Lawrence Block - The Ehrengraf Obligation

William Telliford gave his head a tentative scratch, in part because it itched, in part out of puzzlement. It itched because he had been unable to wash his lank brown hair during the four days hed thus far spent in jail. He was puzzled because this dapper man before him was proposing to get him out of jail.

I dont understand, he said. The court appointed an attorney for me. A younger man, I think he said his name was Trabner. Youre not associated with him or anything, are you?

Certainly not.

Your name is

Martin Ehrengraf.

Well, I appreciate your coming to see me, Mr. Ehrengraf, but Ive already got a lawyer, this Mr. Trabner, and

Are you satisfied with Mr. Trabner?

Telliford lowered his eyes, focusing his gaze upon the little lawyers shoes, a pair of highly polished black wing tips. I suppose hes all right, he said slowly.

But?

But he doesnt believe Im innocent. I mean he seems to take it for granted Im guilty and the best thing I can do is plead guilty to manslaughter or something. Hes talking in terms of making some kind of deal with the district attorney, like its a foregone conclusion that I have to go to prison and the only question is how long.

Then youve answered my question, Ehrengraf said, a smile flickering on his thin lips. Youre unsatisfied with your lawyer. The court has appointed him. It remains for you to disappoint him, as it were, and to engage me in his stead. You have the right to do this, you know.

But I dont have the money. Trabner was going to defend me for free, which is about as much as I can afford. I dont know what kind of fees you charge for something like this but Ill bet theyre substantial. That suit of yours didnt come from the Salvation Army.

Ehrengraf beamed. His suit, charcoal gray flannel with a nipped-in waist, had been made for him by a most exclusive tailor. His shirt was pink, with a button-down collar. His vest was a Tattersall check, red and black on a cream background, and his tie showed half-inch stripes of red and charcoal gray. My fees are on the high side, he allowed. To undertake your defense I would ordinarily set a fee of eighty thousand dollars.

Eighty dollars would strain my budget, William Telliford said. Eighty thousand, well, it might take me ten years to earn that much.

But I propose to defend free of charge, sir.

William Telliford stared, not least because he could not recall the last time anyone had thought to call him sir. He was, it must be said, a rather unprepossessing young man, much given to slouching and sprawling. His jeans needed patching at the knees. His plaid flannel shirt needed washing and ironing. His chukka boots needed soles and heels, and his socks needed replacement altogether.

But

But why?

Telliford nodded.

Because you are a poet, said Martin Ehrengraf.

Poets, said Ehrengraf, are the unacknowledged legislators of the universe.

Thats beautiful, Robin Littlefield said. She didnt know just what to make of this little man but he was certainly impressive. Could you say that again? I want to remember it.

Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the universe. But dont credit me with the observation. Shelley said it first.

Is she your wife?

The deeply set dark eyes narrowed perceptibly. Percy Bysshe Shelley, he said gently. Born 1792, died 1822. The poet.

Oh.

So your young man is one of the worlds unacknowledged legislators. Or you might prefer the lines Arthur OShaughnessy wrote. We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams. You know the poem?

I dont think so.

I like the second stanza, said Ehrengraf, and tilted his head to one side and quoted it:

With wonderful deathless ditties

We build up the worlds greatest cities,

And out of a fabulous story

We fashion an empires glory:

One man with a dream, at pleasure,

Shall go forth and conquer a crown;

And three with a new songs measure

Can trample an empire down.

You have a wonderful way of speaking. But I, uh, I dont really know much about poetry.

You reserve your enthusiasm for Mr. Tellifords poems, no doubt.

Well, I like it when Bill reads them to me. I like the way they sound, but Ill be the first to admit I dont always know what hes getting at.

Ehrengraf beamed, spread his hands. But they do sound good, dont they? Miss Littlefield, dare we require more of a poem than that it please our ears? I dont read much modern poetry, Miss Littlefield. I prefer the bards of an earlier and more innocent age. Their verses are often simpler, but I dont pretend to understand any number of favorite poems. Half the time I couldnt tell you just what Blakes getting at, Miss Littlefield, but that doesnt keep me from enjoying his work. That sonnet of your young mans, that poem about riding a train across Kansas and looking at the moon. Im sure you remember it.

Sort of.

He writes of the moon stroking desperate tides in the liquid land. Thats a lovely line, Miss Littlefield, and who cares whether the poem itself is fully comprehensible? Whod raise such a niggling point? William Telliford is a poet and Im under an obligation to defend him. Im certain he couldnt have murdered that woman.

Robin gnawed a thumbnail. The police are pretty sure he did it, she said. The fire axe was missing from the hallway of our building and the glass case where it was kept was smashed open. And Janice Penrose, he used to live with her before he met me, well, they say he was still going around her place sometimes when I was working at the diner. And they never found the fire axe, but Bill came home with his jeans and shirt covered with blood and couldnt remember what happened. And he was seen in her neighborhood, and hed been drinking, plus he smoked a lot of dope that afternoon and he was always taking pills. Ups and downs, like, plus some green capsules he stole from somebodys medicine chest and we were never quite sure what they were, but they do weird things to your head.

The artist is so often the subject of his own experiment, Ehrengraf said sympathetically. Think of De Quincey. Consider Coleridge, waking from an opium dream with all of Kubla Khan fixed in his mind, just waiting for him to write it down. Of course he was interrupted by that dashed man from Porlock, but the lines he did manage to save are so wonderful. You know the poem, Miss Littlefield?

I think we had to read it in school.

Perhaps.

Or didnt he write something about an albatross? Some guy shot an albatross, something like that.

Something like that.

The thing is, William Telliford said, the more I think about it, the more I come to the conclusion that I must have killed Jan. I mean, who else would kill her?

Youre innocent, Ehrengraf told him.

You really think so? I cant remember what happened that day. I was doing some drugs and hitting the wine pretty good, and then I found this bottle of bourbon that I didnt think we still had, and I started drinking that, and thats about the last thing I remember. I must have gone right into blackout and the next thing I knew I was walking around covered with blood. And Ive got a way of being violent when Im drunk. When I lived with Jan I beat her up a few times, and I did the same with Robin. Thats one of the reasons her father hates me.

Her father hates you?

Despises me. Oh, I cant really blame him. Hes this self-made man with more money than God and Im squeezing by on food stamps. Theres not much of a living in poetry.

Its an outrage.