Fever Dream

by Dennis Palumbo

  I didn’t want to hear the candidates take turns being outraged at this heinous crime, showing empathy to the bereaved loved ones, calling on God to gather these four innocent souls into His loving bosom.

  I didn’t want to see the grieving families and their attorneys. Nor watch eager print and broadcast reporters shove microphones in their faces to get their reactions to the memorial. The extent of their loss, what good they hoped might come from this tragedy. How much they thought Sinclair and Garrity really, truly felt their pain.

  Maybe I just didn’t want to see how far Mrs. George Vickers had proceeded with her makeover for the cameras. Or put it down to a growing cynicism about political opportunism, public displays of carefully-crafted emotion.

  Regardless, instead of joining hundreds of others on folding chairs at Point State Park, I was sitting at a quiet midtown Starbucks. Sipping strong black coffee, waiting for Treva Williams to appear. A few blocks from the memorial site, I’d picked a meeting place within walking distance for her.

  What was it like, I wondered, to be sitting in the front row, facing the dais. The only one who’d survived the bloody massacre that had taken her friends and colleagues. As well as Bobby Marks, the man she loved.

  I was about to find out. Just as I was finishing my coffee, I saw Treva Williams step through the doorway from the busy sidewalk. Glancing shyly to her left and right.

  I rose from my seat and waved her over.

  “Dr. Rinaldi. How good to see you.”

  Her face was red from the sun, and her eyes, though moist from recent tears, were unusually animated. She wore a somber gray skirt and blouse under a black blazer. As when I’d first met her, her make-up was muted, nails unpainted. But despite her obvious sorrow, appropriate to the occasion, she seemed less fragile, less emotionally depleted than before. I thought this a good sign.

  “Can I get you something? Iced coffee, maybe?”

  She shook her head and we sat opposite each other at the table.

  “I can only stay a few minutes,” she said quickly, as though a clock were actually ticking. “My driver from Victims’ Services is waiting for me at Point State Park. I had to beg him to let me come and see you, before he drove me home.” A rueful grin. “He says he’s on a tight schedule. Must be a lot of victims out there to take care of.”

  “Too many, I’m afraid. How was the service?”

  Her chin lowered. “It was a nice ceremony. But really hard…I kept thinking about Bobby and everything. But everyone was quite nice…”

  “I’m glad. I was worried that Sinclair and Garrity would just use it to make speeches…”

  “Well, they did, I guess…but it wasn’t obnoxious, you know? It was okay. And Brian Fletcher was very sweet to me. He sat right next to me the whole time.”

  That didn’t surprise me much, though I said nothing.

  “After it was over,” Treva went on, “he said that Leland Sinclair wanted me to attend the debate tomorrow night. To be in the audience.”

  “The debate?”

  “They’ve invited me to sit with some other special guests. With the families and friends.”

  “You don’t have to go, Treva. Not unless you want to.”

  “I think I do, Dr. Rinaldi. Mr. Sinclair is going ahead with the debate to show that he wasn’t scared by that man who shot at him.”

  “Jimmy Gordon.”

  “Yes. I mean, it’s not like I’ve decided absolutely that I’m going. I’m thinking about it, that’s all. Since Mr. Fletcher asked me and everything.”

  Her cheeks flushed, and she involuntarily lowered her eyes. I was reminded suddenly of something Treva mentioned to me once. About how flattered she’d been when her boss at the bank, James Franconi, had said she was good at her job. That she had a flair. I realized that Treva had probably spent a lifelong yearning to be truly seen, appreciated. To be taken seriously. To be noticed.

  We chatted amiably for a few more minutes, mostly about the memorial service. The other victims’ families. Then, finally, I steered the conversation back to her. And the work I felt she needed to do. I suggested that we set up a regular appointment schedule, in my office, starting next week.

  To my surprise, she readily agreed.

  “I know there’s a lot I have to talk about. To work through. Everything I saw and heard. Plus Bobby…”

  Here her lower lip trembled. Eyes blurring with tears. Then, blinking, she looked at her wrist watch.

  “Oh, geez…I really have to go. My driver is waiting for me.” She rose suddenly, straightening her skirt with her small hands.

  I got to my feet as well.

  “Dr. Rinaldi, are you going to the debate, too?”

  “I’m planning to.”

  Her smile seemed more relieved than pleased.

  “Good. I was hoping—I mean, I’m glad you’ll be there. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  The smile melted from her face, replaced by a look of grim expectation. A seriousness of purpose.

  “You do remember your promise to me, don’t you?”

  “Yes I do, Treva. But what do you mean? Are you afraid someone will try to hurt Sinclair again? And that you’ll get hurt or—”

  She shook her head. Vehemently. Almost angrily.

  “No! Nothing like that.”

  “Then, what, Treva?”

  Treva pressed her palms against her forehead. Hard. As though to keep it from exploding. Suddenly, she turned on her heel and ran out the open door.

  Stunned for a moment, I took off after her. Bumping right into a middle-aged couple coming into the coffee shop. By the time I’d side-stepped them, hurried through the doorway, and made my way onto the crowded pavement, she was gone.

  ***

  I went back inside and sat at the same table, just as my cell abruptly buzzed. It was Angie Villanova.

  “What is it, Angie? I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

  “Shit, do a guy a favor and what do ya get? Attitude.”

  “Sorry. Been a weird day.”

  “So I heard. Somebody told me about Harry Polk’s collar earlier today. Some kid from that mental clinic.”

  “Stan Willis.”

  “Right. Though I gotta tell ya, they’ll never make it stick. For one thing, the kid’s family has hired some pricey defense lawyer. And now Willis is denying everything. There’s not a shred of proof against him.”

  “Yeah. It was pretty much all conjecture on my part. Polk came along to put some teeth in it.”

  “Point is, you and I know what’s gonna happen here. Willis is just gonna end up in another psych ward.”

  “Probably. We expect it. Is that why you called?”

  “No, Mr. Charming. I called because you asked me to nose around about Dave Parnelli.”

  “Jesus, that’s right. I’m sorry, Angie. Really.”

  “Turns out, there’s not much to tell. Parnelli’s from Brooklyn. Worked for the public defender’s office for years. Divorced, with a kid. Ex and kid still live there.”

  “So he relocated down here alone?”

  “Looks like. I put my ear to the ground, like you asked, but came up squat. Nothing special about him since he started with the DA’s office. His coworkers think he’s arrogant, but what Italian male isn’t? Word is, he drinks too much, and flirts too much with the female staff, but stops short of sexual harassment.”

  “What about his record with the public defender’s office in New York? Anything there?”

  “Nada. Journeyman mouthpiece. Got his share of creeps and scum-bags off, and then got sick of it.”

  “So he moved straight to the Steel City and the side of the angels.”

  “Not exactly. After leaving the PD’s office, he spent a year in private practice. Some law firm in Harrisburg.”

  My heart stopped. “Which law firm?”

  “Outfit called McCloskey, Singer, and Ganz. Why, you know them?”

  Chapter Fifty-three

  The roo
ftop lounge at the downtown Hilton was nearly empty, so Parnelli and I managed to grab a window seat. It was just sunset, and streaks of red, yellow, and purple crossed the sky, their reflections dancing on the waters of the Monongahela River below.

  Iron City in hand, I leaned my shoulder against the cool window glass. Sipped my beer. Looked and listened. Sparse river traffic, the mournful sound of a lone tugboat. The streets emptying of cars and pedestrians. The hum of drive-time vehicles on the Parkway, heading for home. The scattered glow of lamps coming on behind office windows. The city gathering itself up for the evening, as the day gathered up its light.

  I swallowed a sigh. My favorite time of day, right before darkness falls, and I was spending it at a window table with ADA Dave Parnelli.

  “Glad you took me up on that drink, Dan.” Parnelli was on his third Scotch. His tie was askew, his sweat-dotted comb-over curling at the ends. “Though this is a bit early. Even for me.”

  Somehow I doubted that.

  Parnelli pointed the rim of his glass at me.

  “Plus, I usually don’t get to work banker’s hours. It’s a twelve hour slog most days for this dedicated, under-appreciated public servant. But not today, with the victims’ memorial. Not to mention another big fund-raiser in Squirrel Hill.”

  He drained his glass. “That’s one of the perks of havin’ a boss runnin’ for high office. He’s never at his desk. So when the cat’s away, et cetera. Another one?”

  I shook my head and raised my beer.

  “I’m good.”

  “At this rate, Danny, you’ll never catch up.”

  He laughed and signaled for our waitress to come to the table. She was a real beauty. Young, Mediterranean features. Large breasts rising like creamy smooth mounds in a scoop-necked blouse.

  Parnelli ordered another Scotch, gave the girl a leering smile, and sent her on her way.

  He leaned back in his chair.

  “Smart girl. The bigger the tits, the bigger the tips. It’s the way of the world.”

  Parnelli eyed me carefully.

  “You don’t say much, do ya?”

  “I’m a therapist. I mostly listen.”

  “Uh-huh. Though I get the feelin’ you have somethin’ on your mind.”

  “I do. I’m wondering about what you did after leaving New York. And before coming to Pittsburgh.”

  “No big secret. I worked at McCloskey, Singer.”

  “Funny you didn’t mention that before. Like when we were talking about Stubbs having the goods on McCloskey.”

  “You were talking about it. Truth is, I didn’t think it was relevant. Like I said, it’s not like it’s a secret.”

  I let that pass. “How long were you there?”

  “Just over a year.”

  “Not long. Why’d you leave?”

  “I don’t think private practice is in my DNA, to be honest. Whether I’m keepin’ people outta jail or tryin’ to put ’em in, I’m a public servant to the core. Probably ’cause my old man was a quasi-Socialist. Give him a soapbox and he’d climb up on the damn thing and start rantin’ about the big shots keepin’ the little guys down.”

  I took another pull of my beer. The same one I’d been nursing for an hour.

  “Then what the hell were you doing at McCloskey’s firm? Trying the good life on for size?”

  He grinned. “Score one for the shrink. Exactly right. I thought, hell, since I’m leavin’ the PD’s office, why not make some real money for a change? Hang out with the country club crowd. Screw some rich WASP divorcees and help keep rock stars and CEO’s out of jail.”

  “Well? What happened?”

  “My old man’s voice in my head’s what happened. My goddam DNA’s what happened.”

  He looked up as our waitress returned with his Scotch. When she placed the glass on a napkin in front of him, Parnelli put his fingers lightly on her wrist.

  “You have beautiful hands, young lady. Anybody ever tell you that?”

  She shrugged. “That’s not usually the first thing most people comment on.”

  He shook his head. “That’s because most people are shallow. Unlike me. I’m more of a poet, see? I appreciate the little things, the subtle aspects of beauty.”

  The waitress turned to me.

  “Don’t let him drive, okay?” she said dryly. Then she walked away.

  “Smooth,” I said to him.

  “Never fear, Danny. The best things in life take time to develop. And the night is young. Now, where were we?”

  “You were telling me about Evan McCloskey.”

  He took a large swallow of Scotch, carefully replaced the glass, and leaned forward. Elbows on either side of his drink, hands laced together.

  “Let me put it this way. Back in New York, I had this case. Well, two cases, really. One was defending this crack whore who’d thrown her baby out the window of her tenement apartment. Baby was cryin’. Starvin’, probably. But Mom just needed her junk, didn’t care about nothin’ else. So the kid screamin’ and cryin’ is really settin’ her nerves on edge, right? So out the window goes the kid. Baby hits the ground, nobody says nothin’. Nobody comes outta their little holes to check up on the infant. So it just lies there, in the dirt between two tall apartment buildings. Maybe dead, maybe dyin’. And then the night comes…and the dogs. And there ain’t no hungrier dogs than ghetto dogs.”

  Parnelli lifted his glass, took another swallow.

  “The next day, cops come. Take what’s left of the kid away. M.E. says there’s no way to even tell if the baby was male or female. That’s how little there was left.”

  He raised a forefinger.

  “That’s case number one. My second client was this Russian day-laborer. Did construction, odd jobs, whatever. Fresh off the boat from Minsk or wherever the fuck, right? Old world values, this specimen. His idea of a good time is to take his pay, get drunk, and beat up hookers. Doesn’t fuck ’em, you understand. They’re too old. He saves his man juice for his twin ten-year-old nieces. His brother’s kids. Which the brother—another real piece of work—rents to him on an hourly basis. Just to supplement the family income. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Like I said, my client likes to beat up on prostitutes. I mean, beat ’em real bad. Like, they-don’t-walk-so-good-again bad. Like the-docs-can-maybe-save-an-eye bad, ya know? But the girls, they don’t say nothin’. Don’t press charges. ’Cause they know their pimps will only beat ’em worse.”

  Parnelli turned his head, looked out at the darkening sky. As though an answer lay out there somewhere.

  “Now, by the time I get this Russian guy as a client, he’s upped the ante. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not. But one of the hookers he beats the shit out of suddenly dies. Heart stops, whatever. So now he’s got a dead hooker on his hands. So he goes to his brother—these fuckin’ Ruskies, it’s all about family, ya know? Kinda touchin’. Anyway, he goes to the brother and says, hey, I got a dead hooker in the trunk of my car. Brother says, what am I supposed to do about it? My guy says, well, let’s not waste an opportunity here. Which, bein’ enterprisin’ young men, they don’t. So here’s what they do: they sell tickets to guys in the neighborhood, who take turns pissing on the dead girl in the trunk. Then they hold a raffle, winner gets to pour gasoline in the trunk and light it up. A nice little bonfire in the back of a Chevy Impala. One of the eyewitnesses said it smelled like burnt pork. Stupid bastard thought someone was havin’ a barbeque. Brought some beer down from his apartment. Imagine his disappointment.”

  I’d said nothing throughout Parnelli’s narrative. Just watched his eyes as they grew dark and cold and sad.

  He took a breath, finished the rest of his drink. Leaned in again, eyes flattening to narrow slits.

  “So, here’s the thing: you take those two cases, those two clients. The crack-whore momma and the Russian psycho. Hell, throw in the psycho’s brother. Put all these folks together and stick ’em in one room. Just you and these fuckin’ monsters. And guess what?”

  “Wh
at?”

  “I’d still rather spend a whole night in that room than one hour with Evan McCloskey in his corner office. The one with the windows overlooking the state capitol.”

  “Jesus Christ. Why? He’s that bad? That violent?”

  “Hell, no. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Probably faint at the sight of blood, his or anyone else’s. I mean, the guy’s a deacon of his church. And faithful to his wife, I hear.”

  “Then what is it? About McCloskey?”

  “He’s loyal. To his clients. To the money they spend with his firm. To the things that money buys. The lifestyle it supports. For himself and his family. He’s loyal. Not to truth, or honor, or the facts. Not to the law. Loyal to himself and his kind. What they’ve built. What they represent. Who they are in the scheme of things. And in the name of that loyalty, he’ll rip off competitors, bribe government officials, blackmail his clients’ enemies. He’ll pay off judges and support political candidates who share his agenda. He’s the paterfamilias of corporate law. The sentinel protecting his interests against all comers.”

  Parnelli gave me a slow smile.

  “He’s the devil, Danny. One of ’em, anyway. And we got a lot of ’em now. See, guys like him run the whole show. Where government and business and law and Wall Street all mix together, one big stew of corporate greed. The power elite, you might call ’em. And it’s as removed from the world you and I live in as Paris is removed from Calcutta.”

  I frowned. “I hate to interrupt, Parnelli, but you’re starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist.”

  “Bullshit, there’s no conspiracy. Nothing dark and sinister. It’s just the way it is. Always has been. You think it mattered who the king was when the Medicis were in power? Think of it this way: there are basically two groups. There’re the guys who run things, and then there’s everybody else. Let’s say McCloskey is in that first group, okay? And leave it at that.”

  “And that’s why you left the firm?”

  “Yep. And I never saw one dishonest, illegal act take place. Never was asked to participate in anything criminal. I just read the tea leaves. Smelled it on the wind. Pick your fuckin’ metaphor. All I know is, every time I passed Evan McCloskey in the hall, the little hairs on my forearms stood straight up.”