The Devil in the Valley by Castle Freeman

Author:Castle Freeman [FREEMAN JR., CASTLE]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC019000
ISBN: a9781468312898
Publisher: The Overlook Press
Published: 2014-10-05T16:00:00+00:00

9

A HELL OF A MARTINI

BOLD, HARD, WITH THE SWAGGER OF A LORD AND THE aggression of a fighting mastiff, the partner from the New York office strode into the dining room of the little country inn. Jack Raptor, the long-knife litigator, in town for the opening of court tomorrow. A pro, Raptor was, one of the victors, a winner whose suit cost more than a week’s receipts from the establishment in which he found himself, and whose bonus at the end of last year might have bought the place—might have bought the whole fucking town, said Raptor, who, in his speech, affected the foul-mouthed dash of the rich and powerful.

He paused at the tiny, four-stool bar, but no bartender was visible. Raptor struck the bar sharply with the flat of his hand. A young man wearing a waiter’s white apron appeared. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Raptor. “Is this a bar, or is it some kind of fucking church?”

The waiter smiled agreeably. “Sir?” he asked.

“Make me a white one,” said Raptor.

The young man looked at him. “White wine, sir?” he asked. “We have a new Chardonnay—”

“A Martini,” barked Raptor. “Beefeater’s. Olive. Straight up. You know what I’m talking about? You heard of a Martini up here in the woods?”

“Oh,” said the kid. “Yes, sir. One gin Martini. Will you want a table?”

“This is the dining room, isn’t it? It says so on the door. Yeah, I’ll want a table. I’m meeting somebody.”

“He’s here, sir,” said the waiter.

Raptor looked. The dining room, brightly lit, had some dozen tables. This evening, most were idle. On one side of the room, two women were having their dessert. At another table, three men were being served. Near them, a family. At a table in the far end of the dining room, near the empty fireplace, a single man waited, presumably Raptor’s dinner companion and coadjutor, the local hayseed lawyer who would appear in court with Raptor tomorrow and hold up the hometown end of the Shithead Posse as Raptor threw in the weight of the bank that retained him, united with the weight of his mighty firm, to crush, utterly, whatever poor fool had wandered into the path of his terrifying, annihilating onset. Tyler was the hick counsel’s name. Something Tyler. Some hick name: Calvin or Virgil. Dumb woodchucks. Raptor turned from the bar and went to join him at his table.

“Do you want your drink, sir?” the kid behind the bar asked him. He was mixing the Martini.

“For Christ’s sake,” snarled Raptor. “No, I don’t want it. That’s why I ordered it. Yeah, I want it, okay? Bring it.” He advanced across the room.

“Evening,” said the man at the table when Raptor approached. “You’re Mr. Raptor?”

“Tyler?” asked Raptor.

“Pliny couldn’t make it.”

“What the fuck? Couldn’t make it? What do you mean, he couldn’t make it. What the fuck is that?”

“He asked me to meet you in his place.”

“And you are?”

“Adams. Eli Adams.”

Eli, thought Raptor. There you go. Calvin. Virgil. Pliny.

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