Revision of Justice Read Free Page B

about it.”
    “Dead serious, Mr. Justice.”
    She offered Templeton some wine, but Templeton requested mineral water instead. Kapono found two bottles of Evian, handed one to Templeton and kept the other for herself, then glanced out toward the party.
    “Why don’t I introduce you around?”
    I followed them out, but quickly excused myself to find a rest room. Kapono pointed toward the stairway.
    “There’s one at the top of the stairs, or below, at the end of the hall.”
    “We’ll be mingling,” Templeton said. “Don’t hide too long.”
    I took the shortest route into the downstairs hallway, leaving the press of humanity behind. On either side hung more framed posters: Tootsie , The Graduate , To Kill a Mockingbird , The Wild Bunch , On the Waterftont , North by Northwest , one or two others.
    Halfway down, I heard voices.
    They came from a half-open doorway near the end of the hall. One was male and deep, distinguished by an accent that had the map of Australia printed all over it. The other, a California monotone delivered with precise diction, came from a woman who sounded as tight as an angry fist.
    Male: “I’m telling you, I didn’t know! I swear!”
    Female: “Where is he?”
    Male: “Believe me, I’d like to find the little bugger myself!”
    Female: “He’s evil, Dylan—you have no idea.”
    Male: “I know enough to want to kill the bastard!”
    Female: “That makes two of us, believe me.”
    Through the partly open door, I saw a bearded man in dark clothes with an oversized can of Foster’s Lager in one hand and a cigar shaped like a torpedo in the other. He faced a slim, elegant woman in a white summer dress and gold jewelry, with a helmet of frosted blond hair that looked lacquered down to the last strand.
    She caught me looking at her, then said quickly to the man, “If you see him, tell him he must call me!”
    The door opened wider and she stepped past me without a word, disappearing quickly down the hall. The Australian tipped the can of Foster’s to his mouth, draining half of it, then puffed angrily on his tapered cigar.
    He glared through the open door, then moved toward me.
    “You seen Ray Farr by any chance?”
    The Aussie was of moderate height, two or three inches below my six feet, but closer in years to my thirty-nine, maybe older. His shoulders were hunched and powerful, and he sported a long mane of well-conditioned auburn hair that matched his luxuriant beard. Furious green eyes fastened on me from a chiseled, sunburned face.
    “I asked you a simple question, mate.”
    He poked my shoulder in a way I didn’t like.
    “I don’t know anyone named Ray Farr.”
    “Everybody knows Ray Farr!”
    The sound was more mocking now than belligerent, and inside the bushy beard his mouth curled into a grin. I relaxed a little.
    “I assume Farr is the same man the lady wants to talk to.”
    “The lady used to be his agent.”
    “He’s a screenwriter, then?”
    “Ha! That’s a joke. He’s a scam artist and a bastard is what he is.”
    He tipped the can again. I watched the muscles of his throat work as the beer went down. After that, he toppled a bit toward me on the toes of his snakeskin boots.
    I put a hand on his arm to steady him. Beneath his black silk shirt, I felt a bicep as thick and hard as the rounded end of a forty-pound barbell. The shirt was creamy soft and looked expensively Italian, the kind worn by a man who thought a lot of himself and was accustomed to getting his way.
    “Maybe you should slow down,” I said, holding him steady and indicating the big can of lager.
    “Maybe you should fuck off, mate.”
    I wasn’t in the mood for trouble, so I turned away toward the bathroom, leaving him to wobble on his own.
    He grabbed my arm, stopping me and steadying himself again. Then he placed his hand on my shoulder, close enough to my face that I felt the heat of the cigar’s orange ash. He switched the cigar to his other hand, showing it to me.
    “Montecristo