Thursday, June 4, 2009
by Miriam Clavir
The "R"s in my address book are off-limits, and I hope my friends ensconced there understand I won't be leafing through those pages. In November my chum Greg Richards died, and seeing Richards [crossed-through] still empties my gut. But the "P"s are different, I found out last week. When Sonny Parry was murdered Thursday, that cross-out tangoed. Not just Parry [crossed-through] but Parry [crossed-through] þ .
"Sunny" Parry clouded the Arts page in every goddam article. He reviewed a local poet's launch with, "I hate rhyming poetry, the mark of an amateur, and how this man was allowed past the open mic..." My courtroom crime novel got, "One lawyer I would never hire is author..."
I joined the killer's defense team pro bono. Walking into that first meeting, I could see that the others, all lawyers by the look of their fine grey suits, were there for the same reason. There was a certain gleam in the eyes, a hot tension in the air, a licking of lips.
"He's a cop who writes mysteries. Shot Parry with his service revolver. He's admitted everything." The chief counsel read from his notes. " 'Parry's review stated his police protagonist was unbelievable. That the author should talk to a real policeman.' You can imagine how that went down for our client at the station."
Revenge is a satisfying dish when its victim is cold. We got down to strategy, and the team coalesced. I had the last word, contributing our code name. "To paraphrase Agatha Christie," I said, "The acquittal will come through our Little Grey Cell."