Hardy 05 - Mercy Rule, The

by John Lescroart

  The Mercy Rule

  Dismas Hardy 05

  by

  J o h n L e s c r o a r t

  "Suffering is a fact of life; suffering is caused by attachment."

  —The First and Second Noble Truths of Buddhism

  Prologue

  The past kept unraveling, tangled in an endless present. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the open window, warming the skin of the old man’s face, throwing into bright relief the two-day gray stubble. Salvatore Russo reclined in an ancient Barcalounger that he’d pulled over to catch the rays. God knows, balmy weather was rare enough in San Francisco. You took it when you could.

  He had his eyes closed, remembering another sun-dappled day. But to Sal it didn’t feel as though he were remembering it. It was more immediate than that. He was living that long-ago moment all over again.

  Helen Raessler was nineteen and the light shone off her honey-colored hair. She was lying on her back on the sand in a dune at Ocean Beach. Even now he could feel the warm sand. They were sheltered by the contours of the land, by the surrounding sedge.

  In spite of the difference in their backgrounds Sal knew that Helen loved him. She loved his big hands — already heavily calloused from work and from baseball — and his thick hair and powerful chest. He was twenty-five.

  No, he is twenty-five.

  He pulls away from their kiss so that he can see her perfect face. He traces the line of her jaw with his workman’s hand and she takes it and brings it down over her sweater to her breast. They’ve been seeing each other for a little more than a month, and the heat between them has scared him. He’s been afraid to push her, physically, in any way. They haven’t done even this yet.

  They are kissing again and a sound escapes her throat. It is hunger. He can feel the swollen nipple under the fabric, of the sweater. He realizes that she has purposely worn no bra. A gull screeches high overhead, the waves pound off in the distance over the dunes, the sun is hot on him.

  And then his shirt is open and her smooth hand is under it, pinching at his nipple, drawing her nails down his side, his belly. He pulls away again to see her.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll stop.’

  ‘No.’

  His hand has found her and she nods.

  Hurry. She pulls at his belt and gets it undone.

  She wears only a short skirt and it is up near her waist now and he is on top of her, her panties moved to one side.

  She arches once into him. There is a moment of resistance, but she pushes violently then — once — with a small cry, and he is in her and she sets him, and the world explodes in sensation.

  Opening his eyes, he looked down, surprised and absurdly pleased with his erection.

  Well, what do you know? he thought. Ain’t dead yet.

  But the thought, as they all seemed, to, fled. As did the tumescence. His headache returned—the sharp, blinding pain. Frowning, he brought his hands to his temples and pressed with all his might.

  There. Better. But, Lord, he could certainly do without that.

  He looked around. The room was furnished in Salvation Army. Sal’s lounger had bad springs and canted slightly to one side, but it was comfortable enough. Over the sagging green couch hung a piece of plywood upon which, sixteen years ago, Sal had watercolored his old fishing boat, the Signing Bonus. The grain of the wood showed through the faded paint, but in the right light — now, for instance —he could make out what he’d done.

  There was a coffee table in front of the couch and a couple of pine end-tables, scarred with cigarette burns and water stains, on either side of it. The wall-to-wall carpeting was worn to its threads.

  But Sal didn’t need much, and he had more than most of the other people who lived in this building. A corner that got some sun. The place was small, okay, but had three legitimate rooms, this one and the kitchen and bedroom, plus its own bathroom. What the hell more did anybody need?

  There was still most of a bottle of Old Crow next to a half-filled tumbler on the low table and Sal leaned forward, picked up the glass, and smelled to see what was in it. He didn’t remember pouring any of the booze, but that’s what it was, all right. He drank it off, a mouthful.

  Something was nagging at him. What day was it? He ought to get up, check the calendar in the kitchen. He was supposed to be somewhere, but damned if he could remember.

  He closed his eyes again. The sun.

  On his face, making him squint against it. He’s on the third-base side, a weekend day game at Candlestick, and everybody’s shocked it’s so nice out. Where s the wind? The whole family s down on the field — Helen’s holding his hand and smiling, proud of their oldest, Graham, out in the middle of the diamond now, by the mound, getting his fifty-dollar U.S. savings bond for winning his age in the finals of the city’s hit-and-throw contest. Kid’s only eight and hits a hardball a hundred and fifty feet off a tee.

  He s gonna be another DiMag — you wait and see.

  Six-year-old Deb holds her mom’s other hand and, embarrassed at being out in front of thirty thousand fans, holds on to her old man’s leg at the same time. Her little brother, Georgie, begs himself a shoulder ride and now bounces up there, bumping his heels against his dad’s chest, holds on to his hair with both hands, pulling. But it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts.

  Sal’s got Helen and he’s got the kids. His own boat. He’s his own boss. The sun is shining on him.

  But it’s gotten cold. He should get up. Dusk was coming on and where’s the day gone?

  He walked over to the window and pulled it down against the breeze, sharp now. He could see the fog curling around Twin Peaks.

  Straightening up, he stopped still, his head cocked to one side. ‘God damn it!’ He yelled it aloud and raced into the kitchen. The day was circled on his calendar. Friday!

  Friday, you fool, he told himself. Business day. Customer day. Make-your-rent day. Keep your life together the one day you’ve got to!

  ‘No, no, no!’ Yelling at himself, stomping on the floor, furious. He swore again, violently, then kicked at the chair near the table, but it just sat there, obstinate. So he grabbed the back of it and sent it flying across the room, where it slammed into the cabinets, cutting new gouges into the pitted wood.

  He left the chair where it was on the floor, then stood a long moment, forcing himself to calm down, to think.

  This was one of the signs, wasn’t it? He’d warned himself to be sure to recognize them when they got here, and now he wasn’t going to go denying them. His mind was going to leave him someday — inevitably — and in the lucid moments he was clear on his strategy. He wasn’t going to go out mumbling with shit in his diapers. He was going to die like a man.

  He had the syringes, the morphine. He still knew where they were. Thank God for Graham — his one good son. The one good thing, when he looked back over it all.

  He would call Graham. That’s what he’d do.

  He walked back through the living room. How had the window gotten closed? He was sure he’d been sitting in the chair and then he’d remembered it was Friday and he’d gone into the kitchen…

  All right. The syringe. He remembered. He could still remember, God damn it.

  But then he saw his watercolor and stopped again, lost in the lines he’d painted so long ago, trying to render his old boat. A foghorn sounded and he stared at the window again — the closed window. He stood in the center of the room, unmoving. He had been going somewhere specific. It would come to him.

  Another minute, standing there, trying to remember. And another blinding stab of pain in his head.

  Tears ran down his face.

  The vials — the supply of morphine — were in the medicine cabinet
with a couple of syringes, and he took the stuff out and laid it on the dresser next to his bed.

  He went back to the kitchen. Somebody had knocked the chair over, but he’d get that in a minute. Or not. That wasn’t what he’d come in here for.

  He’d come in to check… something. Oh, there it was. The fluorescent orange sticker taped to the front of the refrigerator. Opening the freezer, he found the aluminum tube where he kept the doctor’s Do Not Resuscitate form. It was still inside the tube, where it should be, where the paramedics would look for it. The form told whoever found him to let him alone, don’t try to help him, don’t hook him up to any damn machines.

  He left the form in the freezer. In his bedroom again, he gathered the other paraphernalia and went back into the living room, where he laid it all out on the coffee table next to his bottle of Old Crow.

  The window drew him to it. The thin ribbon of light over the fog. He sat himself on the couch and poured himself another couple of fingers of bourbon for courage.

  He hadn’t heard any approaching footsteps out in the hallway, but now someone was knocking on his door.

  Suddenly he realized he must have called Graham after all. To save his life for this moment. It wasn’t time for him to die yet. It was close, maybe, but it wasn’t time.

  He had called Graham — he remembered now — and his boy had come and they would find some way to work it all out until it really was time.

  Dignity. That was all he wanted anymore. A little dignity. And perhaps a few more good days.

  He got up to answer the door.

  Part One

  1

  Dismas Hardy was enjoying a superb round of darts, closing in on what might become a personal best. He was in his office on a Monday morning, throwing his 20-gram hand-tooled, custom-flighted tungsten beauties. He called the game ‘20-down’ although it wasn’t any kind of sanctioned affair. It had begun as simple practice — once around and down the board from ‘20’ to bull’s-eye. He’d turned the practice rounds into a game against himself.

  His record was twenty-five throws. The best possible round was twenty-one, and now he was shooting at the ‘3’ with his nineteenth dart. A twenty-two was still possible. Beating twenty-five was going to be a lock, assuming his concentration didn’t get interrupted.

  On his desk the telephone buzzed.

  * * * * *

  He’d worked downtown at an office on Sutter Street for nearly six years. The rest of the building was home to David Freeman & Associates, a law firm specializing in plaintiff’s personal injury and criminal defense work. But Hardy wasn’t one of Freeman’s associates. Technically, he didn’t work for Freeman at all, although lately almost all of his billable hours had come from a client his landlord had farmed out to him.

  Hardy occupied the only office on the top floor of the building. Both literally and figuratively he was on his own.

  He held on to his dart and threw an evil eye at the telephone behind him, which buzzed again. To throw now would be to miss. He sat back on the desk, punched a button. ‘Yo.’

  Freeman’s receptionist, Phyllis, had grown to tolerate, perhaps even like, Hardy, although it was plain that she disapproved of his casual attitude. This was a law firm. Lawyers should answer their phone crisply, with authority and dignity. They shouldn’t just pick up and say, ‘Yo.’

  He took an instant’s pleasure in her sigh. She lowered her voice. ‘There’s a man down here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment.’ It was the same tone she would have used if the guest had stepped in something on the sidewalk. ‘He says he knows you from’ — a pause while she sought a suitable euphemism. She finally failed and had to come out with the hated truth — ‘your bar. His name is Graham Russo.’

  Hardy knew half a dozen Russos — it was a common name in San Francisco — but hearing that Graham from the Little Shamrock was downstairs, presumably in need of a lawyer’s services, narrowed it down.

  Hardy glanced at his wall calendar. It was Monday, May 12. Sighing, he put his precious dart down on his desk and told Phyllis to send Mr Russo right on up.

  Hardy was standing at his door as Graham trudged up the stairs, a handsome, athletic young guy with the weight of this world on his shoulders. And at least one other world, Hardy knew, that had crashed and burned all around him.

  They had met when Graham showed up for a beer at the Shamrock. Over the course of the night Hardy, moonlighting behind the bar, found out a lot about him. Graham, too, was an attorney, although he wasn’t practicing right at the moment. The community had blackballed him.

  Hardy had had his own run-ins with the legal bureaucracy and knew how devastating the ostracism could be. Hell, even when you were solidly within it, the law life itself was so unrelentingly adversarial that the whole world sometimes took on a hostile aspect.

  So the two men had hit it off. Both men were estranged from the law in their own ways. Graham had stayed after last call, helped clean up. He was a sweet kid — maybe a little naive and idealistic, but his head seemed to be on straight. Hardy liked him.

  * * * * *

  Before the law Graham’s world had been baseball. An All-American center fielder at USF during the late eighties, he’d batted .373 and had been drafted in the sixth round by the Dodgers. He then played two years in the minor leagues, making it to Double-A San Antonio before he’d fouled a ball into his own left eye. That injury had hospitalized him for three weeks, and when he got out, his vision didn’t come with him. And so with a lifetime pro average of .327, well on the way to the bigs, he’d had to give it all up.

  Rootless and disheartened, he had enrolled in law school at Boalt Hall in Berkeley. Graduating at the top of his class, he beat out intense competition and got hired for a one-year term as a clerk with the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. But he only stayed six months.

  In early 1994 — the year of the baseball strike — about two months after he passed the bar, he quit. He wanted, after all, to play baseball. So he went to Vero Beach, Florida, to try out as a replacement player for the Dodgers. And he made the team.

  At the Shamrock he’d made it clear to Hardy that he’d never have played as a scab. All along, all he’d wanted out of the deal was for the Dodgers to take another look at him. The fuzziness had disappeared from his vision; he was still in great shape. He thought he could shine in spring training, get cut as a replacement when they all did, but at least have a shot at the minors again.

  And that’s what happened. He started the ‘94 season with the Albuquerque Dukes, Triple A, farther along the path to the major leagues than he’d been seven years earlier.

  But he couldn’t find the damn curveball and the new shot at his baseball career, upon which he’d risked everything, lasted only six weeks. His average was .192 when he got cut outright. He hadn’t had a hit in his last seven games. Hell, he told Hardy, he would have cut himself.

  Graham had a lumberjack’s shoulders and the long legs of a high hurdler. Under a wave of golden hair his square-jawed face was clean shaven. Today he wore a gray-blue sport coat over a royal-blue dress shirt, stonewashed jeans, cowboy boots.

  He was leaning forward on the front of the upholstered chair in front of Hardy’s desk, elbows on his knees. Hardy noticed the hands clasped in front of him — the kind of hands that, when he got older, people would call gnarled — workingman’s hands, huge and somehow expressive.

  Graham essayed a smile. ‘I don’t even know why I’m here, tell you the truth.’

  Hardy’s face creased. ‘I often feel the same way myself.’ He was sitting on the corner of his desk. ‘Your dad?’

  Graham nodded.

  * * * * *

  Salvatore Russo — Herb Caen’s column had dubbed him Salmon Sal and the name had stuck — was recent news. Despondent over poor health, his aging body, and financial ruin, Sal had apparently killed himself last Friday by having a few cocktails, then injecting himself with morphine. He’d left a Do Not Resuscitate form for the paramedics, but he w
as already dead when they’d arrived.

  To the public at large Sal was mostly unknown. But he was well known in San Francisco’s legal community. Every Friday Sal would make the rounds of the city’s law workshops in an old Ford pickup. Behind the Hall of Justice, where Hardy would see him, he’d park by the hydrant and sell salmon, abalone, sturgeon, caviar, and any other produce of the sea he happened to get his hands on. His customers included cops, federal, municipal, and superior-court judges, attorneys, federal marshals, sheriffs, and the staffs at both halls — Justice and City — and at the federal courthouse.

  The truck appeared only one day a week, but since Sal’s seafood was always fresher and a lot cheaper than at the markets, he apparently made enough to survive, notwithstanding the fact that he did it all illegally.

  His salmon had their tails clipped, which meant they had been caught for sport and couldn’t be sold. Abalone was the same story; private parties taking abalone for commercial sale had been outlawed for years. His winter-run chinooks had probably been harvested by Native Americans using gill nets. And yet year after year this stuff would appear in Sal’s truckbed.

  Salmon Sal had no retail license, but it didn’t matter because he was connected. His childhood pals knew him from the days when Fisherman’s Wharf was a place where men went down to the sea in boats. Now these boys were judges and police lieutenants and heads of departments. They were not going to bust him.

  Sal might live on the edge of the law, but the establishment considered him one of the good guys — a character in his yellow scarves and hip boots, the unlit stogie chomped down to its last inch, the gallon bottles from which he dispensed red and white plonk in Dixie cups along with a steady stream of the most politically incorrect jokes to be found in San Francisco.

  The day Hardy had met Sal, over a decade ago, he’d been with Abe Glitsky. Glitsky was half black and half Jewish and every inch of him scary looking — a hatchet face and a glowing scar through his lips, top to bottom. Sal had seen him, raised his voice. ‘Hey, Abe, there’s this black guy and this Jew sitting on the top of this building and they both fall off at the same time. Which one hits the ground first?’