The Shadow Box

by Maxim, John R.

  It was Jocelyn who had that sign made up. Playing Hobbs. She surprised him with it last summer. Now he didn't know what he'd tell her. She had no trouble believing that drug dealers had broken into the Palm Beach house, killed the guard who tried to stop them, and set the place ablaze. But how would he explain that it's happened to them twice?

  Damn.

  Damn Rast for all of it. Damn him for—

  Hobbs noticed the two men.

  They were black. Young, by the look of them. They were dressed in hooded sweatshirts, baggy trousers, high-topped sneakers. They were walking in his direction, probably coming from Central Park. Must have filled their quota for the day, their pockets filled with cash and credit cards from women's purses and from the Velcro wallets of joggers. Going home now to spend it on their crack habits.

  Hobbs started to cross to the other side of the street.

  But no. Damned if he would. Michael Fallon didn't.

  Oh, my.

  That taller one, the lighter one, could almost be Michael. Hard to tell with the hood. The other one, darker, could be Jake Fallon's bodyguard, the one they call Moon.

  Hobbs slowed. He stared. They kept on coming.

  By day, Marvis Shockley worked for the Parks Department. By night he took courses at NYU toward a degree in education. The smaller man was Ahmad Shabaz. He was a plainclothes officer with the Transit Authority Police.

  If this were a subway, he might have given chase to the middle-aged white man who, just ahead, just now, suddenly turned and ran. Back toward Madison Avenue. Shouting. Coat flying. Losing one of his shoes.

  “He seen a ghost?” asked Marvis Shockley.

  “He seen two spooks,” said Officer Shabaz.

  “What's that he yelled?”

  “Wasn't me.”

  “Wasn't him who what?”

  “Just keep walkin'.”

  “Think he made you for a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Then why he run?”

  “Keep walkin’”

  Marvis smiled. “White men can't run, either.”

  Officer Ahmad Shabaz didn't know what was worse. Being white and scared of any black man who's not in some uniform. Or being black and seeing how scared they get. Both ways are bad.

  Army uniform, cop uniform, hospital whites ... all those say we're housebroke. Tuxedo says we're musicians or waiters. A good business suit will ease their minds as long as we don't wear shades with it ‘cause then they think we're Muslims. Found Allah in prison. Hate whitey. Hate Jews even more.

  But wear your sweathoods and high-tops, be out walkin' at night, white folks run into white stores or dive down a subway where they hope there's a cop. But in your own neighborhood you have to wear them or you stand out. Wear anything else and you get dissed by your brothers for dressin' too white.

  Every way is bad. No way to win.

  One time, upstate, he stopped in this little store. Woman didn't know whether to scream or hold her breath or ease over toward the gun she most likely had under the counter. He had to tell her, “Lady, all I want is some toothpaste. See here? Here's my money.” Damned if he'd tell her he's a cop.

  That never stops. And it always feels bad even when it feels good. The good feel part is why Marvis is smilin'.

  Feels good watchin' the white man run.

  Lena May field said thank you but no.

  The lawyer had called her first thing Thursday morning. She was dressed in her bathrobe, busy frying up breakfast.

  Yes, she remembered the little wavy-haired lawyer, she appreciated what he'd done for her back then and it was nice of the Fallon boy to offer. But she just had no time for such foolishness.

  First off, she couldn't hardly afford one sick day, never mind a whole week with no money coming in. Time was, she had four part-time jobs but in March she got laid off from two of them because one lady she cleaned for moved to Florida and the man who owned the video store had to give that job to kin. Second, Mr. Doyle wouldn't tell her where this vacation-with-all-expenses place is. He said he'd tell her when she's packed and ready to go. All he'd say is the place is real pretty.

  Heck. Selma, Alabama, was pretty.

  Anyhow, the lawyer sounded just as glad that she declined.

  “Mr. Doyle ... try her one more time. Tell her I'll—”

  “She said no, Michael.”

  “How about if I make up any pay she misses?”

  “She thanks you for the offer but she can't.”

  “Okay, I'll ask her myself.”

  “No. Don't do that.”

  A beat on Michael's end. “Are you sure that you even called her?”

  “Fuck you for asking.”

  “Come on, Mr. Doyle. You're a persuasive guy. Persuade her.”

  A weary breath. “You going to be home?”

  “I'm here all day.”

  Again, Lena Mayfield said no. But the lawyer sounded like he meant it this time. He wouldn't let up. He told her it was Martha's Vineyard. It's where the president goes on vacation, he said. It's where Jimmy Cagney used to live. Man was runnin' short on arguments.

  In the end, what made her say yes was not the limousine—one of those block-long suckers—which would come right up her street where everyone could see and the chauffeur would hold the door open for her. It wasn't being driven way up to Westchester Airport and then put on a bitty little plane. And it wasn't Mr. Doyle's whopper about how it's a mortal sin for Catholics if they don't do a good deed back.

  That boy had looked after her, even busted up like he was. Lookin' in on him was the least she could do. And with Memorial Day weekend coming, people going away, the folks she still cleans for don't need her then anyhow. She'd go up first thing tomorrow, stay till Monday lunch if that suits Michael. But she won't take his money and he's got to let her pitch in with the chores.

  Three days is enough idleness for anyone.

  Chapter 27

  Parker too was sorely tempted to think about a change of scenery.

  For some weeks now, an inner voice had been telling him that it was time to pick up his marbles and vanish. That voice had never been louder than this morning, sitting in the old man's suite, watching him eat breakfast—the man eats cold cuts and yogurt—listening to his rantings and knowing that meanwhile, that piss-ant Hobbs was getting dangerously close to a breakdown.

  Twice now, the Baron had postponed going back to Munich. Twice, he'd ducked board meetings until he could get this settled. Parker had no idea what the board knew or didn't know or what set of books he was showing them. But AdChem's earnings had been taking a bath for more than a year now and the Baron was under pressure to show some turnaround. The last thing he needed was Doyle's new lawsuit. If the von Scharnhorsts are clean, they'll vote him out in a second. The Baron is family, but only by marriage. If they're dirty, and if they're smart, they'll let him take the fall.

  “Who is Armin Rasmussen, by the way?” asked Parker.

  The Baron's eyes went cold.

  “Someone on the board, or what?”

  The old man's scar was twitching. “He doesn't concern you,” he answered distantly. “He's someone who died . . . a long time ago.”

  Sure he did, thought Parker. That's why the name scares the shit out of you. But screw it. Parker had his own problems.

  Turkel might have been the smart one. He's probably down on Grand Cayman right now stuffing cash in a suitcase. That's unless they have him. And the Baron's afraid that they might. In which case, he says, we'll need a hostage of our own.

  “Like who? Like Doyle?”

  “Who else but Doyle? He's the only one we can get our hands on.”

  Oh, boy. “Look . . . let's think about this.”

  “And it must be done quickly. I want him before he can file that lawsuit.”

  Parker felt a headache coming on. “Doyle calls Bellows to say he's upping the ante. He says he's naming AdChem this time and he claims he's got evidence of fraud and then, one day later, he gets snatched. You
think no one will make the connection?”

  “The man is a lawyer. Lawyers have enemies.” Oh, Christ, thought Parker. He's talking about killing him.

  “That's what you'll tell Bellows when he turns up dead? It wasn't us? Must have been some divorce case he handled where he fucked some guy over?”

  ”A street crime, then. Or a hit-run accident. You might, for example . . .”

  Parker stopped listening. This is where the Baron tells you how to do your job. He lays out detailed scenarios of exactly how it should happen. It's like he's never heard of Murphy's Law.

  This is all Bellows needs, thought Parker. He's still in shock over his goddamned Rolls and he knows they could just as easily have torched the whole town house with him and his family trapped up in their bedrooms. It would take him about two stiff vodkas before he's on the phone to a federal prosecutor looking to cut himself a deal.

  The Baron's now saying that just the other day a businessman from Cleveland was stabbed to death by a transvestite prostitute. He'd seen it on the news. Arrange

  something like that, he's saying. Something so sordid that his family will want to keep it quiet.

  Parker signaled for time out. He shared his thoughts about how Bellows might react. The old man didn't want to hear it but in the end he knew it was right because he'd been having the same thoughts about Hobbs.

  “Is anyone keeping an eye on him, by the way?”

  “Hobbs? Where's he going to go?”

  “Where do cockroaches go when you turn on the light?”

  “Hobbs couldn't flip us. He's—”

  “See to it, Mr. Parker.”

  Parker said he'd watch him just to keep the old man happy. But no way. Bellows might flip and then walk because the most he'd be facing is two years anyway, which, worst case, he'd spend playing tennis at Allenwood. Hobbs could sing himself hoarse and he'd still do life without.

  The Baron was pacing. He stopped at a window, stared out at the city.

  “Does Doyle have Turkel?” he asked.

  ”No.”¯

  “What has you so sure?”

  “Because if Doyle had the first clue that you were wired into the FDA, and could prove it, how could he resist dropping a bomb like that on Bellows? He's got nothing, Mr. Rast.”

  The Baron nodded slowly. He tended to agree but he said it didn't matter. Doyle had told Bellows that he'd be filing this afternoon. The mere act of filing that suit, which would then be public record, would be enough to throw AdChem's stock into free fall.

  “Do you understand what that would mean?”

  “Yeah.” It means I lose a lot of money, thought Parker. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Silence him.”

  “Um . . . let's slow down here, okay?”

  “‘Did I just give you an order?’'

  “Instead, what if we—”

  “Damn you ... DO IT!!”

  The scream was a vein popper. It made two of his Germans rush in. The Baron cocked his head toward him and then toward the door. The bigger of the two Germans nodded, then crossed the room reaching for him.

  “Come,” said the bodyguard. “For you it's time to go.”

  Parker's shoe caught him full in the crotch. As he folded in two, Parker snatched his Beretta from the small of his back and chopped at the big German's ear. The man yelped. Parker hit him again as he went down. He raised the pistol to the second man's face and then dropped its sights to his knee. The second bodyguard froze.

  Parker backed away toward the Baron. With his free hand, he made a calming gesture toward the second German. Now, with that hand, he reached for the Baron's shoulder and turned his lips to the Baron's ear.

  “Don't fuck with me, Mr. Rasmussen,” he whispered.

  Chapter 28

  Moon could not put it off much longer.

  He would have to face Doyle and get it over with. But first he'd go visit with Jake.

  He had not lingered in Maine. He stayed just long enough to make sure that the blaze was out of control and to watch two security guards running around like Chinamen. They were yelling in what could have been Chinese for all he knew. For sure, it wasn't English. They were shooting at shadows, not even trying to turn on a hose. But a hose would not have helped. He had shut off all the water before he lit the match.

  They had automatic weapons this time. And they weren't sitting by some pool. These two, he realized, had been waiting for him in the woods. Real quiet, had the road covered, had the house in a crossfire. Thing is, one was smoking hashish that he smelled from a quarter mile away and the other wore a big yellow slicker that squeaked like cheap shoes every time he moved. You'd think they'd have hired better help by now.

  It had taken him an hour to circle back to his car. He headed due west, over the New Hampshire state line and on through Vermont until he reached the New York State Thruway. It was not the fastest way back to Brooklyn but he was in no big hurry. The fastest way would be straight down 1-95. But that road is too easy to watch. It funnels all the traffic from six New England states into one narrow stretch way down in the corner of Connecticut. Men drive up from the Bronx all the time to do burglaries in Greenwich or shoplift in Stamford and they wonder why the state police keep pulling them over on their way back down.

  Moon had stayed the night at a Yonkers motel in another mostly black area. This morning, he had poked along with the rush hour traffic, reaching midtown Manhattan before nine. He found a meter on Madison Avenue and walked two blocks back to a florist he'd passed. He made two purchases. The first was a spray of bluebells and heather because these were Jake's favorites. The other was a box of long-stemmed lilies.

  He left the lilies, no card, with the doorman at Bart Hobbs's apartment house up Fifth Avenue near the museum. There was no need for a card because he'd packed a new Louisville Slugger with the lilies. From there, he drove out to Holy Cross Cemetery, where he tidied Jake's grave, put the floral spray in place, and spent the next hour bringing Jake up to date.

  Jake, as he expected, wasn't all that happy with him either.

  “Lilies?” Jake asked him. “You actually sent lilies?”

  Well ... all he'd meant to do was buy a long box for the bat. But, Easter being over, all the lilies were on sale at half price and . . .

  “Moon . . . do yourself a favor. Don 't tell Brendan or Julie you did that. Ten years from now, they'll still be giving you crap about it.''

  Doyle, maybe. But Julie, thought Moon, would have sent him Walter's ears.

  As for the rest of what he'd been up to—torching houses and cars—putting the fear of God into Hobbs and all those other suits—Jake could see how this was personally satisfying but he thought it wasn't really what you'd call a plan. A plan, Jake reminded him, is suckering your opponent into making a mistake and being ready to hammer him when he does.

  “Say the torching works. Say one or more of them panics. Do you have anything set up?”

  “No.”

  “What, by the way, do you have against Rolls-Royces?”

  “House was a town house,” Moon told him. “It had two others flush up against it. Might have burned the whole block down so I settled for the car.”

  He could feel Jake shaking his head, thinking, “That's something else I wouldn't mention to Julie.”

  But the fact is, thought Moon, Fat Julie would understand. Not the part about being so considerate, maybe, but he knows that nothing scares a man like knowing he's being hunted.

  Plan or no plan, the thing is to do something. That way, the man you're doing it to sets to wondering what your plan is and so he comes up with one of his own. His won't work either because it's built on what he only thinks you're doing.

  Big Jake heard that. He's thinking, “Moon, I heard some loony logic in my day, but…” He thought it but he didn't say it.

  “Fine,” he said instead. “But, suppose one of them wants to make a deal. Say it's Hobbs. Can he even get a message to you?”

  “Won't be no deal.”

>   “Okay, look . . . you remember back in Mike's freshman year? You remember that thumping you gave him? You remember why?”

  “Yeah. I know.” It was for playing Lone Ranger.

  “It's why you have friends, Moon. I want you to stop this and go talk to your friends.''

  Moon knew that this was only his own heart talking. That, and knowing what Jake would have said if he was still alive. He would also have said that having friends is a two-way street. He'd say maybe Parker and that bunch can't find you but they can damned well find Doyle. You should be watching Brendan's back.