“Barnwell’s a fine lawyer,” Magdalena said seriously. “But he’s got an unreliable client.”

“As opposed to a phone psychic?”

“Ouch,” said Manfred, smiling. “But I’ve heard much worse.” He thought, Barry, get out now! Now!

He didn’t know if Barry could pick up on Manfred’s particular thought pattern, but he did sense that Barry was on the move, and he saw a car pull out of the alley running behind the hotel. It turned left to drive west on Witch Light Road. That would take him to the nearest highway north, which would get him into Oklahoma in a few hours.

Manfred turned his attention back to the here and now. “I may be a phone psychic, among other things, but I don’t make false accusations against people to the police or the media,” he said.

“You’re saying Lewis Goldthorpe has slandered you?”

“I’m saying that he should remember that he lives in a glass house,” Manfred said, and he thought Magdalena was going to blow a fuse. “It may be in Bonnet Park, and I may live in Midnight.” He swept his hand around theatrically to indicate his surroundings. “He may be the son of a millionaire, and I may be the grandson of a great psychic.” (He owed his grandmother Xylda that, he figured.) “But when he makes statements that besmirch the memory of his mother, he has forfeited his right to my respect and consideration.”

That got their attention, and there was a lively back-and-forth between Manfred and “the media” until Magdalena shut it down with a graceful statement thanking them all for coming today. The little crowd dispersed, the fangbangers gathering to engage in a low-voiced conference, the reporters to straggle back to their vehicles and depart.

“That was a good idea,” Magdalena said. “I think. What made you so determined to do it?” He’d only been able to get her to agree to show up by telling her he’d do it without her. Instead of dropping him as a client, she’d figured being on television was not so bad.

“It was a diversion, plus I wanted to get up in Lewis’s face,” he said. “He’s tried to say I’m a thief. Well, maybe he’s a murderer. He needs to be worried about himself.”

“You baffle me,” she said, looking at her client with frustration all over her face. “And if you think I did this for free . . .”

“That never crossed my mind,” said Manfred honestly. “I expect your bill in the mail. Listen, as long as you’re here, would you like to have an early dinner at Home Cookin?”

The lawyer’s face was a picture of startled. She hesitated. “A regular gathering?” She was gauging the social texture of the meal. Manfred didn’t blame her.

“It’s almost always just us Midnight people,” he said. “But I’m giving Arthur a call.”