Marked Man

by William Lashner

  “Maybe I missed the meaning of immunity.”

  “We can’t countenance a crime.”

  “Remember what I said about there being no painting.”

  “And if we don’t agree?”

  “The story’s going to come out anyway, I’m going to see to that. My client’s truest ally all along has been the press, and we’re going to use it this one last time. So after the story comes out, either you’ll have cooperative witnesses that can pretty much make your case or everyone will know about the murderer you let go free because of your abiding love of the fine arts.”

  “I’M BRINGING him home, Lav,” I said into the phone.

  “You silly wabbit,” said Lavender Hill. “You silly, silly wabbit.”

  “I knew you’d be pleased. Did your client enjoy our visit?”

  “He was entranced.”

  “He’s going down.”

  “Not without a fight, I assure you.”

  “And you, Lav, are you his designated champion?”

  “All I am is a procurer.”

  “It’s good that you found your rightful place in the universe. So he’s got someone else to do the hard work, is that it?”

  “The way you run around like a fatted goose without its head, it will not be so hard. Is this still about that girl whose photograph you showed me?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Did you discover the truth?”

  “Yes I did, and let me assure you, he’s going down. What were your financial arrangements with your client?”

  “None of your sweet business, darling.”

  “I assume he paid you something up front, because an operative of your caliber doesn’t work on credit. But has he, as of yet, paid for the object in question?”

  “Arrangements have been made.”

  “Escrow?”

  “Not exactly. Why?”

  “What would happen if, as a condition of procuring this little doodle, I insisted it not go to your client in L.A.?”

  “Are the negotiations back on track?”

  “With my added condition.”

  “You are a font of surprises, aren’t you? I am not an idle man, Victor. I anticipated possible financial problems with my original client and I have made arrangements with other collectors whom I have worked for in the past.”

  “So even if the painting doesn’t go to L.A., payments would be forthcoming.”

  “That would be correct.”

  “Tell your other collectors to get out their checkbooks. Maybe we’ll open it up to bids, boost those commissions.”

  “What a delicious possibility.”

  “Be available.”

  “Oh, Victor, trust me on this, I will be more than available. But let me ask, are we getting a tad greedy, dear boy?”

  “Lav, let’s just say it’s about time I took the leap.”

  60

  “And what exactly do you want from me?” said Beth as we walked toward a small row house in an old neighborhood just off the Cobbs Creek Parkway in West Philly.

  “I need you to test the security arrangements put in place by McDeiss, maybe direct them away from where I intend to go.”

  “So I’ll be your decoy.”

  “Decoy is such a loaded term.”

  “Not as loaded as their guns will be.”

  “You can stay out of it if you want.”

  “No, Victor. Of course I want to help. It’s just that you studiously kept me out of everything involving the Kalakos case, including the boondoggle to L.A. that left you all fat and sunburned, and suddenly you want me to run around with a target on my back.”

  “I kept you out to protect you.”

  “And I feel so safe now as your decoy. When are you going?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay by your cell and be ready to ride when I call.”

  “Okay.”

  “You might have to rent a car. I’ll let you know the model as soon as I know.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re fabulous.”

  “I’m a fool.”

  “That, too. Do we have to stay long?”

  “No,” she said as we reached the right address. “Just go in, get a few congratulatory hurrahs, drink a beer or two.”

  “I hate these things.”

  “It was a big victory for Theresa. She got her daughter back in her life. Now she wants to celebrate and thank us.”

  “If it wasn’t for the honor, I’d just as soon drink alone.”

  We were heading up the stoop to Theresa Wellman’s new place. There was music coming through the open door, loud and rhythmic, there were people hanging out on the porch. We edged our way through the small crowd and inside.

  “Hello, both of you,” said an exuberant Theresa Wellman over the pounding of the music. She was wearing a print dress and a bit too much jewelry, and she had a drink in her hand. “Thank you so much for coming. You’re the heroes of the hour.”

  “Oh, we just put on the evidence,” said Beth. “The hero of the hour is you.”

  “Don’t be slighting yourselves. You saved my life, got me my girl back. Thank you. Both of you.”

  “What’s that you’re drinking?” I said.

  She looked down at the glass, back up at me. “Ginger ale. There’s more soda in the kitchen and a cooler of beer in the dining room. Loosen up, Victor. Why are you wearing a suit to a party anyway?”

  “I wear a suit to the beach,” I said.

  “We’ll find the cooler, Theresa,” said Beth. “Thanks.”

  “Victor, Beth. Really, I’m so glad you came. Thank you. For everything.”

  She gave Beth a hug, gave me a smile. Sometimes the job almost seems worth it. Maybe clerks at 7-Eleven get paid better, but no one hugs you when you get them that pack of cigarettes from behind the counter.

  It was a pretty loud and happening party. The music was ripe, there was laughter and dancing, women enough to loosen my tie. I pushed through a crowd to find the cooler. While I checked out the beers, picking out a Rolling Rock, Beth checked out the wainscoting.

  “Nice,” she said. “Maybe I should get some.”

  “I think wainscoting becomes you.”

  “I think so, too. And look at these floors.”

  “Yep, they’re floors, all right.”

  “No, the wood, the finish. I think the first thing after closing on my house I’ll get the floors done. Sand them smooth, lighten them up. Maybe a nice blond.”

  “Funny, I’m looking for the same thing. But I find this new-homeowner thing you have going on a bit disturbing.”

  “You’re just jealous that I’m joining a club you’re not a part of.”

  “The world is filled with clubs I’m not a part of. The homeowner club is the least of my worries.”

  “I’m just excited. It’s like I’m ready to open a new chapter in my life.”

  “We’ll entitle it ‘Thirty Years of Indebtedness for a Glimpse of Morning Light.’”

  “Can’t you be excited for me?”

  “Oh, I am. Really. Really.”

  “I want a soda,” said Beth.

  The kitchen was narrow and utilitarian but clean. Spacious and modern, would say Sheila the Realtor. Ergonomically laid out, but with an old-fashioned charm. Lined up on the small table were bottles of soda, bottles of liquor, a large ice bucket, highball glasses. Beth poured herself a diet soda. I took a long draft of my beer and looked around. People were crowding the doorway, leaning on the countertops. I wondered where all these people came from. Theresa Wellman seemed to have more friends than she let on in our discussions, but that’s the way of it, I suppose.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” said Beth. “I wonder how many bedrooms and baths this place has.”

  It’s a disease, I thought as I climbed the stairs behind Beth, this real-estate thing. Owning a house is worse than owning a boat. There’s always a boat out there that’s bigger and shinier and faster. There
’s always a house with more modern appliances. That’s why I rent, to stay out of the whole thing. And I was feeling both miserable and self-satisfied when I smelled it.

  Something burning, sweet and musty all at once, the scent of a college dorm on a Thursday night.

  “What’s that?” I said to Beth.

  “What?” she said.

  “That?”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Is it really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What should we do?”

  “As much as I’d like to flee, I don’t think we can.”

  “It’s not her, I’m sure of it,” said Beth.

  “As sure as her ginger ale was just a ginger ale?”

  “We can’t just snoop around, can we?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I think maybe we ought to look into the bedrooms just to satisfy our real-estate lust.”

  “That we can do,” said Beth.

  The scent grew stronger as we climbed the stairs. There were four doors on the upper hallway, all closed. One had a sign that said Bathroom. Beside the bathroom was another door. I looked around, leaned into the wood, heard nothing. I turned the knob, peeked in. Linen closet.

  “Nice storage space,” I said.

  “Oh, storage space is very important.”

  I leaned close to another door, listened in. There was a conversation going on, animated. An animated television conversation. I slowly twisted the knob, opened the door. No cloud of smoke billowed out. I peeked in, saw the television tuned in to some cartoon, and then the bed, and then, when I opened the door wider, a huge pair of pretty brown eyes.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hello,” said the girl.

  “You must be Belle,” I said.

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s on?”

  “Cartoon Network. Do you want to watch?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “As long as you don’t talk too much.”

  “I promise,” I said.

  “That’ll be a first,” said Beth.

  “I have an idea,” I said to Beth. “Why don’t you check out those other bedrooms and look for Theresa. I think maybe we ought to have a talk.”

  After Beth closed the door behind her, I turned to Belle and put out my hand.

  “I’m Victor,” I said.

  “Ssshhh.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Isn’t it fun how clever we lawyers can be, with our clever questions and our clever tricks? We use our cleverness to spin everything on its head for the benefit of our clients, and the clever lawyer on the other side does the same, and the judge, in the middle, simply makes the decision. It’s such a clever system, because it cleanses all responsibility from the participants. We are merely cogs in the great wheel of justice. Be as clever as you can and hope for the best, that’s the job description. And just then, sitting next to Belle, now in the custody and care of her mother, I felt oh, so clever.

  Two cartoon kids were being chased by some skeleton in a big black cape, and they were all singing a fun jazzy song. I had never seen it before. These are the kinds of things you miss when you don’t have cable, which was a shame, really. Although you also miss Pat Burrell swinging and missing at sliders down and away, so it evens out. I couldn’t tell if Belle was enjoying herself—she had the fixed, blank expression on her face of someone who was trying very hard not to cry. I wanted to ask her how long she’d been there, or if she missed her daddy, or what she thought about clever lawyers, but I had promised her I wouldn’t talk too much, and that was one promise I was going to keep.

  About ten minutes later, Beth opened the door. She had grown suddenly pale, her jaw was locked as if some sad specter had risen from the blond wooden floors, grabbed her arms, and shaken her until her faith came loose.

  “Do you know Bradley Hewitt’s telephone number?” she said.

  “I can get it.”

  “Then maybe you ought to give him a call.”

  61

  I took the expressway to I-95 and followed it south, through Chester, around Wilmington, continuing on the way to Baltimore and Washington, D.C. I kept careful watch on my rearview mirror and spotted nothing, which meant not a whole lot. It was becoming pretty damn clear that I had no idea for the life of me how to spot a tail.

  I sped up, slowed down, I pulled over and stopped, started again and wove my way through traffic. They were there, I had no doubt, Fred and thick little Louie, in their Impala or boxy Buick or two-tone Chevy with whitewall tires. They were there because I had told everyone and his brother that I was bringing Charlie home. They were there, but they were hidden from my gaze. Still I kept looking. Why? Because they would expect me to keep looking.

  I paid my toll into Maryland and kept on driving, south, south. Whatever I-95 is, it is not the scenic route. I jiggled around in my seat, fiddled with the radio. Sports talk, news, classic rock. What is up with classic rock? Get your own damn music, why don’t you? Oh, yeah, they did and they didn’t like it, so they come after ours. I jiggled some more in my seat, as if my bladder were bursting. Oh, good, a rest stop. I swerved right, cut off a van, and headed in.

  I slammed into a parking spot, hopped out, looked behind me a couple times as I hustled into the building. It had the usual crap: a Burger King, a Mrs. Fields Cookies, Pizza Hut Express, Popeye’s Fried Chicken, and then, to salve your conscience, a TCBY. Worth a visit all on its own, wouldn’t you say? But it also had Starbucks to keep you awake and a bathroom to pass all the coffee that was keeping you awake. I headed straight to the bathroom, to the left of the entrance. Looked around and then entered one of the stalls, second from the end. It was occupied.

  “Here you go, mate,” said Skink in a whisper as he handed me a set of blue overalls and a hat. He was wearing a suit exactly like mine, same tie and shoes.

  “You look good, Skink.”

  “You want me to dress like you again, you gots to start dressing better. Hurry.”

  “I sort of need to pee,” I said.

  “No time.”

  I tossed him my keys and started to climb into the overalls. “I’m parked third row back, right in front of the entrance.”

  “Swell.”

  “You don’t look anything like me.”

  “Can’t be helped. I’ll hang here for a bit and then put a hand to my face. By the time they cotton that I’m not you, you should be long gone.”

  “If my ride shows.”

  “That was up to you, mate.”

  “Be careful when you go out there. They won’t be so pleased to see you.”

  “They’s the ones ought to be careful. Out you go.”

  I tugged on the hat, shook my head a couple of times, and then settled into a bent slouch, like I’d been steering an eighteen-wheeler for twelve hours straight. I gave Skink a good-old-boy bang in the shoulder before I left the stall.

  Keeping the slouch, I looked around the bathroom as I rinsed my hands. One old guy stood at a urinal, a young kid was washing up. Nothing there to worry about. I grimaced into the mirror, set the hat just so, and headed out of the bathroom.

  The entrance I had come in was to the left, I darted right and ducked into a little shop selling candy and books. At the end of the shop was a door that led to the gas station. As soon as I stepped through the door, a white-and-green cab shot out of a parking spot and came right at me, swerving at the last second so that the front passenger door stopped right at my hip. I opened the door, looked in, and hesitated a moment before jumping inside. Off we went, hitting the northbound exit of the highway.

  “Why the hell is she here?” I said, thumbing toward the backseat.

  “The lady insisted on coming,” said Joey Pride.

  “We have to drop her somewhere.”

  “Don’t think she’ll be dropped.”

  “Monica,” I said angrily. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “You told me to meet Jo
ey,” she said.

  “And give him the message and then let him go off without you.”

  “That second part sort of slipped my mind.”

  “Monica.”

  “Charlie is going to tell you what he knows about my sister.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I need to be there. I told you I waited long enough for the truth.”

  “You couldn’t get rid of her, Joey?”

  “I had about as much success as you’re having. But it makes the view in my rearview a hell of a lot nicer, I’ll tell you that.”

  “And why are we in a cab? I told my father to tell you to borrow something different.”

  “I did. From my friend Hookie.”

  “But it’s still a cab.”

  “Not my cab. So where are we headed?”

  “To a morgue, most likely. This is a foul-up. This is a complete mess. Were you followed?”

  “Nope.”

  “You sure?”

  “I got the eyes of a falcon. We’re clean.”

  “For the time being. We’re not going to be able to get rid of you, Monica?”

  “No,” said Monica.

  “Crap. Okay, I have to make a call. Joey, keep going north until we reach 295 East, then go over the Delaware Memorial Bridge. We’re heading into the Garden State.”

  62

  We were traveling east, toward familiar turf. If all was going as planned, by now Skink would have led my tail through Baltimore and toward Washington, D.C. I figured two more thugs in the nation’s capital wouldn’t make much difference. Elect them to the Senate, turn them into whips, we might actually get something done.

  “It would be quicker if we take the expressway,” said Joey.

  “No, this road is perfect,” I said, and it was, a two-lane jobber heading through small towns and farmers’ fields, past small produce markets selling tomatoes and leeks. We went slowly, and every now and then we pulled over to the side of the road and let people pass. No one seemed to be hanging back with us.

  “I ain’t seen Charlie for fifteen, twenty years,” said Joey. “He’s been more memory than real, a wisp of smoke. Don’t know if I should hug him or slug him in the face.”