by Brad Smith
‘You mean the knee?’
‘No.’
‘It’s going all right.’
Grant nodded. He seemed to want to ask why she was there, but he wouldn’t hurry her. ‘We never really talked after the trial,’ he said. ‘That seems to be the way it goes when a case—’ he hesitated – ‘when a case is unsuccessful. But you should know that I thought you did a good job. Whatever the problems, they had nothing to do with you.’
‘So what now?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you still investigating him?’
‘Are we still investigating The Mayor?’ Grant repeated, as if asking himself the question. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Kate. It’s over.’
She watched him a moment. He was a decent man, she had decided early on, and she still thought so. But he’d moved on, which meant he wasn’t going to like what was coming next.
‘I had a conversation today with a reporter who covered the trial,’ she said. ‘He says that a cop told him there were actually thirty-some women who were attacked over the years. Who came forward.’
Grant didn’t say anything for a moment. ‘Thirty-six,’ he said.
‘Thirty-six,’ she repeated. ‘So he’ll be back in court?’
‘No,’ Grant said. ‘It was decided that you four were the best we had. Our best chance for a conviction.’
‘We were the best? Holy shit.’
‘Some of the assaults were … less grievous, if there is such a thing. Grabbing women inappropriately in public, lewd suggestions, that sort of thing. Those women didn’t necessarily want to take him to trial. The public exposure.’
‘What about the rest?’
‘The rest,’ Grant said. ‘We decided that they might not be up to it. Most of them hadn’t done well since the incidents. Keep in mind, that’s how he operated. He picked on the disenfranchised. You said it yourself. Is it any wonder that these women have fallen through the cracks?’
‘But can’t you build another case?’ Kate asked. ‘Put all thirty-six on the stand. A jury is not going to believe they’re all lying.’
‘It’s not that easy. Believe me, you four were the cream of the crop. The others – well, three committed suicide, and let’s just say the rest would not fare well in a court of law. You want me to subject them to Miles Browning?’
Kate got to her feet, her knee fragile beneath her. ‘This really sucks.’
‘I can’t argue with that.’ Grant stood as well.
She got her crutches beneath her and then stopped to look back at Grant. ‘He’s made getting away with rape an art form,’ she said. ‘Maybe he’ll write a how-to book.’
‘I’m sorry, Kate. We really did everything we could. And in the end he walked away. He paid his lawyer a million dollars and he walked away.’
‘Can I have their names?’
‘Pardon?’
‘The other thirty-two women. Well, the twenty-nine survivors. Can I have their names?’
Grant’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her, as if he had missed something earlier. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘You can’t have their names. What good would that do you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kate said, and she left.
She told David about it that night. They were sitting on the back deck, having a beer while chicken and egg plant cooked on the grill. Mister Jones was crouched along the fence at the back of the yard, whiskers flicking, ready to pounce on some prey, real or imagined.
‘Thirty-six,’ David said.
‘That’s how many came forward,’ Kate said. ‘How many didn’t?’
‘And Grant says it’s over.’
‘He got his ass kicked,’ Kate said. ‘He charged the mayor of the city with rape and didn’t get a conviction. You can tell he doesn’t want to go after him again. I would imagine even Grant has to answer to somebody. Either way, he’s done with it.’
A dog barked then, the sound coming from beyond the fence. David jumped to his feet. ‘It’s Lex,’ he said.
Lex was the neighbor’s Dalmatian, a show dog with a pedigree that ran back to the nineteenth century and a propensity for killing cats whenever the opportunity arose. Mister Jones had had a number of narrow escapes. Even now, he was sprinting up to the deck, where he landed in Kate’s lap.
‘You’re safe here, buddy,’ Kate told him.
‘I’ll take a baseball bat to that fucking black and white mutt,’ David said.
‘But Patti says he’s not chasing cats anymore,’ Kate said sarcastically. ‘I think she had a long talk with him. Taught him the error of his ways.’
‘Bullshit,’ David said. ‘We had dogs like that on the farm. Once a cat-killer, always a cat-killer.’
The phrase passed Kate by as she got up to check on the chicken. But it came back to her at three in the morning. And she knew it was true.
‘Sonofabitch,’ she said out loud.
Bud slept until shortly after ten. Deanna was gone when he got up. There was a note on the kitchen counter saying she’d gone to Niagara with Sheryl. Bud had no idea who Sheryl was but then he really didn’t know many of Deanna’s friends. They were mostly dipshit shopping queens with too much time on their hands and too much money at their disposal.
He had been dieting for over a week and had actually lost two pounds already. It hadn’t been easy: he’d cut out bread and pasta and pretty much anything deep fried. He would stick with it, he decided, after stepping on the scales that morning and discovering his success. If he could lose two pounds a week for three months, he would be happy. Under that positive frame of mind, he decided to reward himself for his efforts thus far. He put two frozen waffles in the toaster and ate them slathered with syrup, then had two more. The waffles were whole wheat, which made them a healthy choice. Finishing the second course, he remembered that he was meeting Hank Hofferman for lunch. He made coffee and drank it while watching The Price Is Right. He answered some e-mails. At eleven thirty he showered and got dressed. He got high and headed out.
Bud and Deanna’s condo was in The Docks, in a building that overlooked the harbor. Twenty years earlier the area had been run down and forgotten, a dirty jumble of warehouses and depots and waterfront bars left over from the days when most of the city’s goods came in by boat. Speculators had bought up most of the buildings and about ten years ago the area was revived. Many of the older places were bulldozed but a few – including the one where Bud now lived – had been gutted and renovated. Bud’s building had once been the home of Gordon’s Fresh Fish; it was now known as the Gordon Building. The neighborhood boasted more than a dozen pricey restaurants and four art galleries. Bud, on the stump, often made reference to his own contributions to the gentrification. In truth, his only involvement had been in buying his condo, and that only after the docks had become The Docks.
Bud walked to Spinnakers, three blocks away. It was a cool and sunny autumn day and Bud, under the coke, felt cool and sunny himself. A number of the people he met knew him by name and they spoke to him. Bud liked the feeling of being known, of being appreciated. He had always promoted himself as a man of the people and once in a while he felt that it was actually true.
Hofferman was late so Bud sat at the bar, drinking a root beer and talking with a waitress who was working her first shift. She told him she’d just arrived in the country from Sydney and Bud fell in love with her accent. She was thin, with straight dark hair and broad shoulders and a great rack – so great, in fact, that Bud suspected she’d had some work done in that area. The place wasn’t busy yet and she hung around the bar, talking to him. Bud let it slip that he was a city councilor and a bit of a political force in the city. He began to fantasize about her breasts, whether they were real or not. Either way was all right with him. Her name was Gina.
‘You know, one place I’ve always wanted to go is Scotland,’ Bud told her.
‘Me too,’ Gina said.
‘That’s where you’re from,’ Bud reminded her.
‘I’
m an Aussie,’ she said. ‘From Sydney.’
‘Oh, Sydney,’ Bud repeated. He wasn’t good with accents, or geography either for that matter. ‘I thought you said – what’s that city in Scotland, sounds like Sydney?’
‘St Andrews?’
‘Maybe.’
Further confusion was avoided when Hank Hofferman arrived. Coming in out of the bright sunlight, he stood in the doorway for a moment, looking for Bud. When Bud saw him, he turned to Gina.
‘Lookit this hick,’ he said. ‘Guy’s worth about five million dollars, dresses like he’s going to the rodeo.’
‘I like the hat though,’ Gina said. ‘Stetson, I’d say.’
‘Right,’ Bud said quickly. ‘It’s a cool hat.’
He and Hofferman sat at a table on the lower level, by the front windows. Bud chose that level because he knew that Gina was working the upper side. He didn’t want her getting too cozy with Hofferman and his cool cowboy hat. If anybody was going to verify the authenticity of those Aussie breasts, it would be Bud.
They ordered drinks and lunch and while they waited Hofferman pulled another chair close enough to prop his size twelve boots on.
‘That a Stetson?’ Bud asked.
‘Yeah,’ Hofferman said.
‘I thought so. Why do you wear a cowboy hat?’
‘Keeps the rain off my head.’
‘It’s sunny out.’
‘I like to be prepared.’
Bud didn’t own a hat and wouldn’t be caught dead wearing one. All these guys he would see on the street, from toddlers to senior citizens even, wearing baseball caps. It was the uniform of idiots. He looked away from Hofferman to see Gina serving customers up top. He liked the way she moved, hips swinging under the short skirt.
‘We got some banking problems, Hank?’ he asked, still watching her.
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Well, there was no deposit last week. The bank screw up?’
‘It wasn’t the bank,’ Hofferman said. He removed the big hat and placed it carefully on the chair beside him. ‘Way I understand this thing is that I’m paying for a service. Things were moving right along for a while there. Now they’re not. Why would I pay for nothing?’
‘What are you calling nothing?’
‘I don’t know if Rose City is gonna give me the contract or not. Isn’t that where you come in?’
‘That’s where I come in,’ Bud said. ‘But I wasn’t counting on certain things. For one – there’s opposition at city hall because this is my project. We got some new blood over there and they’re jealous of me because I get things done.’
‘Or they don’t like you because you’re The Mayor’s nephew,’ Hofferman suggested.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Bud said. ‘Whatever. Thing is, they’ll approve this eventually because it’s cost-effective. I can look after my end, Hank. Question is – can you do the same?’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘I’ve been hearing that the Ministry of the Environment has been getting bombarded with e-mails and petitions and shit from this group – what the fuck are they called – HALT?’
‘Yeah. Some of the same bunch that tried to stop me from building the sow barns. How’d they make out then?’
Their drinks arrived, a beer for Hofferman and another root beer for Bud. The waiter was a pudgy kid with a serious acne problem. Bud wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of him handling his lunch. He should’ve insisted they sit on Gina’s side after all. Right now she was flirting with three guys in suits. They got the tits while Bud got the zits.
‘Maybe they can’t win it, but they can delay it with all their nonsense,’ Bud said. ‘They get babbling on about containment and we’ll have a problem. Next thing they’ll be hiring their own engineers, not those bootlickers you got on retainer. We don’t need that, Hank.’
Hofferman took a drink of beer. ‘I bought five hundred acres because you told me this was a go project. Now you’re telling me it’s not. Are you saying this HALT thing is in the way?’
‘I’m telling you it might be.’
‘Then what are we gonna do about it?’
‘Who is this we you’re talking about?’ Bud asked. ‘You got a mouse in your pocket?’
Hofferman looked over at him darkly, then had another drink. ‘Where’s The Mayor in all of this? I thought he was your guy.’
‘He’s behind this a hundred per cent. In a year, he’ll be mayor again. But for now, he’s not.’ Bud looked around, then leaned close. ‘Listen, he sees this as his way back in. He’s of the opinion that the new mayor will fuck this issue up by supporting a plan to ship the trash out of here. But in the end, it’s all about the bottom line. Our plan works based on fuel costs alone. Don’t worry, this will go through.’
‘Then let’s get ’er done, son,’ Hank said. ‘But this opposition has gotta disappear. I thought this was your thing, Bud. Like old McIntosh. You made that go away.’
‘Did I?’
‘Oh, I forgot. The fire was an accident.’
‘There was a fire?’ Bud asked. ‘That’s a shame.’
The waiter arrived with the food, a steak sandwich for Hofferman and chicken quesadillas for Bud. Hofferman ordered another beer, then proceeded to devour nearly half the sandwich in one bite. Bud, watching in disgust, examined the food on his plate and concluded he wasn’t hungry. He’d had waffles just a couple of hours ago and he really did need to stick to his diet. He wondered how he looked to someone like Gina. Was he just another middle-aged guy with a big gut, hitting on a pretty young waitress? Hopefully she was smarter than that and could see him for what he was – a political force in the city. Women were attracted to power. Look at Bill Clinton, look at JFK. Those guys got more tail than movie stars. And, other than with a few feminist types, it never hurt their popularity. It was what men did. Real men anyway.
‘I hear Frances Rourke is running this HALT thing,’ he said. ‘Did you know that?’
Hofferman, still chewing, shook his head. ‘Hey, she’s got a farmhouse,’ he said around the mouthful.
Bud had a drink of root beer. ‘I’m not sure that serial arson is the best plan of attack here, Hank. For one thing, it happens to be a crime. For another, it might seem a little coincidental after a while.’
‘Wouldn’t take a fire to scare her off anyway,’ Hofferman said. ‘She’s just a woman, for Chrissakes. What makes you think she’s the head of this thing?’
‘The meetings are at her farm,’ Bud said.
Hofferman shrugged and made ready to attack the sandwich again.
‘Maybe you should talk to her.’ Bud said.
‘Why would I want to talk to a hippie?’
‘She’s not a hippie,’ Bud said. ‘That farm of hers is a fucking conglomerate. She does a huge online business. The woman sells lettuce on the internet. Can you believe that?’
‘So what?’
‘So she’s a businesswoman,’ Bud said. ‘She might preach the party line out there in the boonies but deep down I have a feeling she’s all about the money. Which means she’s no different than you. That’s how you need to approach her, Hank.’
The pimply faced waiter brought the beer. Bud glanced across the room and saw Gina at the bar, loading a tray with bottles of beer and drinks.
‘Are you a breast man, Hank?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘Do you like tits?’
‘Everybody likes tits. What the hell.’
‘Lookit this waitress. Tell me if those tits are natural or augmented.’
Hofferman watched Gina as she crossed the floor. ‘I don’t know. They look pretty good to me.’
‘But the question is,’ Bud said, ‘are they real or are they from Home Depot? I think I’m going to have to form an exploratory commission on this matter. I might even have to head it up myself.’ He drank off the last of his root beer. ‘But first we need to put a stop to HALT. Stopping HALT – isn’t that like a double negative or something?’
&nb
sp; ‘Goddamned if I know,’ Hofferman said. ‘I don’t care about that shit.’
‘Did you go to college, Hank?
‘No, I didn’t,’ Hank said. ‘But I’m betting you did. You want to compare bank accounts, asshole?’
‘Easy now,’ Bud said. The fact of the matter was that he hadn’t gone to college. But he sometimes claimed that he had. It all depended on who he was talking to. ‘We’re on the same side, partner. Tell you what, Hank, talk to the woman. If she doesn’t want to listen, maybe we’ll have to take another tack. But talk to her, man.’ Bud reached for his wallet. ‘I’ll buy lunch. But, speaking of bank accounts, you’ve got a deposit to make, right?’
FOURTEEN
Frances was loading hamper baskets of apples into the cube van when Hank Hofferman pulled in, behind the wheel of his black Humvee. The truck was diesel-powered and the engine rattled noisily until he shut it off. Frances gave him a short look, then went back inside for more apples. From behind the warehouse she could hear the whine of Carl’s circular saw as he worked at the addition.
When she came out, Hofferman was standing by the open door of the van, looking at the cargo inside. He was wearing blue jeans with a crease ironed in them, and his usual black cowboy boots. A white western shirt with the logo HH stitched on the pocket. Self-advertising. He smelled as if he’d drenched himself in aftershave lotion. ‘Nice-looking apples,’ he said. ‘Macs?’
‘Heirlooms,’ she told him.
‘My grandfather had a little orchard over by Suttonville,’ he said. ‘He’d hire me and my brothers to pick for him when we were kids. Paid us a quarter a hamper. Cheap old bastard.’
Frances had no interest in his childhood tales. ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked.
‘What can we do for each other, Frances?’
She put her knee beneath the hamper to hoist it on to the truck, then slid it further inside before turning to him. ‘This ought to be good,’ she said, taking her gloves off.
‘I was thinking about how much we have in common,’ he said.
‘You weren’t.’
‘Well, I was. I’m somebody who sees the big picture and so are you. We’re both in the business of supplying people with food.’ As he spoke he walked over to look inside the warehouse, at the crates of squash and pumpkins and potatoes, ready for loading. Perry was in the back, pressing the inferior grade apples into cider. He glanced up, saw Hofferman, looked quickly away and continued to work.