I KNOW DECK'S HAVING A HARD TIME CON-trolling his excitement these days. The idea of having his own office and keeping half the fees without the benefit of a law license is terribly thrilling. If I stay out of his way, he'll have the offices in top shape within a week. I've never seen such energy. Maybe he's a little too gung-ho, but I'll give him a break.

However, when the phone rings for the second straight morning before the sun is up, and I hear his voice, it's difficult to be nice.

"Have you seen the paper?" he asks, quite chipper.

"I was sleeping."

"Sorry. You won't believe it. Bruiser and Prince are all over the front page."

"Couldn't this wait for an hour or so, Deck?" I ask. I'm determined to stop this rude habit of his right now. "If you want to wake up at four, then fine. But don't call me until seven, no, make it eight."

"Sorry. But there's more."

"What?"

"Guess who died last night?"

Now, how in hell am I supposed to know who, in all of Memphis, died last night? "I give up," I snap at the phone.

"Harvey Hale."

"Harvey Hale!"

"Yep. Croaked with a heart attack. Fell dead by his swimming pool."

"Judge Hale?"

"That's the one. Your buddy."

I sit on the edge of my bed and try to shake the fuzz from my brain. "That's hard to believe."

"Yeah, I can tell you're really distraught. There's a nice story about him on the front page, Metro, big photo, all suited up in a black robe, real distinguished. What a prick."

"How old was he?" I ask, as if it matters.

"Sixty-two. On the bench for eleven years. Quite a pedigree. It's all in the paper. You need to see it."

"Yeah, I'll do that, Deck. See you later."

THE PAPER seems a bit heavier this morning, and I'm sure it's because at least half of it is dedicated to the exploits of Bruiser Stone and Prince Thomas. One story follows the next. They have not been seen.

I skim the front section and go to Metro, where I'm greeted with a very dated photo of the Honorable Harvey Hale. I read the sad reflections of his colleagues, including his friend and old roommate, Leo F. Drummond.

Of particular importance is speculation as to who might replace him. The governor will appoint a successor who'll serve until the next regular election. The county is half black and half white, but only seven of the nineteen circuit court judges are black. Some people are not pleased with these numbers. Last year, when an old white judge

retired, a strong effort was made to fill the vacancy with a black judge. It didn't happen.

Remarkably, the leading candidate last year was my new friend Tyrone Kipler, the Harvard-educated partner at Booker's firm who lectured us on constitutional law back when we were preparing for the bar exam. Though Judge Hale has been dead less than twelve hours, conventional wisdom, says the story, leans heavily toward Kipler as his replacement. The mayor of Memphis, who is black and vocal, is quoted as saying he and other leaders will push hard for Kipler's appointment.

The governor was out of town and unavailable for comment, but he's a Democrat and up for reelection next year. He'll fall in line this time.

AT NINE SHARP, I'm in the Circuit Clerk's office flipping through the Black versus Great Benefit file. I breathe a sigh of relief. His Honor Hale did not, prior to his untimely death, sign an order dismissing our case. We're still in the game.

There's a wreath on his courtroom door. How touching.

I call Tinley Britt from a pay phone, ask for Leo F. Drummond and am surprised to hear his voice after a few minutes. I express my sympathy for the loss of his friend, and I tell him my clients will not accept his offer to settle. He seems surprised, but has little to say. Bless his heart, he has a lot on his mind right now.

"I think that's a mistake, Rudy," he says patiently, as if he's really on my side.

"It may be, but my clients made the decision, not me."

"Oh well, then it'll be war," he says in a sad monotone. He does not offer more money.

BOOKER AND I have talked twice on the phone since we received the results of the bar exam. As expected, he's

downplaying it as a very minor and very temporary setback. As expected, he was genuinely happy for me.

He's already seated in the rear of the small diner when I enter. We greet each other as if it's been months. We order tea and gumbo without looking at the menus. Kids are fine. Charlene is wonderful.

He's buoyed by the possibility that he may pass the bar anyway. I didn't realize how close he'd come, but his overall score was only one point below the passing mark. He has appealed, and the Board of Law Examiners is reviewing his exam.

Marvin Shankle took the news of his failure hard. He'd better pass it the next time, or the firm will have to replace him. Booker can't hide the stress when he talks about Shankle.

"How's Tyrone Kipler?" I ask.

Booker thinks the appointment is in the bag. Kipler talked to the governor this morning, everything's falling into place. The only snag could be financial. As a partner in the Shankle firm, he earns between a hundred and twenty-five and a hundred and fifty thousand a year. The judge's salary is only ninety thousand. Kipler has a wife and kids, but Marvin Shankle wants him on the bench.

Booker remembers the Black case. In fact, he remembers Dot and Buddy from our first meeting at the Cypress Gardens Senior Citizens Building. I bring him up-to-date on the case. He laughs out loud when I tell him it's now sitting in Circuit Court Division Eight, just waiting for a judge to assume responsibility for it. I recount for Booker my experience in the chambers of the late Judge Hale, just three days ago, and how I was kicked back and forth by the former Yale roommates Drummond and Hale. Booker listens closely as I talk of Donny Ray and his twin and the transplant that didn't happen because of Great Benefit.

He listens with a smile. "No problem," he says more than once. "If Tyrone gets the appointment, he'll know all about the Black case."

"So you can talk to him?"

"Talk to him? I'll preach to him. He can't stand Trent & Brent, and he hates insurance companies, sues them all the time. Who do you think they prey on? Middle-class whites?"

"Everybody."

"You're right. I'll be happy to talk to Tyrone. And he'll listen."

The gumbo arrives and we add Tabasco, Booker more than I. I tell him about my new office, but not my new partner. He asks lots of questions about my old office. The entire city is buzzing over Bruiser and Prince.

I tell him everything I know, with a few embellished details.