I shook my head. "You say it," I suggested. "Too early to have to wash
my mouth with soap."
Dunn made his big pitch to Renner. "Maragon has a connection with
these Psis--it's all over town that he got Keys Crescas off. This
Crescas can find Mary Hall--you know how Psis stick together." Renner
nodded rapt agreement. "And," Dunn added, finally sticking it in us,
"it would be good politics for Maragon to do it--would kind of sweeten
up the stench of his getting Crescas off, eh?"
Renner thought he had to sell me: "Pete," he insisted, "You've _got_
to! Defending Crescas was sure to hurt our reputation. That girl has
it coming for--"
I waved a hand in his face, shutting him up. "Why should I care what
happens to the girl?" I said, getting up. "Just make sure Horace pays
us a fat fee. After all, it's tax exempt."
"Tax exempt?" he asked, frowning.
"Sure," I said, walking out. "Religious contribution. Thirty pieces of
silver."
* * * * *
Keys Crescas is the kind of odd-ball you can't find till after dark.
Good looking in a romantic, off-beat sort of way. No visible means of
support--a typical Psi. Renner made one white-jowled attempt to read
me the riot act for failing to plead him guilty when Passarelli had
tapped me as Public Defender. I came close to throwing the meat-ball
out of my private office.
What could I have done? Sure, Crescas has the Stigma--he doesn't try
to hide it. It's only TK, though, and I don't suppose much of that.
Just enough, the cops will tell you, to make him a good man at picking
locks and earn his nickname--Keys.
People like Crescas run to a pattern. I left my number in about ten of
the spots he might turn up, and around six o'clock one of them hit pay
dirt.
I pressed the "Accept" key when the phone rang, and Keys Crescas'
olive face and curly black hair filled the screen. His black eyes had
that lively watchfulness you associate with Psis. He had the gain way
down and the aperture wide, so that he wasn't in focus any farther
back than his ears. And that scope setting hid from where he was
calling as effectively as a veil. Did you ever know a Psi who didn't
seem to be harboring a secret?
"Hi, Mouthpiece," he grinned, showing even white teeth. "How'd you
know where to find me?"
"Best place for worms is under a manure pile," I said. "I used
parallel logic."
That took that smug, Stigma grin off his puss. "What do you want?" he
asked, sullen now.
"A lead to a Psi who's gone into hiding."
You know what he told me to do. "Mary Hall," I added. "She's got
Stigma Troubles."
"Not even counting you, eh?" Crescas sneered. He made the same
suggestion again. I let it ride. "Go on," he dared me. "Make your
pitch. I'll laugh later."
"That 'Not Guilty' verdict doesn't mean a thing, Crescas," I told him.
"That was a National Bank she tried to rob. There's a Federal rap
still to be settled. She has big Stigma troubles and needs
counsel--and not one of those shysters who hang around the Criminal
Courts building sniffing for Psi business."
"She's in no trouble till they find her," he said accurately, and I
could see his hand come up to cut the image. "For my dough they've
given up trying to find her and are using you for a stalking horse,"
he added with fiendish accuracy.
"So don't trust me," I snarled. "You can send her saw blades baked in
a cake." I reached up, too.
"Hold it."