The Last Innocent Man

“I don’t like a smart-mouth any better than Harv, so why don’t you leave while you still can.”

“Can’t I finish my drink?” Gault asked in a mocking tone. Harvey stared at Gault for a second, then swept the beer off the table. The glass shattered on the floor and the noise in the bar stopped. Gault felt a rush of adrenaline. His whole body seemed in movement.

“It’s finished-” Harvey started, his wind suddenly cut off by the foot that Gault snapped into his groin. Gault’s left foot connected with the fat man’s temple. Harvey’s head snapped to one side and he sat down hard.

Gault pivoted, blocking Al’s first wild punch with his forearm. He aimed a side kick at his opponent’s kneecap. It was off, striking with only enough force to jostle him off balance. The follow-up left only grazed Al’s eye.

The advantage of surprise was lost and Al had good reflexes. He charged into Gault, wrestling him backward into the wall. Gault grunted from the impact, momentarily stunned.

Harvey was on one knee, struggling to get up. Gault brought his forehead down fast. Al’s nose cracked. Blood spattered across Gault’s shirt. He boosted his knee and felt it make hard contact with Al’s groin. There was a gasp and the grip on his arm relaxed. Gault drove a right to the solar plexus and shot his fingers into the man’s eyes. Al screamed and sagged. Gault snapped the side of his hand against the man’s neck, and he sank to the floor, his face covered with blood.

Glass shattered and Gault set himself as Harvey moved toward him, a broken bottle held tightly in his hand. Gault circled warily, keeping distance between them. Harvey feinted and Gault moved back. He felt the edge of the bar cut into his back. There was a flash of movement behind him and he shifted slightly, but not enough to avoid being hit across the back of the head by the sawed-off pool cue the bartender kept for just such occasions.

THE PHONE WASringing. David opened his eyes slowly and struggled to bring his other senses into focus. He became aware of a sour, phlegmy taste in his mouth and a dull ache behind his eyes. The phone rang again and he flinched. It was still dark outside. According to the digital clock, it was two in the morning.

David picked up the receiver to stop the ringing.

“Dave,” a voice at the other end called out.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Tom. Tom Gault. I’m in jail, old buddy, and you gotta come down here and bail me out.”

“Who?” David asked. The words had not registered.

“Tom Gault. Bring your checkbook. I’ll pay you back when I get home.”

David sat up and tried to concentrate. “What did you do?”

“I was in a fight. These clowns have chargedme with assault. I’ll explain it all to you once I’m out.”

David didn’t want to go to the jail at two in the morning. He didn’t have any great urge to see Thomas Gault, either. But he was too tired to refuse Gault’s request.

“I’ll be down as soon as I can get dressed,” he said, turning on the lamp on his night table.

“I knew I could count on you,” Gault said. After a few more words, they hung up.

David’s head was ringing. He’d had too much to drink, but that was becoming routine. He took a deep breath and made his way to the bathroom. The glare from the lightbulbs hurt his eyes, and his image in the mirror caused a different type of pain. His complexion was pale and his flesh doughy. The features were beginning to run together. When he removed his pajamas, he saw the erosion of clear lines on the other parts of his body.

David had not exercised, or done much else that humans do, since Larry Stafford’s conviction three months before. The day after the trial he had backpacked into the wilderness to try to sort out the events of the preceding days, but the silence of the shadowy woods had trapped him alone with thoughts he did not want to encounter. He had scurried home.

Jenny had phoned while he was away, but he did not return the calls. He tried to work but could not concentrate. Once, in the solitude of his office, he broke into tears. In the course of representing Larry Stafford, he had betrayed the trust of the court, sold out his principles, and given up on himself. In the ruins of the case he saw the wreckage of his career and the destruction of the carefully constructed fictions concerning truth and justice he had erected to hide from view the emptiness of the profession he had so zealously followed. Life was intolerable. He moved through the days like an automaton, eating little and drinking a great deal.

Gregory Banks had sensed his friend’s despair and had ordered him to spend two weeks away. The bright Hawaiian sun and the gaiety of the tourists at the small resort hotel where he had stayed only heightened David’s anguish. He tried to take part in conversations but lost interest. His one attempt at an affair had ended with humiliating impotence. Only drinking helped, but the surcease from pain was temporary, and the horrors were twice as vivid once the effects of the alcohol wore off.