The Monkey Rope

by Stephen Lewis

  “Probably worse. It seems Mr. Goode is Emily’s father.”

  Seymour sat up and nodded, slopping the hot tea on his hand and the bed.

  “You know him?” she asked.

  “Indirectly. What’d he want? How’d he sound?”

  “Woa. One at a time.” Rosalie sat down next to him and dabbed at the spill with a napkin. Seymour stopped her.

  “Never mind that,” he said.

  She finished soaking up the tea, and crumbled the napkin into a ball.

  “It seems,” she said, “that Mr. Goode knows a little about Emily and Junior. I don’t know how much. But enough.” She paused. “He wants to talk to you about his daughter.”

  Seymour waited.

  “He said there was a history there you should know about.”

  He began to rise from the bed.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To my office. To call Mr. Goode.”

  Rosalie leaned over him.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Good enough to get up and go to my office and make some phone calls.”

  “That good?” she smiled, and ran her hand over his chest. “Then why bother getting up?”

  “I should at least call Goode,” he protested, but she covered his lips with her own.

  “Later,” she said. “Tomorrow. Anyway, Mr. Goode also mentioned that he would be tied up the rest of the day. Said he’d get back to you.”

  He pulled her down on top of him.

  “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

  * * * *

  They went out for dinner to Angelo’s Pizza Palace on Court Street. Angelo’s featured three bare, rickety tables with empty napkin holders. Seymour ordered a pie from Vinnie, scooped up a handful of napkins from the pile on the counter, and steered Rosalie to a table in the back.

  They ate silently. Rosalie sipped her coke, her eyes searching Seymour’s face.

  “What’s bothering you, babe?” she asked.

  He felt the muscles in his neck relax, just a little. He had not realized how much this fragment of thought had been pressing on him. He reached across the table to take her hands, and they sat in silence. After a while, Seymour sat back in his chair, and looked into her eyes.

  “I had a thought,” he said, “sort of based on what you were telling me.”

  She stiffened for a moment, her face tense.

  “I’m not sure I should have told you those things,” she said.

  “What I sense is that you have mixed feelings about your brother. That’s not so unusual.”

  Her face darkened.

  “Is that all that meant to you?”

  “What I meant is that, given your particular brother, I can understand your feelings. I just don’t know how far they go.”

  “Far enough,” she said slowly. “He’s blood. I love him as a brother, but I fear what’s inside of him, the violence.”

  Seymour nodded.

  “That’s not quite the whole picture,” she continued, an edge to her voice. “I am also attracted to his energy.”

  “When you say attracted, you mean physically?”

  “Yes,” she answered, a trace of a blush on her face. “I’ve read that it’s not so rare. When we were little, he’d sometimes carry me to bed, and it felt very, very good, to have his arms around me.”

  Seymour was silent, not sure if words could serve any more. Yet, somehow, he felt more at ease with her, and suddenly he knew why.

  “I think you’ve just become real for me,” he said.

  “Warts and all?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Good,” she smiled broadly. “Because I’ve known about yours for a long time. And anyway I had no intention of playing at perfection.”

  * * * *

  Seymour was at his desk by eight-thirty. Rosalie was going to work half a day, and then join him in the afternoon. He had protested but she was adamant. “After all,” she had insisted, “don’t you think you can use some help?” He had conceded the point easily. For the first time in a long while, he did not feel alone.

  Promptly at ten, O’Riley arrived, accompanied by Detective Rosenberg. The detective looked even more wrinkled than the last time; his eyes were red and swollen. He took out his little notebook and looked toward O’Riley who nodded.

  “We’ll get right down to business, Lipp. I’m sorry we couldn’t get together yesterday. I called you as soon as I received Rosenberg’s report. This is now a matter of some urgency.” The prosecutor’s voice was tense, and his whole manner lacked the ease Seymour had come to expect.

  The detective cleared his throat. “We have reliable evidence that Mrs. Levine was having a relationship with Mr. Constantino.” He lifted his bleary eyes to Seymour.

  Seymour looked over at the district attorney. “O’Riley, can we skip the preliminaries?” He paused long enough to cause the detective to shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “And,” he continued, “I’m not going to deny the obvious.”

  O’Riley chuckled. “I’m sorry. We didn’t take you for an absolute fool.” He turned to Rosenberg. “Just hit the high points.”

  “As you like, sir. The bottom line is that we think your boy Junior goes to the head of the class. He had a motive, jealousy or some such, it was very probably his baby she was carrying, he had opportunity, and a past history of knife-work. There’s more, but those are the highlights.” He snapped his notebook closed and put it in his pocket.

  Seymour stared at the detective, trying to decide what he would have to concede. At least, Rosenberg hadn’t mentioned Junior’s dealing.

  “Very impressive, detective,” he said. “I’m sure, as you say, you have a good deal more to offer us. But in terms of what you have just presented, I don’t see much. The only firm tie you’ve made between my client and this case is his involvement with the victim. Now, granted that does make him a suspect, but I doubt it’s enough to indict. For example, do you know the cause of death? Do you have the knife? Any other physical evidence? Fingerprints ? A witness who places him anywhere near the scene? Have you spoken to him to see if he has an alibi?”

  Detective Rosenberg’s face showed just a trace of annoyance. “Now, sir, you know that if we had been able to find him, we would have asked him that very question. But it’s like he’s disappeared into thin air. And that’s not very good for him. It makes us suspicious, when we can’t locate a prime suspect.” He opened his notebook again, his face now calm. “As for physical evidence, there’s quite a bit of that, and we’re waiting on the medical examiner’s report, of course, but that will take some time.” He frowned. “We used to be happy with some blood, fingerprints, what have you. Now they want to start setting up a DNA match.”

  O’Riley motioned for Rosenberg to stop, and he leaned toward Seymour, a forced smile on his face.

  “Now, Lipp, let’s stop dancing. If you know where our friend is, I’d advise you to produce him for questioning.”

  “I’m working on it,” Seymour said. He turned to the detective. “Why is it,” he asked, “that I don’t hear anything about Mr. Gomez?”

  Rosenberg began to answer, but O’Riley cut him off. “Because he, too, has disappeared, because he’s a less likely candidate, in spite of his record.”

  “And, most importantly, because you don’t expect to see him in your opponent’s TV spots as the wanton murderer let loose by a soft-hearted and soft-headed prosecutor,” Seymour returned.

  “You ought to consider your own reputation, Lipp. Look, I’ll make it simple for you. This case does not shape up easy. As the detective said, there’s a lot of physical evidence. It’ll take time to sift through that lot.”

  “And time is one thing you’re short on.”

  “You’d better believe it.” O’Riley’s expression, for once, was genuine. “This is all,” he said softly, “very unfortunate, for both of us. Maybe I did make a mistake with our friend. It looks that way now. He was going to ge
t into some serious shit, sooner or later.”

  Seymour nodded.

  “I could have told you that, but you weren’t listening.”

  O’Riley cast his eyes toward the ceiling.

  “Mea culpa, but now I have to have him in custody. It’s as simple as that.”

  “The way I see it,” Seymour said, “you’re looking down the barrel. You know damned well I can slow this thing down.”

  O’Riley shrugged.

  “Okay, Lipp,” he said softly. “We’ll play it your way for just a little while longer. But let’s understand each other. Junior has to surface. If he has an alibi, well and good. Or Mr. Gomez must step forward. If he’s the man, good, but I need your friend. Now.” He motioned to Rosenberg that they were about to leave, but then he turned back to Seymour. “Just before I came over here, I got a call from Mr. Levine. He wants to know when we’re going to apprehend his wife’s brutal murderer. And incidentally, he, poor fool, thinks she was carrying his baby. So you can understand his impatience. And her father’s.”

  “We’ve issued a warrant for your client’s arrest,” the detective added. “We do want to talk with him. You’d be doing us all a favor if you could get him to come in by himself. Save the taxpayers a lot of money in overtime. But in any case, we’ll find him.”

  O’Riley raised his hand to the detective.

  “Come, let’s not waste any more of Mr. Lipp’s time. I’m sure he has a lot of work to do to find our friend. I believe he is truthful in telling us that he doesn’t know his whereabouts, at the moment. A punk like Junior will have enough sense to hide.”

  They turned to leave, and then the prosecutor motioned Rosenberg to wait outside.

  “Do yourself a favor,” he said, his eyes hard, “tell us where to find Junior, and then you walk away from this. It’s the best thing you can do.

  * * * *

  “I took a leave from my job, until the case is over,” Rosalie said. Her face, framed by her dark hair, glowed. Her eyes were clear and bright, and her voice admitted no argument. As he accepted this announcement, Seymour realized that what he wanted to do right now was fly off with her to some place warm and sunny, a beach in the Caribbean, perhaps, where they could lie in each other’s arms and listen to the gentle surf of the blue ocean waves. With an effort, he brought himself back.

  “I guess I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she replied.

  “You know what I mean. I have a meeting early this evening, here, with Mr. Goode. When I finally got to talk to him, he was very hush, hush, very discreet. If you want to help, maybe you can see what you can find out about Gomez.”

  She smiled. “I’ve already started. I’ve got his address and I’m going there this afternoon.”

  “Where did you get the address?”

  “From his union. At first, they didn’t want to give it to me, but I told them that I was representing an attorney who might have some good news for him.”

  Seymour chuckled. “They bought that one?”

  “Sure they did.”

  He threw his arms around her.

  “You know,” he murmured, “we might just win this one.” He reflected for a moment. “Whatever that means in this case.”

  Chapter Five

  Mr. Goode turned out to be plump and prosperous looking, with a neat mustache and a full head of thick gray hair. His fingernails were manicured and Seymour caught the scent of an expensive cologne as they shook hands.

  “I was going to bring Phil with me,” he said, “but I think he’s too upset at the moment, and who could blame him?”

  Seymour took his measure immediately.

  “Yes, he’s probably not up to the kind of talk we are going to have,” he offered.

  “I see,” Goode said, “that I can get right to the point.”

  “Please do.”

  Goode sat down on the chair next to Seymour’s desk, reached into his suitcoat pocket, and withdrew a cigar. He lit it, and smiled.

  “Would you like one, Mr. Lipp? I assure you they are superb. I have them imported, through various channels. Costs a lot, but good things always do.”

  Seymour lit a cigarette.

  “No thanks,” he said. “I’ll stay with these.”

  “Whatever you prefer.” Goode sighed. “I see you are a man who trusts his own tastes.”

  “I try.”

  “Good. Perhaps that will make our conversation easier. If I can show you how your interests are the same as mine, we will be able to reach an agreement. Don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps,” Seymour said. “But we’ve already been on opposite sides of the fence once, and maybe that’s natural. For us.”

  Goode looked puzzled, and Seymour prodded.

  “I don’t suppose you would remember an insignificant landlord/tenant case.”

  Goode waved his hand in a billow of cigar smoke.

  “Never get involved.”

  “Well, for the record,” Seymour said, “you won.”

  “Of course,” Goode smiled. “It’s only unfortunate you had to lose.” He exhaled a puff of smoke and settled back in his chair. “Well, then,” he said, “I hope I can show you how nobody has to lose in this present matter. My interest is simply this. I want my family spared the pain of a prolonged and sensational trial. There have already been unflattering references to Emily’s personal life in the newspapers.”

  “Aren’t they true?” Seymour asked.

  Goode shrugged.

  “That is neither here nor there. That is our private business. But as the matter is of some interest to you, and since you probably know the answer, I will confess that Emily’s conduct was occasionally, how shall I say, adventuresome.”

  “That’s one word for it,” Seymour replied. “There may be others.”

  “But that is precisely the point. Of course, there are other ways to describe her behavior, and the newspapers will exhaust the thesaurus in finding them.”

  “What exactly are you suggesting?”

  Goode leaned toward Seymour, and flicked a glowing ember into the ashtray on the desk.

  “But I am not suggesting anything. I simply want to deny the newspapers their gossip.” He straightened himself in his chair. “I do not want it known that she was carrying that wop’s baby. Surely you can understand that.”

  Seymour felt as though he had just been slapped. The sudden crudeness of the remark, after the calculated talk that had preceded it, startled him into an awareness that the polished gentleman sitting before him was capable of a quiet, but vicious, violence.

  “I can understand your concern, to a point,” he said, “but after all, I would have guessed that the important thing for you would be to see her murderer punished.”

  “Mr. Lipp. My daughter is dead. That is a fact. She was bedding down with scum. That is another fact. I can’t change either of those things.”

  Seymour felt the blood pound in his forehead.

  “Sir, that scum, as you call him, is my client.”

  Goode’s face reddened, and his eyes bulged.

  “Scum, I say, scum, nevertheless. That the scum is your client does not change what he is.”

  “Your daughter chose that scum, Mr. Goode. And I can tell you, from my own experience, that if it hadn’t been him, it would have been somebody else.”

  “Like you, for example?”

  Seymour shrugged.

  “Does that surprise you?”

  Goode seemed to relax, and he puffed on his cigar as though a business deal were suddenly turning in his favor.

  “Yes, and no,” he said behind a cloud of thick smoke.

  “Meaning?”

  “Let me ask you something, Mr. Lipp. Do you deal drugs?” He paused, for only a second. “Of course, you don’t,” he continued, “but your client does.”

  “Did,” Seymour said.

  “No, does, or at least did, if to nobody else, to Emily.” His voice lifted. “He poisoned her, just w
hen I thought we had it licked, when I had managed to shut down all her usual, and some not so usual, sources.” Seymour saw the pain thicken Goode’s brooding eyes. “I’m sure you understand, that I am a man in a position to do that. Don’t trouble yourself trying to figure out how. My daughter was my only child. I wasn’t going to see her destroyed.”

  Seymour felt his hurt, but this was not the time for empathy.

  “Emily would hardly have passed for an ingenue.”

  “Okay,” Goode said. “We’ll have it your way. No, she was not an innocent. I gave her everything, of course, the old story. And she rebelled, also an old story. But that is not all there was to it.”

  “Then you’d better tell me, because your song is playing very tired.”

  “I may have spoiled her,” Goode said slowly, “but not for the usual reasons. No, I was trying to make up for what that bastard did to her.” For a moment, as Goode passed his hand in front of his face, he seemed lost in a distant thought.

  “Excuse me,” Seymour said, “but which bastard are we talking about?”

  Goode’s eyes focused.

  “The one who molested her, when she was just twelve, the bastard whose balls I’d like to have in a jar, who is, unfortunately, still alive.” He swiped at a drop of moisture in the corner of his eye, but Seymour wasn’t sure if its source was anger or grief.

  “You must excuse me, Mr. Lipp. But you see, now I have nothing. I had hoped for an heir, my own blood.” He closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. “I am old-fashioned. Even if Emily hadn’t had her problems, I wanted my grandson—well, you get the idea.”

  Seymour felt he had to push the sentiment back before he responded to it.

  “Now that you are respectable.”

  Goode nodded wearily.

  “Yes, that too. I was not born to wealth, of course. Far from it. I’m sure you know the story. Ellis Island, the Lower East Side, the climb to the top. Not without some scars along the way. But now I am retired. My son-in-law has part of my business.”

  “The respectable part?”

  “You misunderstand, I’m afraid. That’s all there is. He does not need to work, God knows, but I wanted to give him something to do.”

  Seymour understood.