Read Call Me Joe for Free Online

and remembered my priorities,” I replied. “The rest was just reflexes.”
     
    Lee’s own glass was almost empty. If he had been here much more than five minutes, he was nursing it. Lee’s capacity is a thing of much wonder and envy. I’ve stayed mug-to-mug with him a couple of times and have gone a trifle goofy around the edges while Lee remains as lucid as Charlie Rose.
     
    Lately, he has been nursing them, though. Rumor has it that the current D.A. is making retirement-type noises while Lee has steadily emitted run-for-District-Attorney signals, relentlessly as a radio transmitter, for ten solid years. Curiously, he’s managed to wind up as the logical successor to the job without more than a dollop of ass-kissing and with the respect of his colleagues. He’s a tireless worker and a borderline-brilliant litigator. The word “dogged” doesn’t even begin to describe his pursuit of evidence or presentation of it in court. His favorite saying is that Shaquille O’Neal carries such a great field-goal percentage because slam-dunks almost never miss.
     
    We became friends mainly because I dropped three high-profile cases into his lap, gift-wrapped and bow-tied, setting him up for those monster jams.
     
    “I talked to Dave today,” he smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye.
     
    “About?”
     
    “About his little lecture during your haircut.”
     
    “Aw, shit,” I sighed, “not you, too.”
     
    “No,” he grinned. “No lectures. Just one word...”
     
    “Which is?” I nodded.
     
    “Ditto,” he smirked. “Dit-frikkin’-to.”
     
    “Yep, you too,” I groaned.
     
    “Aw, grow up, willya?” Lee snapped. “What are you proving, now, anyway? That you’re not ruled by your Johnson? Stipulated. That you can live without a relationship? Hell, anybody can. it’s just that most people don’t know it. So, what?”
     
    “What happened to ‘just one word’?” I fumed.
     
    “That was my opening argument,” he said. “This is the evidence portion.”
     
    “If your opening in court were ever that succinct, somebody would have to give the judge oxygen,” I snorted. “Why aren’t you talking about the game?”
     
    “Respect for the dead,” he grinned evilly. “They buried the Twins in the infield, after.”
     
    He killed the final two fingers of beer and signaled the waiter for two more.
     
    “Besides,” he chuckled, “this is more fun.”
     
    “Well, then,” I yawned, “I’ll enter a plea. I’m going to try it again.”
     
    “Wonderful!” Lee barked, smacking the table and scaring the hell out of our waiter. “I got just the girl for ya!”
     
    “Good Christ,” I moaned. “Here we go.”
     
    “What?” he said innocently. “She’s single, gorgeous, and has had a little thing for you for years.”
     
    “Single Single?” I asked. “Or Single Divorced?”
     
    “Single Single,” he shot back.
     
    “Oooh, I’m sorry,” I shrugged. “The judges say she’s too young.”
     
    “Huh?” Lee sputtered, “whaddaya mean, ‘too young’?”
     
    “I mean,” I began, “if she’s single/never-married and gorgeous, then she’s waaay too young for me because the only two kinds of women who reach my age range unhitched are either lesbians or bitches. If she’s a lesbian, she’s not interested in me. If she’s a bitch, I’m not interested in her.”
     
    “What, for the love of God, is wrong with ‘young’?” Lee asked, stunned. “Jeez, ‘too young’. That’s like saying you’ve got too much money.”
     
    “What’s wrong with ‘young’ is that I’m not,” I replied. “I’m 50. I’m content to be 50. Any young woman who is totin’ around a thing for a 50-year-old guy is working out unresolved issues with her father. Period.”
     
    “Whoa, whoa! No ‘period’,” Lee shot back. “She isn’t that young and I know her dad. He’s a great guy.”
     
    “How old?” I asked.
     
    “Jeez,” he muttered, “I dunno.”
     
    “She work