? Farnsworth replied, looking into the Kid’s deep blue eyes.

You’ll have to write that down. My hearing is not working.

Bull shit, said Farnsworth.

I can read your lips on that, but it’d be better if you wrote it down. The Kid cupped his right ear with his hand. What’s that?

Farnsworth grabbed the pencil lying on the table next to the yellow legal pad. ‘What the hell,’ he muttered to himself as he began writing. He handed the pad to the Kid, who read out loud the question.

What’s your name? Good question to ask. What is it?

I’m asking you, dammit, Farnsworth said.

The Kid pointed at his ear and said, Write it down.

The Detective picked up the pad and wrote his name, then slipped it back in front of the Kid.

Nice to meet you, Joe. You can call me ‘Kid,’ if you’d like.

Farnsworth snatched the pad, again. He pointed to his first question. The Kid looked at it, then spoke. We’re going around in circles. I’ve already asked you that question. You answered it already.

Farnsworth wanted to smack him, but he knew he was being watched. He thought the Kid was messing with him, but maybe, just maybe, he actually was deaf. In frustration, Farnsworth pushed away from the desk and rose. He started walking to the door. The Kid then spoke to him.

Why are you leaving? I thought you wanted to ask me about the shootings at the Hotel Monteleone. And you already know who I am, I believe.

Farnsworth paused and shrugged his shoulders. He turned around and went back to the table, slowly and calmly picked up the pad, carefully wrote ‘Go ahead. Tell me, please, Mr. Ormand,’ then shoved it in front of the Kid, who looked at it, and began talking.

I had just entered the lobby and began talking to the hotel clerk when we heard gunfire coming from the fountain area. We both ran for cover.

Farnsworth took the pad and wrote, Is that all? He gave it to the Kid, who said, Yes, Captain.

Farnsworth said out loud, I’m a Sergeant.

The Kid looked at him, puzzled, then said, You’ll have to write that down, Major.

Farnsworth’s temper began to flare, wondering if, indeed, the Kid was screwing around. He took the pad and wrote, I’m not a Major.

The Kid read it and then slowly nodded. Sorry, Colonel. Farnsworth looked at him and the Kid returned the stare, unflinching and expressionless. The detective rose from his chair and began walking to the door, again. The Kid spoke up.

Why don’t I give you a rundown on my activities leading up to the shooting at the Hotel?

Farnsworth turned, once again, and returned to the desk. The Kid handed him the pad. Farnsworth turned it over and leaned back, crossing his arms, waiting for the Kid to tell his story.

There was the Hurricane, of course, the Kid began, and I was at Eva Marie Honeycutt’s place on the Rue Bourbon. You know which place I’m talking about?

Farnsworth glanced at the glass with some discomfort, wondering how in the hell the Kid could’ve known that was a place that he, Farnsworth, frequented. He didn’t answer.

The Kid realized he had the detective quieted, and proceeded, leaning back in the chair, closing his eyes, and tilted back his head, as if recollecting a memory, then began to speak.

Well, Eva Marie was in a panic. She wanted me to get her out of the City and I took her in a borrowed car. We got as far as the Ponch, the Kid said, referring to Lake Ponchartrain, but the bridge was closed because the waves were lapping over it in places. Traffic was at a total standstill and Eva Marie was screaming. Losing it.

Farnsworth knew this information was generally useless, but he was curious about Eva Marie, who was the madam of Eva’s House, and probably had a file on him, along with other NOPD officers. He feigned indifference as the Kid went forward with his tale.

We both got out of the car and left it right there, as had many others, and began walking back toward the City. The winds were terrible and debris was blowing everywhere. Eva Marie refused to go back with me and took off running out the bridge. I couldn’t stop her. The last time I saw her was when a large wave swept across the bridge, covering cars and everything. When it passed, she was gone.

The Kid paused, acting remorseful and giving respect through his silence. He waited until he could see the detective getting antsy, then continued.

I think the wind and the wet got into my ears because it seemed like I went numb and lost my hearing shortly after that. I began wandering around the City. The flooding had started, and the looters were in high gear. I wanted to get back to Eva Marie’s and rescue her files from the flood, even though she was gone. He paused, noticing how intently Farnsworth was listening since he referenced the files, then continued, God rest her sweet soul. I finally got to the French Quarter and went to O’Malley’s, the one place I knew for sure would be open.

The Kid stopped and looked around the room.

The files? Did you get her files? the Detective erupted, then caught himself.

You still with me, General? You’ll have to write that down."

Farnsworth got red-faced and ignored him. The Kid pushed ahead.

That’s where I found Irish Henry. There he was, helping to tend bar, with a pair of pistols tucked under his belt to deter any looters that might drop by. I hung around there for a day or two, helping out as best I could.

He paused. Farnsworth waited, then grabbed the pad, and began to write. He handed the pad to Ormand.

The Monteleone? Oh, yes, we were talking about that, weren’t we?

Farnsworth nodded. The Kid, sensing he had pushed the Detective to the limit, went on.

Then we went up to the Monteleone to see if we could get to my room. Yes, I was staying there. I had clean clothes there, and some cash stashed in a Gideon Bible. Smiling, he said, You see, I was going to buy some food for the children trapped in the City.

Farnsworth gestured, rolling his hands, as if encouraging him to move along. The Kid took the suggestion to help speed things along. He knew where this was going, exactly nowhere, but Farnsworth didn’t know that yet, and he wanted to go through the drill. There were three people dead, and the Detective did have the right to ask questions, to the point at which the Kid didn’t want to answer.

We got to the hotel and I was getting ready to go inside. O’Grady was finishing up a smoke in the entrance, near the fountain. Suddenly, all hell broke loose.

What do you mean, all hell broke loose? Farnsworth snapped. The Kid acted as if he didn’t hear him, again, and pointed to the pad.

What do you mean, all hell broke loose? the Detective wrote, thrusting the pad in front of the Kid’s face.

The Kid pushed back. Easy now, or I’ll invoke my 5th. I’m trying to help and you’re not cooperating.

Farnsworth was reddening even more.

What I mean is, that is when the gunfire started. I did not stand around to take notes, you understand? I skedaddled into the lobby. I thought O’Grady would be right behind me. When the gunfire stopped, I looked from around the corner of the front desk and saw O’Grady walking into the lobby.

Farnsworth hastily scribbled, What did he say?

Is the lounge open? I need a drink.

Farnsworth fumed. The Kid continued. That’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, best as I can remember now. If my memory gets better and I can think of anything else, I’ll call you.

You do that, Farnsworth said, sarcastically.

Please write it down, the Kid asked. Farnsworth rose and walked out of the room. The Kid followed.

Chapter 3

IT HAD BEEN TWO HOURS since they left the NOPD headquarters. Both headed to O’Malley’s. The Kid lugged a laptop and satchel full of heavily-edited manuscript pages with him, and was writing when O’Grady slid into the booth, waving his hand at the bartender while blowing a kiss at her. He heard the steady hum from the generator, which was keeping the beer cool, the lights on, and the Kid’s laptop charged.

She knew what he wanted, and was glad to see him. Marie walked over quickly and stood beside O’Grady. Her well-shaped left hip was within inches of his face, intentionally. She lowered his tumbler of Jameson Irish Whiskey to the table, and didn’t make an expression when he slipped his hand under the back of her dress and let his fingertips slide up the inside of her knee. She cut her eyes and gave him a smile.

Is that my tip, or yours, Monsieur Henri? she playfully asked, using the French pronunciation of his given name.

You know that I’ll take care of you, Marie, mon Cheri, Irish Henry played back, sliding a $20 bill under the edge of her panties, on her rear, then gently removing his hand, but allowing his fingertips to trail their retreat slowly. The table top blocked view of this by the handful of other patrons seated at the bar, who didn’t notice. Not that Marie would’ve cared.

Anytime, darling, anytime, she said, acting oblivious to the transaction she knew Irish Henry had made, while turning her attention to the Kid, who was nursing his draught beer.

Let me know if you gentlemen need anything else, Marie said, turning, and allowing her open hand to run through O’Grady’s thick hair, and tickle his ear as she left.

You slipped the tip into her ‘purse,’ eh? the Kid asked Henry, snickering. O’Grady chuckled back., Of course. That’s the way she likes it.

Yeah, but I know that must’ve been at least an Andy Jackson. Irish, you throw around too much money.

You’re right, Kid, but I like to know it’s been well-placed. Nothing sweeter than the warm buns of a ripe woman.

And nothing more deadly, too, the Kid snapped.

I’ll drink to that, Irish Henry said, raising his tumbler of Jameson, and clicking the rim to the Kid’s mug. Tell me about your book. We can talk about the assholes at the P.D. later.

The Kid looked at Irish Henry, appreciative, as always, that he nicknamed him, ‘the Kid,’ instead of the given name Montague held since birth, ‘Martin.’ In the City, he was Phillip Ormand. He had other names over the course of his career as a writer for various newspapers. He once used his real name for a byline, abbreviated ‘M. M. Montague,’ back when he fashioned himself in the mold of a latter-day F. Scott Fitzgerald. Somehow, M. M. Montague didn’t have the same flair, and, as he would learn in those early days, it could be dangerous to be so revealing of his identity.

Though the name hinted at Up East heritage, the Montague family had deep southwestern roots. His father died of cancer shortly after Martin finished high-school. His mother remarried 3 years later. They stayed in touch, until she reported being pestered by strange men asking questions as to Martin’s whereabouts. She was killed in a freak auto accident in 1973.

He had no other family. There were no relatives he knew while growing-up, and none he cared to know later. It would be better for all if he didn’t. His first move, after college at Texas A&M, was to Miami in ‘68, then Seattle in ‘71, Savannah in ‘75, Indianapolis in ‘84, Denver in ‘90, and, finally, to New Orleans in 1998. He had his reasons.

Montague’s diverse wanderings gave him a broad appreciation of the American people, but deprived him of being able to sink roots deeply into any community, or to build any lasting relationships. It had worn upon his spirit, but he accepted it as the price for his safety, holding onto the precious items that he believed shielded him. Montague had forgotten so many identities that he sometimes didn’t know who he was at any given time. Martin Montague seemed like a name from another life, and, in many ways, it was.

He professed to belief in a general life force that permeated all creation and considered moronic any system of belief that hinted at structure, or sought to restrict or limit natural appetites of the flesh. He rarely missed an opportunity to poke fun at those who kept faith in God and practiced any religion. He was contemptuous toward Jews and Catholics, but O’Grady had made him suspend that innate hostility. Irish Henry was probably the best friend the Kid ever knew, and, perhaps, the only friend he had maintained for any length of time. ‘H. X.,’ as the Kid sometimes called him, was not the proselytizing type, but often expressed appreciation for the Sacrament of Penance, or, as it was known in the post-Vatican II theology, the Sacrament of Reconciliation, which Henry often said, is chicken soup for the soul, which I should imbibe with great frequency due to the nature of my nature, which often is in need of such comfort and cleansing.

Irish Henry occasionally slipped into the back pews at St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square to observe the Mass, though, oddly, he said that he was not ready to confess his sins because he was not willing to give them up, and had ‘issues with regret’ for his wrongs, which he thought might not be wrong at all, given the circumstances. ‘Wrongs,’ such as the Church believed, like killing people who needed killing. He once carried a rosary in his pants pocket, next to the Zippo, but lost the rosary. He told the Kid they were, two companions that went through the war with me.

Henry Xavier O’Grady was a student of writing, and in a lifetime of scrutinizing some of the finest writers in the English language, he had come to believe the Kid had the talent to be in that group, but seemed to lack the discipline to take his craft to the level of mastery that would gain him acclaim and recompense in the marketplace. He seemed haunted at times, as if seeing ghosts or things that were not visible. He appeared jumpy and nervous, often looking around at strangers. Everybody in the Big Easy was a bit quirky, including himself, but the Kid had a story. Henry just wasn’t sure what was that story, but it was the Kid’s story. If the Kid wanted to keep it to himself, that was his business. Lord knows, Henry thought, that he had a history of his own that was best kept deep in the past.

Irish Henry had first noticed the Kid’s potential while they were at O’Malley’s months earlier. He then asked Montague what he was writing? The Kid was busy hammering the keys on his laptop, and pushed across the table a stack of papers that were part of a manuscript draft.

What’s the title? Henry asked.

"When the Robins Sang," the Kid said, sipping his beer and pausing to look at Henry.

Fiction or Fact?

Ah, good question, Montague answered. Fiction. Yes, definitely fiction, he added. The reply peaked Henry’s interest. As Henry further read, he came to appreciate the style of Montague’s writing, and the talent it revealed. He also came to sense that there was much fact embedded in the novel, perhaps a strand of biography.

Phillip Ormand was the pen name Montague used when he began working as a writer for the Times-Picayune, the dominant New Orleans daily newspaper, and the name he still maintained. He covered the Courthouse beat and followed criminal cases, in the course of which he cultivated a relationship with a tough and fearless prosecutor, Henry Xavier O’Grady, who had been particularly successful in convicting local mobsters.

They had common interests. The Kid needed insight into prosecutions, or the lack thereof, and investigations, and Irish Henry needed to let the public know details that might not get airing in a courtroom due to the rules of evidence, but which may help to prepare the potential juror pool for the criminal elements they may one day get an opportunity to judge.

What Montague admired about Henry was that he, almost unique among local public figures, steadfastly insisted on being kept low profile and not singled-out for commendation and praise. O’Grady only asked that all attribution for successful outcomes be given to his boss, the D.A. That kept the Boss happy, and that gave Henry a measure of job security, not that he really needed it. Henry knew, as did many close observers of the legal scene in the City, that his legal talent could generate substantial income representing the defense, and rarely a month went by without a hint or offer from regional law firms seeking to bring him in as a partner.

Upscale clientele needed protection and guidance, too, especially the ‘white-collar’ group often ensnared with federal violations. Henry could make a mint on his own, too, working the local courthouse scene and representing the elements he so skillfully and regularly sent to prison.

He was even-handed about it in their talks.

The criminal bastards all need to be punished, but it doesn’t matter to me whether they get their due down here or wait until the Good Lord gets them by the collar. If I get hold of them, they may have a chance at redemption, but if they wait until He grabs them, why it’s too late. So, I’m really helping to save their slimy souls, but who’s to say mine is not twice as rotten? Yes, I could stand for those lads without hesitation, though I’d have some remorse knowing I may keep them from reformation by letting them live on the streets a little longer. Then, again, they may be safer on the streets than behind those steel bars.

The Kid loved to follow Henry’s wandering Irish logic circumlocutions.