The Four-Night Run

by William Lashner

  Squirrel stared at Scrbacek without saying a word. The stomping began again. The floor shook again. And then, suddenly, silence.

  From out of the circle, his white cook’s outfit glowing in the darkness, Ed stepped toward Scrbacek. His cleaver, the size of a sheep’s head, lay in his hand. He approached the standing defendant. His jaw was clenched, his eyes were dark in the shadow of the overhead light. He stopped right in front of Scrbacek and raised the cleaver.

  With a quick stoop and a slash of steel, the ropes tying Scrbacek to the chair fell limply to the ground.

  Scrbacek nodded to Ed, stood on his chair, climbed onto the table, raised his still-cuffed hands high over his head, as if forming a steeple of the self, and then proclaimed, in a voice suddenly grown strong, a voice that washed over the circle of judgment, a voice that filled every corner of the huge dark space:

  “I confess.”

  49

  SCRBACEK’S CONFESSION

  I confess.

  I confess that I am a lawyer. I planned to stand here and present myself as another Lincoln, but I am no Lincoln. I am a scum-sucking parasite, the lowest of the low, worthy of whatever contempt you can muster for my miserable professional life. And however low you think I’ve stooped, trust me, you don’t know the half of it.

  I confess that I was Caleb Breest’s lawyer, that I defended him against the charge of murdering Peter Malloy, father, husband, leader of the dispossessed, that I spread lies and false accusations in order to gain Breest an acquittal. This is a strategy permissible under the law no matter how despicable in practice. A strategy that was clearly in my best interests but maybe not in my client’s. A strategy in which I am particularly deft, so believe anything I say at your peril.

  I confess that my SUV was blown to smithereens and that Ethan Brummel, a good boy who had done nothing wrong in the entirety of his life other than wanting to learn the law from me, was likewise blown high to heaven. If Ethan Brummel had never met me, he would be alive today, sharing a malt with a pretty blonde, staring deeply into the blue-eyed face of bliss instead of being buried in a coffin that was never opened for his mother to view, because what was left of the corpse was in pieces, and the pieces looked like nothing more than chunks of mutton charred.

  I confess that my office and home were burned to ash and with them all the records of all my trials from my very first day after passing the bar. My professional history was wiped out with a single match, and I confess not a single regret.

  I confess that my cell phone was stolen by a man named Jorge, and fenced with Freaky Freddie Margolis, and as soon as he turned it on, the phone’s location was located, and Freaky Freddie was wiped out in a firebomb of anger. If I had never become a lawyer, Freaky Freddie would still be around to turn your stolen cell phones into cash.

  I confess to running in blind panic to Donnie for help. And I confess that Donnie’s attempt to help me turned to death and ruin, torching his house, warping and blackening his three-dimensional blueprint for the future of this city. All because I brought my problems to him instead of dealing with them on my own.

  I confess to running through Crapstown like a woodchuck with his tail on fire, leaving a trail of destruction and death, my own life saved only by the oft-applied sweet violence of a nightingale. Yes, there was a fight behind Ed’s Eats that left three in the hospital and one in the morgue. Yes, I was hiding in the Marina District until they found and shot my old dog Palsgraf, a far nobler figure than I could ever hope to be. Yes, I misdirected my attackers to the bus station, clued in the state to the deception with a borrowed cell phone, and incited a conflagration that devastated much of what was vital to you all, an event which I did not foresee but which I should have foreseen and for which I take full responsibility.

  And I confess, finally, to knowing something that they don’t want me to know, to knowing something the price of knowing is my life, to knowing a secret for which they will burn down all of Crapstown to stop me from revealing. It was a piece of knowledge I didn’t even know I held, something consigned to my forgotten files before ever I glanced upon it. But the reason I met with Surwin, with Trent Fallow, with Cirilio Vega, and with Drinian DeLoatch, high in Diamond’s Mount Olympus, was to find out what it was they thought I knew and why it was important. And this I did.

  I confess to learning what it is that is truly going on beneath the cracked surface of Crapstown, and it is a knowledge that can shake this world. So long as only I know it, only I am at risk. Anyone I pass it to will be as endangered as I. I have told no one. The knowledge resides only with me. With this secret, I am a woodchuck with his tail on fire, destroying any wood through which I pass. If I survive and continue to run, the destruction will continue to follow.

  What do you do to a woodchuck with his tail on fire? You shoot him, you shoot him dead, and hope to contain the damage.

  So that is what you must do. I stand before you after my full and honest confession and give you no choice but to kill me. But as you sing your executioner’s song and lower your pistol to my head, I ask only that you don’t pretend you are gaining some sort of sweet revenge. I am not a spy, I am not a plant set amongst you by your enemies. I am no innocent, true, but I had no intent to do you harm. The bomb that destroyed Ethan Brummel, the fire that destroyed my office and home, the war that engulfed 714 Ansonia Road were not my doing. If you wonder at the cache of weapons found in my basement, ask Donnie from where they came, for I have no doubt they were among the weapons he sold to a tall red-haired man named Remi Bozant, who for reasons personal to himself wants nothing more than for me to die. Be assured that I am not a conspirator in your ongoing tragedy. All I wanted was to survive. All I wanted was what all of you want: to be left alone to screw up my own life, and maybe to find some semblance of redemption in the end. How pathetic that even such a meager hope is now impossible for me.

  I know a secret. So kill me, kill me now, but not out of hatred or disgust or anger, no. Kill me now so that the secret will die with me and they won’t be chasing me still and endangering your cozy homes. Give them my corpse so that you can go back to where you were before ever I showed my face in Crapstown, so that you can continue to wait and hope for something to come and turn the promise of Malloy’s fine speeches into your reality.

  At root I am a timid man. If I had the choice, I would never have learned the secret that curses now my life. The Gospel says, “Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free,” but don’t you believe it. Nothing imprisons like the truth. The path my knowledge has set me upon has been hard and brutal, and I blame you not for killing me to avoid it. If I passed my secret to you, I know who you would be matched against and what you would be forced to do. I now know all it would compel of you, and I say better to let it die with me. For listen when I tell you that once you learn what I know, all of you will be at risk, all of you will be forced into the battle of your lives, all of you will be confronted with what it truly means to pit your collective will against the massive might of your enemies.

  So kill me, as you must. Listen to your dread and kill me. Think of yourselves as realists, not as cowards, as artful tacticians who bow to discretion, not to valor. Think of yourselves wiser than the foolish brave. You heard Regina. Your fate is to wait for a savior to save you, and I am not he. All I have is a secret and a chance for you to save yourselves. So kill me and kill the secret, take yourselves out of the battle, survive within the narrow limits of your constricted lives, and wait and wait and wait for your future. For that is your destiny.

  Unless . . .

  50

  RICO

  -Hello, Mrs. Ling?

  -Who’s calling?

  -I’m looking for your daughter, Jenny.

  -She’s not here. Who’s calling and how you get her phone?

  -This is J.D. Scrbacek.

  -She’s not here, especially for you, mister. She’s never here no more for you.

  -It’s very important, Mrs. Ling. I desperately n
eed to talk to your daughter. Can you tell me where she is?

  -You did not hear me? Something wrong, mister, with that phone you stole? She’s not here for you. She’s wasted enough on you. How many years thrown out the back door like yesterday’s cabbage. Go away and leave her alone, and don’t call here again. We don’t want to hear from you no more. Disappear like smoke.

  -Mrs. Ling, please . . .

  -What do you need? Money? You need money for your drugs and your girls to shack you with? That is why you ran away, no? You ran away for your drugs and your girls, leaving her alone. You have done enough to her already. Rob a bank if you need money, but don’t call here again. You ran away once, now you stay away.

  -How’s that crab soup you make, Mrs. Ling?

  -Magnificent, what you think? Way too good for you.

  -I miss it. I dream about it sometimes.

  -Shame for you then. Never no more crab soup for you.

  -Don’t count on it. Stock up on hard-shells and corn, Mrs. Ling, because I’m hungry as a bear, and I am back.

 

  -Stop calling, you.

  -I need to talk to Jenny.

  -I tell you once already, she’s not here for you.

  -Is Sean there? Are they safe?

  -Don’t call here again, or I’ll tell police. They lock you up a hundred years for what you did. I promise what I say. I know people. The sergeant Chen Zong, big man on force, he is my cousin. Don’t call here again.

 

  -Please, don’t hang up again, Mrs. Ling. Please. I’m desperate.

  -Tell me about it.

  -Jenny? Jenny. You’re there. Good, great. Are you safe? Is everything okay? What’s it like in Philly?

  -Smothering.

  -I don’t think your mother likes me very much.

  -She never did, as she takes time to remind me each and every day. It’s why her phone’s unlisted. In case you want to call.

  -It was on your speed dial, right after the pizza place. How’s Sean? Does he ask about me?

  -No.

  -Did you tell him anything? Did he ask you any questions?

  -He hasn’t mentioned you. But he does talk about that girl—what was her name, Nightingale?

  -He’s got a good eye.

  -Are you two, kind of, like, an item or something?

  -What? No, Jen, no, no. You’re the only one for me.

  -Please.

  -I’ve been thinking about you. I’m serious.

  -No, you’re not. You’re scared and in trouble, and the danger has made you delirious. Where are you?

  -In the sewer.

  -And I’m back with my mother. It’s funny how we always end up right where we belong.

  -I was caught in some strange trial for my life in this huge cavern beneath the sewers with some self-appointed vigilantes as my jury. I had to climb up a hundred feet just to get a signal.

  -What drug are you on?

  -Nothing, I swear.

  -J.D.?

  -It’s true, it happened. It was like The People’s Court.

  -But you’re still talking.

  -Well, you know, if there’s one realm in which I’m competent, it’s the courtroom.

  -Bamboozled them with lies, I assume.

  -I developed a new strategy. I bamboozled them with the absolute truth. It was all very dramatic and satisfying. Except now comes the hard part.

  -Are you still being chased?

  -Yes, though the tables are about to be turned. But first I have to go into the lion’s den. Tonight. I have to have a final talk with my client.

  -Caleb Breest?

  -Yes, I owe it to him.

  -You owe him nothing.

  -No, I do. It’s like I’ve woken up from a dream and realized all I’ve done wrong in the past decade. Not everything can be corrected, but there’s still time to right some of the mistakes. Caleb Breest is one of them. I wasn’t looking out for him like I should have been, Jenny. All I was doing was trying to get him out of jail, but he needed more than that from me. I have to see him tonight and deal with him once and for all, and I don’t know if I’m going to come out of it alive. Which is why I needed to talk with you now. Remember when we used to dream about opening a practice of our own, doing good and making pots of money while we did it? Remember how we said all we needed was one big case?

  -The holy grail.

  -I have it for you, Jenny. Your one big case, and it is huge. A class action that will save Crapstown, save the Marina District, that will finance the rebuilding of the entire city. And it will make any lawyer who touches it as rich as Midas.

  -Why are you giving it to me? Why don’t you keep it for yourself?

  -Because I had a dream about us.

  -Please. There aren’t enough violins in the world.

  -And because if I don’t survive the night, which is highly likely, I want to leave something behind that will take care of my son into the future.

  -Don’t be so damn dramatic. He’s not your . . . He’s not . . . Crap. Do the defendants have deep pockets?

  -The deepest. James E. Diamond is one of them.

  -Jesus . . .

  -Do you have a pad? Are you getting this down?

  -Hold on, hold on. Okay. James E. Diamond. Go ahead.

  -Francis Galloway. Joey Torresdale. Remi Bozant. Cirilio Vega. The Right Honorable Chief Judge Jonathan Dickerson.

  -Get out of here.

  -And Drinian DeLoatch.

  -DeLoatch?

  -You were so right about him. You were so right about everything. He’s rotten at the core. Or was. I think I might have killed him.

  -With a gun?

  -With a prick the size of a baseball bat.

  -Now you’re boasting.

  -I want to try again. Me and you. A full shot. And Sean. What do you say?

  -Shut up with that already. Survive the night and we’ll talk about it.

  -Really?

  -What’s the designated class for the suit?

  -The residents of Crapstown, the residents of the Marina District, the estate of Ethan Brummel, the estate of one Freaky Freddie Margolis, all parties who were in any way damaged by a conspiracy among the defendants to bulldoze a path through the heart of Crapstown and make Diamond’s dream of a marina gambling resort a de facto reality. File it in federal court. Make it a racketeering case seeking treble damages, with predicate offenses of arson, extortion, murder.

  -Who are the named plaintiffs?

  -Well, for starters, me. Title it Scrbacek v. Diamond. Or The Estate of Scrbacek v. Diamond, depending on what happens tonight. Before I head out, I’ll scratch up a will giving you power of attorney for my estate and leaving everything I own to Sean.

  -J.D., don’t.

  -I’ll mail it to your house. I dreamed about you, Jen. And in the dream I loved you.

  -Shut up with that, J.D. It’s not fair, it’s not right. You just can’t come back into my life and start spraying your bullshit again.

  -And when I woke up, I realized it wasn’t just a dream. Losing you is another of the mistakes I might have time to right.

  -Stop. Please.

  -But you have to file the complaint tomorrow.

  -What? No. It’s impossible.

  -Listen to what I say. File it tomorrow. It’s okay if it’s rough—you’ll amend it when you can, after discovery—but file it tomorrow, and notify the press. As soon as you file it, the story will be in the open, the arena will change from the streets to the courtroom, the big boys will back away. If you file it tomorrow, you’ll save lives.

  -I’ll file it tomorrow. But why don’t you just come in now and we’ll draft the complaint together.

  -Because it’s not over. This is a conspiracy of money and violence. You can fight money with the law, but violence only responds to one thing.

  -J.D.

  -And my client is in the way. Standard complaint. Plaintiff Scrbacek is a resident of bla bla. Defendant Diamond is a resi
dent of bla bla bla. Jurisdiction in the federal courts is predicated on RICO, eighteen U.S.C., bla bla bla bla bla. You got that?

  -Yes.

  -If I make it through, you’ll give me a chance?

  -No, J.D., no. I can’t.

  -You won’t forgive me? Ever? I forgive you that thing with Vega.

  -Go to hell.

  -I do. I forgive you, just like that, and it feels good, too. You should try it.

  -Kumbaya.

  -Just a chance?

  -We’ll see.

  -That means yes?

  -That means we’ll see. You hurt me, J.D. I’m barely recovered. You just can’t snap your fingers and make it go away.

  -What will it take?

  -More than you have.

  -Don’t bet against me.

  -No, I would never do that, J.D. You can go broke doing that. Tell me the story.

  -Okay.

  -From the beginning.

  -Okay. It all starts with DeLoatch.

  51

  DIRTY DIRK’S

  Dirty Dirk’s.

  It appeared to be just another warehouse. It crouched by the bay on the western edge of town, a ragged commercial area that shut down dead for the night, a landscape of dark shadows and darker schemes, of rats licking dry the bloodstained drains behind Nate’s Processed Meats. You climbed out of your Porsche, you crawled out of your pickup, you emerged like a walking shadow from the buckling black streets. You came quiet, you came with war whoops, you followed the steady rhythmic bass, like the heartbeat of some great Cyclops buried deep underground, to what at first glance appeared to be just another warehouse.

  You told the beef in front that you knew someone who knew someone, somebody sent you, you were in with Mickey or with Johnny Mac. And if the bald guy with the nose ring gave the nod, the door was opened and they let you pass through to a night filled with the raw violence of pure possibility. There was a band behind cage wire, there was a poker room with armed guards, there was an unending stream of draft beer and watered whiskey. And there were girls, oh yes, girls, of every race, creed, political affiliation—even one member of the ACLU, bless her bleeding heart—girls with legs like sprinters, wearing nothing but glitter, who would writhe on your lap till the sweat from their breasts drenched your shirt, and tell me true, friend, does it get any better than that?