“No thanks, Jumper.” I made to rise.
“Hey, hey, man.”
“What?”
“They say around here that you the kinda dude get a brother out of a jam.”
“I used to do that. Not anymore.”
“How much?” Jumper asked, ignoring my claim of retirement.
“Twenty thousand was my lowest fee.” That was a lie. No one had ever paid me that much. But I didn’t want to give Jumper false hope.
“Damn, man. All I got is the twenty dollars you payin’ me.”
“See you.”
“... WHY JUMPER WANT you to find me?” Roger asked, admitting that he was the man I was looking for.
“His lawyer, Matrice Johnson, is a friend of mine. Professional. She asked me to find somebody who could be a good character witness for Frankie, said that it might make a difference between three and seven years in the sentencing.”
“I haven’t seen Frankie in sixteen years, man. How’m I gonna be a character witness for somebody I don’t even know no more?”
“Well,” I said, “if you’re not willing to help a brother out . . .”
“He’s not my brother. And how the hell you even know how to find me?”
“Some girl,” I said.
“What girl?”
“A friend of Jumper’s—Georgiana Pineyman. She saw you come into Berg, Lewis & Takayama a few months ago but when she tried to get to you they turned her away at the front desk.”
“Well, you found me but I can’t give Jumper a reference. I can’t. I don’t even know him anymore.” Roger was feeling some relief. His language drifted back toward the semi-sophistication of an investment advisor.
“Okay. My job was to find you and ask for your help. That’s all.”
“So we finished?”
“Goodbye, Roger.”
Ê€„
6
Just a year and a half before I wouldn’t have had the slightest compunction at turning Roger’s name over to Ambrose Thurman.