The Monkey Rope

by Stephen Lewis

  “To help him out. With your daughter.”

  Goode nodded.

  “Yes, he’s a good boy, but not too sharp, and he’ll be lucky not to blow the whole thing. But that is, as you see, not the point, and anyway maybe I misjudged him. He didn’t have to claw his way as I did, and so he looks, in my eyes, soft. Perhaps the clawing is not necessary. Or perhaps his claws are retracted like a cat’s. It doesn’t matter.

  “What does matter is that he is what’s left of my Emily and my hopes.”

  Seymour felt a piece was missing.

  “Maybe I can buy that,” he said, “but Phil’s future, by itself, doesn’t cut it. Remember the balls in the jar idea. What happened to that?”

  “Yes,” Goode began, and then paused. “There is, of course, that. For me.”

  “But?”

  “That is not for her mother. This is too close to the core, Mr. Lipp, so let me just say this. Emily’s mother could not, or did not, see the changes in her daughter after the assault. Do you see? I was left to deal with it. By myself.”

  Seymour thought he could respond, now, a little.

  “And you want to let her continue in her,” he sought for the right word, one without bite, but Goode saved him the trouble.

  “Yes, let her bury the daughter she remembers. I am willing to bury the memories of our daughter with her. For that peace, I am willing to pay a great deal.”

  Seymour ground out his cigarette. He glanced at the ashtray and saw that there were several half-smoked butts in it.

  “Okay. Story time is over. What does all this add up to?”

  Goode almost smiled.

  “I propose, simply, to remove your client from the spotlight.”

  Seymour felt his curiosity stir. He disliked Goode intensely, but he didn’t have to be suicidal about it. Perhaps this plump little man could offer an acceptable way out.

  “Talk to me,” he said.

  “Good. Let me suggest that you could plea bargain your client. I am in a position to assure you that the deal would be a good one. O’Riley owes me. And in any case, he wants this case shut down in a hurry. A trial will prolong a negative exposure for him.”

  “He’s slippery enough to turn it to his advantage.”

  “Right you are, but only if he has to. I am sure he’d rather devote his considerable energies to other business.”

  “I see one serious problem with your proposition, Mr. Goode, in spite of your assurances to the contrary. This is a heinous crime we are talking about. Perhaps a double murder because of the fetus. And good probability of a rape on top of it all. That’s quite a package to bargain down.”

  Goode laughed.

  “If that’s your concern, put it to rest.” His face was smugly confident. “Trust me when I say that even in these circumstances, I can push the right button.”

  “As far down as manslaughter, no rape?”

  Goode did not hesitate.

  “Assuredly.”

  Seymour took a moment to reflect. He believed Goode could deliver, and he had toyed with the idea himself. He might be able to convince Junior that copping was his best hope. But part of him rebelled at the idea, that part of him that still entertained the possibility of Junior’s innocence. And another part hesitated at accepting a deal that would get Junior off if he were guilty.

  “My client maintains he is innocent.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “You don’t expect an answer to that, I’m sure. But you must know that there is another suspect.”

  “Of course, but O’Riley doesn’t seem too interested.”

  “Are you?”

  Goode’s eyes flashed.

  “I said I was willing to bury a memory. Not a lie. My people are checking into this Mr. Gomez.”

  “As I am, you can be sure.”

  “And I would, too, if I were you,” Goode agreed. “Maybe we’re beginning to understand each other. I’m hoping that I can count on your cooperation.”

  “You can count on my doing my job.”

  “And being reasonable?” Goode urged.

  Seymour nodded.

  “Fine. I was hoping you would come around. After all, we do share a kinship. My family fled the pogroms and yours the Nazis.” He hesitated long enough to light another cigar. “We, too, found a less obvious version of our name.”

  “That hardly makes us brothers,” Seymour snapped. He was incensed at the intrusion, but he also felt the pull, the appeal of shared, therefore somehow diminished, misery.

  “No, perhaps it doesn’t.” Goode’s face was hard, but he modulated his voice to a purr. “You don’t have to like me, Mr. Lipp, but I can help you.” He cast his eyes around the office. “You could be doing a lot better than this.”

  “I’m satisfied.”

  Goode narrowed his eyes.

  “Maybe you are. For yourself. But I happen to know that your father was not as fortunate as I. He is ill, and I am sure you would want to help him more than you now can.”

  Seymour shot up from his chair.

  “If he wasn’t so fortunate,” he exploded, “all the more power to him.”

  “Please remember,” Goode said calmly. “I will get what I want, with or without your help. However I need to do it.”

  Seymour steadied himself.

  “Mr. Goode, I am sure that you will do what you want. But you should realize that though I did not grow up on the Lower East Side, I did not grow up easy.”

  “Yes,” Goode replied, “I can see that, and, therefore, I’m sure we’ll be able to deal with each other.” He reached into his jacket pocket. “Here, take a cigar. It might help you to reflect.” He laid a cigar on the desk, and Seymour picked it up.

  Goode turned on his heel and left. Seymour sniffed the cigar appreciatively, and then crumbled it into the waste-basket.

  * * * *

  Rosalie and Seymour got out of the car service car on the corner nearest the entrance to the housing project on Flushing Avenue.

  “Remember, buddy, pick us up right here, in one hour, exactly. Got it?” Seymour handed the fare to the driver who bobbed his head in reply.

  “If you’re on time,” Seymour said, “I’ll take care of you.”

  The driver flashed a toothy smile.

  “No problem. I be here.”

  “Maybe yes, probably no,” Seymour said.

  “So little faith in human nature?” Rosalie asked.

  “I’m sure he wants to come back to pick us up, and he probably believes that he will, but from the size of his pupils, I wouldn’t give him better than even money.”

  The project’s buildings were utilitarian rectangles, no ornament or curve to soften their hard lines. A number of the windows were visibly broken, others boarded up. The ones that were intact were covered, for the most part, with cheap shades. Some had no covering, and residents could be seen walking from room to room or sitting before televisions. Brown grass showed through cracks in the walkways between the buildings. Wooden benches lined the walks at even intervals. Most had slats missing and all had been spray-painted in luminescent colors that glowed in the moonlight. Groups of teenagers congregated beneath the lampposts, listening and dancing to music blaring from ghetto blasters. Shadowy figures could be seen in twos and threes, conducting business in corners away from the light.

  “This place didn’t look anything like this this afternoon,” Rosalie said. “I didn’t notice the paint on the benches, and the only people around were some old folks walking with shopping carts.”

  “You must have hit a down time,” Seymour replied.

  “I guess so. In any case, Gomez’ building, I think, is right around the next corner.”

  “Let’s hope we have better luck this time.”

  “I’m not sure if anybody was home. I thought I heard some noise from inside the apartment. But nobody would answer the door.”

  “Do you have any idea who would be home?” Seymour asked. “Besides Eddie himself?”

  �
��No,” Rosalie answered. “But by the way I am curious. What are you going to do if Eddie answers the door?”

  “I haven’t really figured that one out. At the least, I can ask him about finding the body, try to corroborate Junior’s story. I don’t really expect him to give us any useful answers. I guess I’m hoping that some other family member will be there. Hey,” he smiled, “I’m no Perry Mason. I’m just making this up as we go. Now, if Mr. Gomez were being evicted, then I’d be on firmer ground.”

  They were in front of Gomez’s building, but neither made a motion to go in.

  “It’s possible,” she said slowly, “that we might find out something neither of us wants to know.”

  Seymour studied the tension around her lips.

  “Not likely,” he said.

  “But we might. So there’s something I want to tell you first.”

  Seymour glanced around, knowing they should not stand still for much longer.

  “Can it wait?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “And it’s probably not what you’re thinking. But, I’ll make it quick. You see, I knew about him and Emily almost from the start, and I didn’t want you mixed up with him. Or her.”

  Seymour started.

  “Her? You thought I might be involved with Emily Levine?”

  “Is that so farfetched?”

  “No,” he said slowly. “Not at all.”

  “I wouldn’t have let that happen. Anyway, I told Junior he was looking for trouble, but he just laughed, like he always does.”

  Seymour knew they should go in. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a band of teenagers ambling toward them. But he took a second to sort through what she was saying.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said. “What do you mean, you wouldn’t let it happen.”

  Her voice hardened a little.

  “I’m not exactly sure what I mean, either, but those are my feelings.”

  The teenagers now were within ten feet of them, and Seymour pushed Rosalie through the door.

  “Which floor?” he asked.

  “Third.”

  “We’ll take the stairs.”

  * * * *

  The woman’s eyes wore the look of an animal that has just escaped a snare. They darted from Seymour to Rosalie, and then searched beyond them.

  “Eddie not home,” she said.

  “Could we just talk with you a moment,” Seymour said as soothingly as he could. He handed her his business card.

  “I don’t read so good,” she said, and thrust the card into her apron pocket.

  “I’m a lawyer working on a case. This is my assistant. Maybe you can help us.”

  “Don’t know nothin’ about no case. Eddie not home. Come back later.” She started to close the door, but Seymour put his weight against it.

  “Please,” he said. “This won’t take very long. You know that Eddie is not going to be able to tell us much.”

  “Hmm, that bum,” she sneered. “Come on in.”

  She stepped aside and Seymour and Rosalie walked into the apartment. They found themselves in a sparsely furnished living room, dominated by a large color television on top of which sat a VCR. A game show with contestants trying to guess famous headlines was on. The woman lowered the volume but did not turn the set off.

  “Eddie bring that home one month ago,” she said. “I don’t know where he got the money.”

  She sat on the sofa, her eyes shifting from Seymour to Rosalie. There were no other chairs in the room.

  “How are you related to Eddie?” Seymour asked.

  She turned her head to the television screen before answering. She seemed to be concentrating on the clues being flashed before the contestants.

  Seymour began to repeat the question, but she snapped her reply while still looking at the screen.

  “What you think? He’s my man.”

  “Does Eddie have any sisters? Brothers?”

  She wheeled her head around on her plump neck as deliberately as a tortoise emerging from its shell.

  “He have only me,” she said. “Nobody else.”

  Seymour looked at Rosalie and shrugged.

  “Let me try,” she whispered.

  “You no have to try hiding from me,” the woman said. “I hear good. Everything that crazy bastard say when he don’t think I can hear, I hear. He go around talking beneath his breath but I know what he say.”

  “And what is that?” Rosalie asked.

  “Crazy stuff. Always crazy stuff.”

  “Does he ever talk about his job?”

  The woman cackled.

  “His job? Sure. He go around like this.” She got up and moved her arms as though she were pushing a broom. And then she spat on the floor.

  “Yes,” Seymour said. “But what does he say?”

  “One time,” she said, her eyes steady, “he talk about, I think, a woman. On the floor.”

  “Anything else about this woman?” Seymour asked.

  She had turned back to the television.

  “No, nothing. I don’t know what he talking about.” She cackled again. “Eddie, he don’t know nothin’ about no woman.”

  Seymour walked over to her and handed her another card.

  “If you remember anything else, please give me a call. Any time. Day or night. My home number is right on the card.”

  “Sure, if I remember anything.” She shoved the card again into her apron pocket, and looked at the television, her brows furrowed.

  “Russians Launch Sputnik,” she said loudly, just before one of the contestants.

  They took the elevator down, but although Seymour was sure that he had punched the button for the first floor, the car creaked down to the basement. Seymour was about to push the button again when he saw a figure crouched in the shadows.

  “Wait here,” he said to Rosalie.

  “No.”

  He heard footsteps coming toward them. He looked toward where the figure had been, and he could just make out the gaunt shape and a flash of white on the arm. The steps quickened, and he leaned hard on the button.

  * * * *

  Seymour sat at his desk reviewing the notes he had been making. He heard the door open, and Rosalie, carrying a manila envelope, hurried in. Her face was flushed.

  “I was just thinking,” he said, “that I remember less than I thought about criminal law.”

  She tossed the envelope on his desk.

  “Forget that, for a moment. You’d better read this.”

  He reached for the folder, but she was too impatient.

  “I checked on Gomez, who is not Gomez, at least he wasn’t until recently.”

  He pulled a pile of copies of newspaper stories out of the envelope. She stopped him.

  “There’s more.”

  He sat back.

  “Okay. I’ll read this stuff later.”

  She reddened.

  “I’m sorry. But listen. That story about Emily being molested. Well, something did happen.”

  “Was she?”

  “That’s the point. It’s not clear.” She reached into the pile of papers and withdrew one. “Here, look, there was a trial, of one,” she scanned the print, “of an ‘Eduardo Rodriguez’ accused, and ultimately convicted, of sexual assault of one Emily Goode,” she paused, “age twelve.”

  “No shit,” he muttered, “I didn’t really buy that story.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have.”

  “Huh?”

  “Because, it’s all there, you’ll see, the case was unclear. Rodriguez kept claiming he hadn’t done it. He worked for Goode, as a gardener, I think, and little Emily was his buddy, until one day she told Daddy a story, a very confused one, about being attacked, but the details did not seem to add up very well, and the police had serious doubts, particularly because she offered the story after she had been caught sneaking out at night. To meet some friends, she said, but Goode thought it was a particular friend.”

  “Rodriguez?”

  “T
hat’s what Goode concluded, but very possibly a neighborhood kid, just up the block, whose parents left him alone a good deal of the time like when they were off on a cruise. He was seventeen anyway.”

  He finished for her.

  “And Goode wasn’t having any of that, and so he pushed hard, and got a confession, lesser charge, but serious enough to send him away for a long time.”

  Her face darkened with concern.

  “There’s one more thing on that point. The family lawyer, for Goode, well, there’s no easy way. You know him. Or did.”

  Seymour sat back as though a heavy hand had pushed against his shoulder.

  “He told me he had once been in the same kind of box. But I had no idea. Screw it. That’s history. Along with a lot of other shit. What else do you have?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “History is filled with clay feet.” But he knew that he would have to deal with this one at another time.

  “Should I go on?” she asked, and he nodded.

  “Just this, it’s there on the bottom of the pile, the most recent clipping, just a little story, really, that Rodriguez was recently paroled, and that he changed his name.”

  Seymour shuffled through his papers.

  “It says he had been transferred, after repeated assaults on him by other convicts, to another prison, way the hell away.”

  “And became?”

  Seymour scanned the article.

  “Mr. Eddie Gomez, paroled last month, his prison psychiatrist offering the judgment that he had recovered from his assorted traumas.”

  “When did you say you got that call from a parole officer?”

  “Just about a month ago,” Seymour said. He stood up and hugged her.

  “This might explain a lot of things.”

  “Like why he acted crazy.”

  “Acted is maybe right. Waiting for his moment of payback—after all those years.”

  Rosalie frowned in disbelief.

  “I have trouble with that one.”

  Seymour nodded.

  “So do I. And why he was hiding in his own damned basement, if that was him.”

  She seemed lost in thought for a moment, and then she said very slowly, “Still, it’s possible that my brother is innocent, after all.”

  “Didn’t you say,” Seymour demanded, “that you believed he was?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But that was more an act of faith. Now I have reason.”