Kindness Goes Unpunished

by Craig Johnson

  “Osgood didn’t want to pay for the drugs?”

  “That was Diaz’s story, but since he is from El Salvador, and a four-time loser on assorted drug charges, his statements were taken with the proverbial grain of judicial salt.”

  “Where is Toy Diaz?”

  “Good question.”

  “What’d Devon Conliffe say?”

  Gowder laughed. “He said whatever Osgood said, and whenever Oz’s story changed, he said that, too.”

  Katz studied me. I glanced up and watched the lights of Penn’s Landing reflect from his glasses. “So, Osgood was suspended?”

  It was quiet in the Crown Vic as we took the off-ramp just past the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. “Yes, but he has a lot of friends in the city.” There was a moment’s pause as we stopped at a red light. “I assume we’re taking you to your daughter’s place, but if you need to go to the hospital we can drop you there.”

  “Actually, as much as I’d rather go to the hospital, I need to go to a gun shop up on Spring Garden.”

  They were both looking at me now.

  When we got to Tactical Training Specialists, I had Gowder pull into the secured and packed parking lot and waited as he released the locks. There were no handles on the inside, so I waited for them to let me out. “Graterford.”

  Gowder was looking at me, and it was a relief to see his entire face. “What?”

  “It might be nothing, but there was a pro bono case that Cady was working on when we went through the papers at her office; something about Graterford. A white Indian.” I thought about it for a moment. “William White Eyes.”

  They both looked at me blankly, Gowder cocking his head in disbelief. “A white Indian?”

  “I’ve been told that it’s not that unusual.”

  “By who?”

  I folded my hands in my lap. “This guy White Eyes was trying to arrange for a sweat lodge in Graterford through the freedom of religious expression legislation. It was a pro bono case Cady had worked on, the only criminal case I could find.”

  Katz shook his head. “There are four thousand guys up in Graterford…”

  “It could be nothing, but I thought I should mention it.”

  “William White Eyes?” I nodded. Katz wrote the name in a small note pad. “We’ll check it out.”

  I stepped out, and Katz closed my door. “Thank you.”

  “Hey, you’re doing us a favor.” He noticed the bright yellow Hummer parked alongside the building. “Want company?”

  I looked back, thought about what Gowder had intimated about Lena Moretti, and looked at Katz with new eyes. “No, I think I’ll get better responses in my official unofficial capacity.”

  Gowder’s voice caught me as I approached the wire-mesh, steel security door. “Hey, Sheriff?” I stopped and half-turned to look at the detective, still seated in the cruiser. “Is that a government-issue Colt .45 I see in a pancake holster at the small of your back?”

  I stood there for a moment. “Why? Does it make me look fat?”

  The party was in full swing. I was in a side hallway with Jimmie Tomko, and I could hear music playing and the excited sound of young people’s voices, younger than me at least. I held up a finger, pulled out Cady’s cell phone, and called Lena. She said there was no change but that she wanted dinner at the end of her shift. I told her it was still her pick and that Henry had promised to be there in an hour. I told her I’d met Vic the Father, and she said she was sorry. I left out the part about who had introduced us.

  I’ve spent a lot of time in gun ranges but never one like this. The entire shooters’ area was carpeted, and the walls were paneled with black walnut and decorated with green-matted Currier and Ives hunting scenes illuminated by turtleshell sconces. There was a bar, but all I saw were water bottles and nonalcoholic beer. The back wall was lined with tufted leather sectionals that gave spectators an unobstructed view of the seven firing ranges in front of them.

  The place was crowded, and I stepped back as a diminutive blonde with a 9 mm Beretta approached. I looked at the congestion and then at Tomko. “Are they all lawyers?” He nodded, the glass eye drifting off. “Good time to spray for ’em.”

  I tried to find a familiar face, finally recognizing a striking, dark-haired woman at the bar. As the blonde half-pointed the Beretta at our feet, I released Jimmie Tomko to his appointed rounds. “Greta, you need to not point the weapon toward…”

  I turned sideways and made my way past the staging table, all the while trying to spot someone who could be Vince Osgood. They were an attractive crowd, well-dressed and coiffed, but they were lawyers, not paupers, so it was to be expected.

  There was a tall man holding forth at the center firing range, his voice probably sounding normal to his muffed ears and in competition to the hip-hop music. There was a small man standing with him, and I was starting to think it odd that no one was firing when the blonde who had aimed at my feet let rip with a scattered salvo, only two rounds out of fourteen striking the paper silhouette. Jimmie Tomko raised an eyebrow at me; just in case, I kept my front toward the range to keep from being shot.

  I watched as the short Latino peeled away from the tall guy so that he would intersect with me about halfway across the crowded floor. I tried to step to one side, but he countered, and we were nose to sternum. I nodded an apology and stepped to the right, just as he did. I was struck by the precision of his appearance, how defined his hair and clothes seemed. As he looked up, I noticed that his pupils were very large and that they gave his face a lifeless quality.

  His voice was soft and cultured. “Pardon.”

  “No, my fault.” He slipped to the side before I could continue the conversation and watched me as I made my way across the room.

  Joanne Fitzpatrick’s eyes locked with mine as I lumbered up to her. “Hey, Jo.” I looked around for effect. “What’re you doing here?”

  She smiled. “I thought you would be happy to see a friendly face.”

  She didn’t have one of the cases that most of people in the room carried. “You don’t shoot?”

  “No.”

  “Me either.” She laughed, and the smile was an exact replica of the one that was in the horseback photo in Cady’s office. I took one of the bottled waters from the bar and glanced back over my shoulder, but the tiny man was gone. “Do you know that guy I was just dancing with?”

  “Who?”

  “The little guy?”

  “No.”

  I nodded my head at the tall man at center. “Is that Osgood?” She nodded slightly. “He doesn’t seem real broke up about his buddy Devon.”

  She leaned in. “No, he doesn’t.”

  About that time, Osgood unloaded his 9 mm into the paper target at the center of the firing range. The kid was pretty good. There was a smattering of applause as he turned and took a perfunctory bow, taking just an extra moment to glance at me.

  I turned back to Jo. “C’mon, I’ll teach you how to shoot.”

  Tomko handed me a tray with a box of .45 ACPs and a questioning look until I patted the small of my back. By the time I made my way to the other side of the room, Osgood was openly watching me. I gave him a tight-lipped smile and a nod, but he didn’t respond.

  I set Jo up at range 7 along the wall in hopes that numerology would be on our side. “I’ve never done this before.”

  I unsnapped the thumb strap from the Colt at my back, pulled it, and placed it on the counter with the slide group locked in the open position and the magazine removed. “That’s what they all say.” I palmed the seven-shot clip in my hand, dropped it to my side, and told her to pick up the .45.

  “It looks old.”

  “Older than you.” After getting her acquainted with the particularities of the weapon, she adopted a wide stance with her arms extended; we both now wore the hearing protectors that had been hanging in the stall.

  She squeezed the trigger as instructed, and the big Colt jumped in her hands; it was pointed at the ceiling, but I ca
ught her shoulder. She peered at the paper target but could see no effect, unaware that the gun hadn’t fired. I pulled one of her ear cups back. “You flinched.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  I cocked the empty .45. “Try it again, but make sure you keep your eyes open this time.” I put her ear cup back, and she imitated the exact same motion, but this time the automatic stayed steady.

  She turned and looked at me. “It didn’t fire.”

  “It didn’t last time, either.” I showed her the clip in my hand. “The involuntary response is pretty common. You think the gun’s going to jump, so you make it jump.” I took the Colt, popped the mag into place, cocked the slide, and placed her hands around the gun, aimed toward the target. “Don’t worry about blinking; a lot of people do it.”

  She spoke out of the side of her mouth. “Do you?”

  I looked at the target. “No.”

  She doubled her attentions on the silhouette and squeezed, all her efforts going into not blinking. The .45 blew her back and, from her expression, there was no doubt in her mind that it had fired this time. We both peered at the target; there was a perforation at his left kidney on the line between the four and five score. “Much better.”

  She smiled and pulled the ear cup back again. “Do they all kick like that?”

  I smiled back. “No. This one’s just an antique, heavy, hard to aim, slow rate of fire…” Her smile faded quickly as she looked over my right shoulder, past the barrier, and I figured I had accomplished what I’d set out to do.

  She handed me the automatic and pulled her ear protectors all the way off. “Hello, Oz.”

  I didn’t turn but lowered the hammer on the Colt and pushed the safety. His voice wasn’t what I’d expected; it was higher-pitched and discordant.

  “I thought I’d come over here and see who was shooting the howitzer.” It was silent, except for the music and a few conversations that were still going on a little ways away. “Who’s your friend?”

  Her face remained still. “This is Walt Longmire, Cady’s father.”

  “Oh, my God.” He was as tall as me, mid-thirties, with an athletic build, a receding hairline, and the ubiquitous goatee. “I am so sorry about your daughter.”

  I placed the Colt on the counter. “Thank you.”

  He switched the Glock to his other hand, and I noticed the clip was in and the safety was off. He extended his right. “Vince Osgood. They call me Oz.” I nodded, and he continued. “I was a friend of Cady’s.”

  I noticed he used the past tense, which made me want to grab his throat. “You were also a friend of Devon Conliffe?”

  His eyes were steady. “I was…Did you know Devon?”

  I pointed at the Glock in his left hand. “Would you mind securing that weapon before we talk?”

  He froze up for a second. “It’s got a safe-action feature…”

  I did my best ol’ boy routine. “I’m just a little nervous around unsecured firearms.”

  He reached down and pushed the button, the image of allocated grace. “Sure. I’m around these things so much that they just become second nature.”

  “I was able to meet Devon just before the accident.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that.” He leaned against the stall, and I could smell his aftershave. “You and I should talk.”

  I nodded and glanced at Joanne. “I agree. You might be in a position to give me a better insight as to what’s going on.”

  He puckered his lips and looked down at his four-hundred-dollar shoes, the picture of the all-knowing assistant DA, if suspended, there to assist his rustic cousin. “I think I can do that.” His head came back up. “Where will you be later tonight?”

  I thought about Lena. “I’ve got a dinner date this evening, but I could meet you after for a beer. You know a place called Paddy O’Neil’s on Race?”

  He watched me for just a second too long. “Near the bridge?”

  I pulled out my pocket watch. “Ten-thirty?” He nodded, and I gestured toward the Glock 34. “You’re pretty good with that thing.”

  “Goes with the job.”

  I wondered about lawyering in Philadelphia and picked up my Colt. “You gonna shoot again?”

  “Oh, yeah, how about you?”

  I let him watch as I reloaded and replaced the .45 in the pancake holster at my back. “No, thanks.”

  He smiled and bobbed his head. “I guess you’re pretty good, too, huh?”

  Good enough to know I was cocked and locked with a full clip and one in the pipe; good enough to know he was empty.

  9

  “Alphonse, if you don’t turn the tourist music down, we’re going somewhere else.”

  The restaurant had been closed, but Lena had unlocked and marched through the back door as if she owned the place. She deposited me in a small booth by the kitchen and called up the steps to Alphonse, threatening him with brimstone if he didn’t come down and fix us dinner.

  Alphonse, the uncle, was Victor Moretti’s brother, and his restaurant was quintessential Italian Market, from the red-and-white-checkered tablecloths to the battered, raffia-covered Chianti bottle with a tapered candle flickering in its throat. The booths were high-backed and worn, with the many layers of varnish making their surfaces glisten, but it was Alphonse who made Alphonse’s. Alphonse Moretti must have weighed as much as I did, no mean feat since he only stood about five foot six.

  “You want me to create, I have to have music.” He blew through the kitchen door with a fresh bottle of wine and an assortment of water glasses, pulled the cork with his hands, and slid onto the bench with me, singing along with Frank Sinatra in a soulful duet of “The Lady Is a Tramp.” He wore glasses but, like everything else on his face, they looked as if they were being swallowed by flesh. The only part that seemed up to the fight was his mustache, a salt and pepper affair that drooped past the corners of his mouth. It would have looked dour on any other man, but it gave Alphonse the look of a painter who had stuffed a brush in his mouth and had forgotten about it. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Lena rested her chin in the palm of her hand and looked at him. “Alphonse…”

  He poured the wine into the water glasses and slid one toward me. “A race of principessas, not like us peasants.” Lena slouched against the wooden back of the booth and looked at me; I was sure this was a repeat performance. “You know the island of Capri?” He extended a chubby finger toward Lena and spilled a little wine on the table. “This one, she will tell you she is from Positano, but this is not true.”

  She picked up her glass and retreated from the candlelight. “Al, you don’t have any wine glasses?”

  He gestured toward her again. “You see—principessa.”

  “Al…”

  “Un pezzo di cielo caduto in terra they call it; a piece of heaven fallen to earth. They say Lucifer stole the place and brought it to Italy, and if you want to know about beautiful women, you ask the devil.” Lena blew air from her lips in dismissal. He continued. “You know Tiberius, the emperor that threw people off cliffs?” I nodded. “He had palaces built across the entire island, even moving the imperial capital to Capri.”

  Her voice was soft. “Jesus, Al…”

  He crossed himself. “She is a bad woman, but so delicious.” I felt Lena kick at him under the table. “Tiberius has all these palaces scattered across Capri, now he needs women with whom to debauch. The word goes out across the empire that all the most voluptuous and desirable women should be brought from all Italy. Villa Jovis is the palace of palaces, so it must have the woman of all women. Tiberius has all the principessas brought to the palace and disrobed, one by one.” He gestured toward Lena. “This one’s ancestor, Dona Allora, is last, and when she drops her robe, the court is silent. They have never seen a woman until they have seen this woman. The emperor must have her at once, so he takes her on the floor of the palace with the entire court in attendance.”

  In the silence, I thought I should say something. “Roman
tic devil.”

  Lena shook her head. “Bullshit.”

  “Allora had her revenge.” Alphonse took a drink of his wine. “They say Tiberius was suffocated by a rival, but…” He pointed the sausage-like finger at Lena. “You cannot love a women as beautiful as this; she will twist your heart.”

  “I wish I could twist hearts the way you twist the truth.”

  He was looking at me. “I chased after this woman for three months before she took my ugly brother who is not as smart as me.” He touched my arm to make sure he had my full attention. “This one’s daughter, the Terror, works for you?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “When she was a teenager, she used to lifeguard at the pool on Christian Street…”

  “Alphonse…” Lena’s voice carried more than a little warning.

  He ignored her and continued. “The Terror, she used to wear this black, one-piece bathing suit, a white blouse tied at the waist and little sandals with flowers between the toes…”

  “Al…”

  “In the summer, the men of Christian Street always found a reason to be out on the stoop at ten in the morning to watch her go by.”

  “Al…”

  “Fourteen years old, and she is cussing them like a sailor.”

  I took a sip of my own wine as Lena spoke. “If you’re through with your stories, we’re starving.”

  He looked at me. “You see…Principessa.”

  She leaned forward. “What are we having?”

  He raised his hands with a flourish. “Pizza Rustica Alphonse.”

  Lena clapped her hands. “My favorite!”

  He downed the rest of his wine, set the glass back on the table with more flourish, and stood. “I stole the recipe from Termini, but he is not here…” He disappeared through the kitchen doors, singing “One for My Baby” just under Frank.

  I raised my glass, and she touched the rim with hers. “Here’s to the lady’s revenge and sandals with little flowers between the toes.” She smiled and drank. I motioned toward the kitchen where Alphonse was overpowering Sinatra. “He’s quite a character.”