McGill's Short Cases 1-3, Three Jim McGill Short Stories

by Joseph Flynn

  “Uh-huh.” McGill found the screen he was looking for, and the two former Chicago cops read in silence. After a number of page changes and about thirty minutes, they’d learned enough for their purposes. McGill returned the computer to the browser’s start page and left the history of their search in place, in case Patti cared to see what they were up to.

  McGill and Sweetie pushed their chairs back from the desk.

  They swiveled them so they were facing each other.

  “I didn’t know you had such a handle on this stuff,” Sweetie said. “Knowing right where to look on the Internet.”

  “Got it from Kenny. He loves that zombie show on cable TV. Voodoo is the next-door neighbor to zombie-land.”

  “Educational television, huh? So the whole point of imitative magic is you use a symbolic object, a fetish if you want to be highbrow, to affect real people.”

  “Stick the doll’s knee, make Matthew’s leg hurt,” McGill said.

  “He has to buy into the whole idea. He sees Hilaire stick the doll, he knows he’s supposed to hurt in the corresponding place.”

  McGill said, “We don’t know all the circumstances of his early life in Haiti; maybe he was raised that way.”

  “Could be,” Sweetie said, “but seeing someone stick a doll that looks like you is one thing. The symbolic violence takes place right in front of your eyes and triggers real pain. But how does she hurt Matthew when the two of them aren’t in the same place?”

  McGill thought about that.

  After a minute, he said, “She phones it in?”

  Sweetie said, “No, he calls her. Remember what Matthew said: He’d have jumped over the moon for her.”

  “All the girls like bad boys, and all the boys like bad girls?” McGill asked.

  “If Hilaire really managed to keep Matthew from getting seriously involved with any other girls, who does that leave him to think about?”

  McGill elaborated. “Fantasize about. His voodoo queen. Maybe the fact that she has power over him is its own kind of turn-on.”

  Sweetie wrinkled her nose.

  “I know,” McGill said, “it’s not for me either, but different strokes for different folks.”

  Sweetie remembered just how different people could be from her days as a patrol cop.

  “Yeah, I suppose. We’ll need to check Matthew’s phone records. See who he’s called.”

  “Or,” McGill said, “just ask him. The kid doesn’t exactly have a poker face.”

  Sweetie laughed. “No, he doesn’t. You know what I have to wonder, though. What we’re dealing with here, in modern medical terms, is the placebo effect. So how come nobody uses these fetishes for beneficial purposes? You know, if you’ve got a fever, you stick the doll in the freezer and you’re well again.”

  McGill grinned. “I think there is something like that in folk medicine. I’ll have to check with Kenny and —”

  He sat still, looking at but no longer seeing Sweetie.

  She gave him a moment before asking, “You have a big idea or a small stroke?”

  “Idea,” McGill said, coming back into focus. “Did you see the reference to corresponding healing in the material we read?”

  “Yeah,” Sweetie said. “Where does that get us?”

  McGill rolled his chair back to the iMac’s keyboard.

  Pulled up the information he sought.

  He read to Sweetie, “Certain herbs with yellow sap can cure jaundice, walnuts can strengthen the brain because of their resemblance to it and phallic-shaped roots can … well, do what Viagra does at a fraction of the cost.”

  Sweetie said, “And from all that you came up with?”

  “How we’re going to cure Matthew, if Hilaire won’t play ball.”

  McGill gave Sweetie the details.

  She smiled and said, “I like it.”

  “Voodoo?” Patti said, “Really?”

  She’d just entered her White House bedroom. McGill was already in bed. He paused the on-demand movie he’d been watching, The Serpent and the Rainbow. Strange doings in Haiti. Forces of good and evil, science and magic.

  Patti had glanced at the still image on the television and identified the movie immediately.

  McGill said, “I didn’t think you’d know it. The movie was shot back in the ‘80s. You must have been a child when you saw it.”

  Patti laughed, something that didn’t happen often enough in any president’s day.

  “Your blarney is just what I need,” she said, sitting on the bed next to him.

  “Something you can share?” McGill asked.

  There was a lot that she couldn’t.

  “Representative Philip Brock, Democrat of Pennsylvania, I wouldn’t mind having someone stick pins in him, and not just symbolically.”

  “Causing trouble, is he?”

  “Trying hard. If his idea catches on, he could turn the country upside down.”

  “What does he want to do?”

  Patti said, “Convene a constitutional convention, open the whole constitution to a rewrite.”

  McGill grimaced. “As divided as the country is right now, that could lead to chaos.”

  “I think that’s just what the gleeful SOB wants. The problem is, the idea has appeal to both ends of the political spectrum. Each side would love to see the country remade in its image.”

  “So the question is: Can the center hold?” McGill said.

  “That’s it, all right. You really want to watch the rest of the movie?”

  “Does the good guy win?” McGill asked.

  “Yes. There was no keeping him down.” Patti headed to her bathroom. “I’ll be out in five minutes.”

  McGill clicked off the TV and turned out the lights.

  He caught Patti’s double entendre. You couldn’t keep a zombie down. Same could be said for a good man. Things came to a showdown between the two, McGill knew where he’d put his money.

  McGill called the Washington GM, Henry Harker, from his office at nine a.m. He’d read many times that pro football execs and coaches worked an ungodly number of hours each day, but he didn’t want to call early and find out that was a bunch of hooey. Even at his age, McGill liked to cling to an illusion or two.

  Harker came on the phone and got right to the point.

  “You get Hilaire to back off yet?”

  McGill said, “Still working on the game plan. A thought came to me this morning. Why wasn’t Matthew’s agent with the two of you yesterday? Seems like he should have an interest in the situation, too.”

  “He did. The wrong interest. The guy wanted Matthew to let him negotiate with Hilaire. Said he was sure he could get her to lower her demand from fifty percent.”

  “Wait a minute,” McGill said. “What’s this agent’s name?”

  “Cyrus Zale.”

  “And he wanted to pay off an extortionist?”

  “Zale said the cops couldn’t do anything; there aren’t any laws against sticking pins in a doll.”

  “None that I’ve heard of,” McGill agreed. “Did Matthew dump the guy?”

  “His contract with Zale didn’t allow for an early termination without a stiff buyout penalty.” Harker laughed. “So what the kid did, and I love him for it, he told Zale to give Hilaire one hundred percent of his commission.”

  “Zale gets what, three percent of Matthew’s contract value?” McGill asked.

  “Right. That’s all the league allows.”

  “Did Zale give Matthew an estimate of how much he could reduce Hilaire’s demand?”

  “Yeah. He said he was sure he could get her to knock it down by half.”

  McGill laughed. “So he was willing to negotiate a deal that would give Hilaire more than eight times what he was earning. Sounds like he was working for her more than his client. That or Hilaire is just a front for him. But Zale didn’t go for Matthew’s suggestion, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t. That was when Matthew leaned over him and told him if he didn’t take his offer to Hilai
re, then Matthew would take him to court, and it would be the worst day of Zale’s life if the judge actually saw things Zale’s way.”

  McGill remembered the enormous, if restrained, strength in Matthew’s handshake.

  Wouldn’t be a good idea to get someone like him mad at you.

  “So Zale said he and Matthew should go their separate ways, and nothing in their contract kept him from bailing out early,” McGill said.

  “You got it,” Harker told him.

  McGill took a moment to think things through.

  Then he told Harker, “I need you to do a couple things to help me.”

  “Like what?” There was a note of reluctance in the GM’s voice.

  “I need the names of every other player in the league represented by Zale.”

  “I can’t do that. I told you we want to keep the other teams from learning our situation.”

  Harker certainly had, and now McGill understood why.

  “You remember I asked you if your team plays the Bears this season?” McGill asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I did that because I wouldn’t want to see Washington beat Chicago. You, on the other hand, don’t want to see any team beat Washington. That’s understandable for you. But it’s not acceptable to me. You know Zale’s got other clients playing in the league and they’re not going to be at their best if they’re worried about Hilaire. That gives you a competitive advantage.”

  “Yeah, it does. I hope you also figured out that some of Zale’s other clients play for teams that are on Chicago’s schedule this year.”

  McGill had thought of that. He sighed. “So we’ll both have to suck it up. I get the names of Zale’s other clients or my business relationship with you is over. There’s no early-out penalty in our agreement.”

  Harker offered to double McGill’s fee to do things his way.

  McGill said he couldn’t be bought.

  Harker gave in, grumbling.

  “One more thing,” McGill said. “E-mail me a picture of Hilaire. If you don’t have one, Matthew certainly does. The sooner I get it the better.”

  The GM sent him a headshot of Hilaire within a minute.

  Quite the looker, McGill thought. Older than Matthew but still fetching enough to seize the young giant’s imagination if not his bank balance. Put her up against other young athletes who liked to drink and do recreational pharmaceuticals, and lacked Matthew’s understanding of personal wealth, she was sure to come out on top most if not all of the time.

  Leaving her victims blindsided and broke.

  McGill called Sweetie. Told her about Cyrus Zale.

  Forwarded Hilaire’s picture to her.

  Sweetie picked up Hilaire coming out of The Willard. The hotel doorman smiled ear to ear for the simple pleasure of admitting her to the great outdoors. Sweetie thought the guy might brighten his day further by ushering her into a town car, but Hilaire was out for a stroll. She headed off in the direction of the nearby White House.

  Sweetie got out of her classic Chevy Malibu, renewed the time on her parking meter and fell into step behind Hilaire. The first thing Sweetie noticed was the woman had a nice spring in her step, a good sense of balance, too, to keep her stride smooth in three-inch heels. Dark hair, straightened and colored with flecks of gold, fell to broad shoulders. Toned arms, a small waist, slim hips and long legs completed the physical picture from behind.

  The dress she wore was gauzy and colorful, the hem an inch or two above her knees.

  Sweetie had seen the style before. Thought it was called sea gypsy or something like that.

  Wouldn’t work for Sweetie. She was toned from a lifetime of running and strength work, but her overall size and bone structure were wrong for something like that. Gauzy stuff just looked too precious on her. On the other hand, she looked great in close fitting cuts of sleek fabrics.

  Putting thoughts of fashion aside, Sweetie watched for anyone approaching Hilaire. The Caribbean lady drew plenty of glances from oncoming pedestrians, both male and female. But no one said hello. Several people glanced over their shoulders to check out the rear view.

  Sweetie thought Hilaire might have wanted to give a backward look or two herself. To remind the voyeurs not to be so overtly rude, if nothing else. Most women could sense when they were the subjects of unwanted attention. A voodoo queen certainly should have been mindful.

  Hilaire was either unaware or indifferent.

  Sweetie decided to test the woman. Close the distance between them. See when she finally appeared on Hilaire’s radar, and if the woman could tell her interest was more than casual. She got to within ten feet of her target before she saw Hilaire’s shoulders hunch just a bit.

  Hilaire turned. The expression on her face showed she knew Sweetie was an adversary.

  The two women stopped and faced each other directly opposite the White House.

  Hilaire told Sweetie, “You don’t want to be messin’ with me, missy.”

  Unfazed, Sweetie asked, “You know who I am?”

  “You someone I put a curse on real quick, you don’t go away.”

  Hilaire’s eyes were deeply set and dark with flecks of gold, just like her hair.

  Contact lenses, Sweetie figured. But the woman’s annoyance was real.

  Sweetie laughed. “I’m curse-proof.”

  “We see about that.”

  “I’m not Matthew Mingo,” Sweetie said,

  That made Hilaire take a step back.

  Sweetie continued, “And I’ve got a guardian angel. In fact, in some people’s eyes, I am a guardian angel.”

  Hilaire started to murmur. Something in a threatening tone and a Creole tongue.

  She stopped when Sweetie took out her phone and started shooting video.

  “Sorry,” Sweetie said. “I don’t speak your language, but I’m sure I can get it translated. While you don’t scare me, there is, in fact, a crime called menacing. Means you can’t go around threatening people. Saying you’re going to put a hurt or even a curse on them.”

  A sense of fear brightened Hilaire’s eyes. Made the gold flecks sparkle. Maybe she wasn’t wearing contacts. Didn’t matter. This time she was the one getting the scare.

  Before Hilaire could turn and run, Sweetie asked her, “Did you hear that Matthew told Zale he should give you his three percent of Matthew’s contract?”

  Hilaire didn’t answer, not verbally. But the expression on her face told Sweetie that this was news to her. Now, Hilaire’s impulse was not only to get away from Sweetie but also to confront Zale. That was easy for Sweetie to see, too.

  She had a lot experience from her days as a cop, seeing bad guys fall out.

  Still, she wasn’t done with Hilaire quite yet.

  “You want to forget about cursing me and listen for a minute,” Sweetie said, “I know a way you might get more than just three percent from Zale.”

  She hadn’t talked over her idea with Jim McGill yet, but she knew him.

  He’d go along with it.

  “What’s in it for you?” Hilaire asked, suspicion in her voice.

  “Only the satisfaction of doing the right thing,” Sweetie said. “That’s how I stay curse-proof.”

  McGill spent the rest of his day on the phone. Harker had given him a list of twenty-two other players in the league who were represented by Cyrus Zale. Each name came with a phone number.

  “Can’t swear all the numbers are current,” Harker said.

  “Why not?”

  “Sometimes players prank each other by giving out teammates’ numbers to the groupies.”

  McGill thought about that. “Targeting single guys for the gag, right? Wouldn’t go over big if a married guy’s wife answered his phone and heard from a strange woman.”

  “There have been locker room fights over things like that.”

  “Must be hard to keep the stars in line,” McGill said.

  “Only until you tell them they’d better not slip up, if they want to keep being jokesters.”<
br />
  “Has to be a hard life,” McGill said, “playing pro football.”

  “Short and brutal, too,” Harker replied. “You think you’ll have this worked out soon?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got the game plan in place now. No more than a day or two if I can get even half-a-dozen of these guys together with me.”

  “They need any special encouragement, let me know. I’ll get my front office colleagues to add a little incentive.”

  Turned out that wasn’t necessary.

  McGill reached players at fourteen of the twenty-two numbers he called.

  Twelve of them were all for his plan. That was plenty.

  Add in Matthew Mingo, that gave him a baker’s dozen.

  Returning to the Executive Mansion, McGill called on Artemus Nicolaides, the White House physician. He told Nick, “I need the name of a specialist in New Orleans.”

  “You are feeling well?” Nick asked.

  “Tiptop. This isn’t for me.”

  McGill told Nick what he wanted and added, “If you can find someone who is ex-military, maybe been through a battle or two, that would be icing on the cake.”

  Not a problem. Nick didn’t know anyone like that personally, but he knew a Cajun orthopedic surgeon in New Orleans who was friends with someone who fit the bill perfectly. After four-plus years of being married to the president, McGill was not surprised.

  The first commandment at the White House was, “Thou shalt not disappoint.”

  Meaning the president, but McGill was allowed to ride her coattails.

  Since they were working on an NFL team’s dime, McGill and Sweetie flew to New Orleans first class. So did Deke and Leo, of course. In days gone by, business class would have been just fine. After traveling regularly on Air Force One, though, people tended to get spoiled.

  Sweetie told McGill of her plan to assure Hilaire’s presence — Zale’s, too — and how she had thought to drive a wedge between the two of them.

  He liked the idea, but asked, “You think the players will want to give up any of their money?”

  “It was Matthew’s idea, right?” Sweetie said. “I think they’ll like this better than getting all their money back.”

  “You’re probably right,” McGill conceded. “I’ll gather the guys up front, explain their options. Anybody who doesn’t like it can go home with our apologies for bothering them.”