A Clean Kill

by Mike Stewart

  “Sir,” he said, “you’re not allowed back here.”

  “Tell me who Cindy is and where I can find her.”

  “Why don’t you let me go see Cindy myself, sir. I’m sure …”

  I did not have time for this. The clerk needed motivation, and I knew I was going to have to do something unattractive to provide it. “I’m sorry, but if you don’t tell me where to find her, right now, I’m going to hit you in the stomach so hard you’ll vomit now and every time you eat for the next two days.”

  “You can’t just …”

  “There’s nobody here but you and me. Like I said, I’m sorry, but I need those pictures. And you warning somebody who stole my prints that I want them back is not my idea of helping.” I grabbed the front of his shirt in my left hand and lifted him onto his toes. I wanted to scare the little bastard enough so that I wouldn’t have to actually hit him. Next to losing the pictures of the man who’d tried to kill me, the last thing I wanted just then was to beat on some pencil-necked kid making minimum wage in a photography store.

  I spun him and pressed his back against the wall. The kid’s shirttail had come out when I grabbed him, and his milk-pale stomach quivered in anticipation of what would probably be the first serious punch of his young life.

  I glared into his eyes. I was trying for menacing. “Where the hell is Cindy?”

  He blinked hard at tears. “Stop. I’ll tell you. Please, stop.”

  I pulled him away from the wall, but kept his shirt gathered in my fist.

  He stammered. “Cindy works at the pizza place. She said you had lunch there.”

  “Has Cindy got red hair?”

  He nodded his head up and down. “That’s her. Dark red hair. Good-looking. She’s got your pictures.”

  I let go of his shirt and walked back around the counter and headed out. At the door, I turned and came back. The poor guy was shaking. I put a fifty-dollar bill on the counter and said, “Sorry.” It didn’t fix anything, and it made me feel even more like the miserable, bullying SOB that I was. Good move—humiliate a guy and then take away any chance for him to reimagine the encounter as a confrontation of equals by apologizing for humiliating him. That skinny kid was going to hate me for a long, long time.

  Just outside the door, I started running. The pitiful kid I had just terrorized was almost certainly phoning a young waitress named Cindy to warn her that a maniac was on his way to see her. I had to get there fast.

  Twelve

  It’s hard to outrun a push-button phone.

  As I charged through the door of the pizza place, I saw the vague brunette waitress holding a headset to her ear. Her head snapped up. Her eyes were wide. She screamed one word. “Willie!”

  I held up my palms. “It’s all right. I just need to talk to …”

  The kitchen door swung open, and Willie stepped into the dining room. He was a short black man, maybe fifty years old, and he had a kinked spray of gray and black whiskers on his chin. He wore all white—shirt, pants, and full apron with pizza stains.

  Willie walked quickly through the restaurant and stopped between me and the waitress behind the counter. He put his fists on his hips, and I could see work-hardened muscles and tendons rolling beneath the dark skin on his arms. The whites of Willie’s eyes seemed stained with tea, the way some people’s eyes look when they’re almost pure African.

  I spoke to him now. “I’m not looking for trouble. I just need to talk with Cindy.”

  The brunette waitress had her hand cupped over the phone’s mouthpiece. She looked up and said, “Don’t let him in, Willie.”

  Willie nodded at me. “Just go on outta here. No need for trouble.”

  “I’m not looking for trouble. One of your waitresses, a girl named Cindy, picked up some pictures of mine down at the photo shop by mistake. I just need to talk with her.”

  “I said just go on. You ain’t talkin’ to nobody here.”

  The waitress had hung up the phone. She was watching. I said, “I told you I’m not looking for trouble. But I’m not leaving without talking to Cindy.”

  Willie nodded. “You figure you gonna come through me?”

  “If I have to.”

  He nodded again. “Maybe. Maybe not.” I don’t think I was scaring him. “But Cindy ain’t here, so I don’t guess we’re gonna find out.”

  “She was here just before lunch.” I pointed. “She brought me a cup of coffee at that table right there.”

  “She’s gone home for Christmas.”

  I looked at him.

  “The man, he come in this morning and give her a three-hundred-dollar tip. It was enough for a plane ticket home. She’s gone.”

  I asked, “How long?” then hesitated. Willie had said the man. It was an outdated expression, but then Willie was a little outdated himself. “Are you saying a cop came in here and paid Cindy three hundred dollars to steal my pictures?”

  “I ain’t saying nothin’ about stealing. But, yeah, man said he was a state cop. Plainclothes with a badge. So you ain’t got no reason to be bothering Cindy or anybody else in here.”

  The brunette waitress yelled out. “Don’t tell him anything else, Willie.”

  I looked back at Willie. “You let these college girls tell you what to do?”

  He shook his head. “My place.”

  “Then tell me what this plainclothes cop looked like, and I’ll be gone.”

  Willie grinned big, showing a front crown rimmed in gold. “You be goin’ anyhow. Look behind you.”

  I heard the door open and turned around. There in the doorway was my quivering friend from the photo shop. He was standing between two uniformed cops, and he was pointing an accusing finger in my direction.

  The photo shop kid and I had been hanging out in Auburn Police Headquarters for three hours. He bitched to everyone who’d listen. I sat in a chain-link cage and meditated on the criminal direction my life had taken of late.

  Municipal court was in session. If it was like most college towns, the weekend judge would be a local attorney who filled in on Saturdays to give the regular jurist a break from sentencing fraternity boys to community service. I was not looking forward to this. Lawyers are not amused by other lawyers who degrade their profession by beating shop clerks about the head and shoulders.

  For most of the afternoon now, the kid had waited in a metal chair by the sergeant’s desk, reading magazines, fidgeting, and generally exuding an air of injury. I waited in my cage. At 4:43 P.M., a bailiff opened the chain-link gate that separated criminals like me from polite society and led me through the building to a hallway outside the courtroom. Inside, I could hear a rasping baritone lamenting the wasted lives of old drunks and young. Finally, I was marched into court to face my accuser.

  The judge was old. He wore thick glasses with black, World War II–era frames, and he would have had a crew cut if there had been any hair left on top to stand up. He knew I was a lawyer. Even before he’d heard any testimony, I was instructed to be ashamed of myself.

  My accuser went first, and he told the truth.

  When it was my turn, I told the truth too, only I shaded it a little.

  I told the judge that I had been angry about the kid giving my photos to some stranger. I had wanted to know who he gave them to. I had cussed some and grabbed the kid’s shirt. I said that I had then apologized for my actions and had given the kid fifty dollars for the name of the person who’d picked up my prints.

  When I finished my story, the kid said, “I object,” which wasn’t exactly the correct use of that evidentiary device, but we all knew what he meant.

  I told the judge to check the kid’s pockets for the fifty.

  The kid blushed. He produced the fifty. The judge ruled.

  The kid had to give my fifty back, and I had to pay a three-hundred-dollar fine for misdemeanor disturbing the peace. I started to argue, but the judge gave me a look. And that was it.

  The desk sergeant led me back into the holding area, where I re
covered my wallet, watch, and belt and found that I had exactly two-hundred-seventy-three dollars and twenty-six cents on my person. And that included the recovered fifty from the photo guy.

  I had credit cards. The sergeant grinned. “We don’t take plastic.”

  My wallet, watch, and belt went back into the lockbox. I went back into the cage. The photo kid stopped by to smile and flip me the bird on his way out.

  So far, my Auburn trip wasn’t really working out.

  I called Kelly in Mobile to have money wired. At least, that’s what I would have asked her to do if she’d answered the phone. It was close to 6:00 now. I tried a couple more numbers. Joey still wasn’t home, and I found myself mumbling into unanswered rings. I think I said something about hoping he was still alive, since that’s what I was thinking, but I really just remember indulging in a little aimless mumbling appropriate to the circumstances and surroundings. Next, I tried Loutie Blue without success. I assumed she was still out looking for Joey.

  My friends in Mobile were engaged in the circle of life, and I wasn’t in it.

  I cussed some and placed a call to Dr. Cantil. She was still in her office. I explained my situation.

  Her only comment was, “You’ve had a busy day.”

  “Will you come?”

  “I have to go by a cash machine. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Dr. Cantil laughed. “Didn’t you expect me to help you?”

  “Actually, no.”

  It was 7:00 P.M. Dr. Cantil had paid my fine and collected me from the cage without comment. When her ancient Volvo was well away from police headquarters, I asked her to take me to a cash machine so I could pay her back.

  She nodded but she had the strangest look on her face.

  I kept waiting for her to say something. Finally, I said, “Why’d you come?”

  “You mean, why was I willing to bail out a convicted ruffian with delusions of being shadowed by invisible assassins?”

  “I guess that’s one way to put it. Not the way I would’ve picked, but …”

  She smiled. More than that. She seemed, well, mirthful. “I checked on you. After you left my office this afternoon, I was, quite honestly, concerned about your connection to reality. So I picked up the phone and found a few lawyers I know in Mobile and Montgomery who were in their offices on a Saturday afternoon.” Dr. Cantil glanced over at me. “I had some interesting conversations.”

  “You can’t believe everything you hear.”

  “What I heard was that you definitely are not crazy.”

  “You can believe that part.”

  “After asking around a bit for someone who knows you well, I spoke with a criminal attorney in Birmingham who has known you since you were both here in university.”

  I knew who she meant. “Spence Collins.”

  “Yes. Our networks intersected at Spencer. I’ve assisted him with jury selection on two capital trials. He told me to believe you. He said that you are drawn to these types of cases.”

  I’d heard that opinion expressed before, and I didn’t much like it. “I don’t know if ‘drawn’ is the right word. This started out as a simple malpractice case. For all I know, that’s still all it is.”

  The professor cut her eyes at me. “We all have at least three images. The person we think we are, the person that others see, and the person we actually are.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up.”

  “Spencer was not the only person I consulted who expressed this opinion of you. The way he explained you to me was this: Attorneys—litigators, at least—find themselves in the middle of all sorts of situations that could, if pressed, become dangerous or even violent. Most of them look the other way or resign from the case or simply contact the authorities when things begin to move in a frightening direction. He said that you don’t do that. He said that you just keep pressing.”

  “Doesn’t make me sound very smart, does it?”

  “People are complicated. Spencer, for example, says he’s glad he has the sense to stay away from trouble. But he seems to admire whatever it is that makes you barge ahead.”

  The conversation was turning uncomfortable. I wanted to go back to being the person I thought I was. “Are all psychologists as much fun as you are?”

  She smiled. “Sorry. Shrinks love to shrink.”

  “No, no. I’m glad to finally meet someone who thinks I’m as fascinating as I think I am.”

  Dr. Cantil pulled into a drive-thru lane at an AmSouth branch. When she pulled up next to the machine, she said, “Give me your card.”

  I handed her my credit card.

  She fed the plastic rectangle into the slot. “What’s your pin number?”

  I looked at her. “I think you’re supposed to keep that secret.”

  “You are.” She was studying my face. I could almost see the shadows of thoughts flickering behind her pale eyes.

  “Is this a test?”

  She shrugged.

  “Okay. But I’m trusting you with a very important number.” I looked into her eyes. “It’s six, six, six.”

  She laughed out loud. “Fine. I’ll back up. You and Satan can get out and do it yourselves.”

  I smiled. “It’s three, seven, one, nine.”

  She tapped in the number and, at my instruction, pulled three hundred out of my checking account. Dr. Cantil handed me my card and pocketed the cash as reimbursement for my fine. As she pulled back onto the street, she said, “Interesting number.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your pin number. ‘X’ marks the spot. That’s how you remember it. You just draw an ‘X’ on the keypad.”

  I looked over at her profile. She looked proud of herself, which made her appear even younger than her twenty-eight-or-so years. I said, “You’re a smart woman.”

  “I hear the same thing about you,” she said, “except for the woman part. By the way, if you don’t mind a little driving tomorrow, I found the law firm disk we talked about.”

  “From the state bar?”

  She nodded. “I told Beth it was an emergency. I’m supposed to call her at home tomorrow morning. If you can make it, she’ll meet you at our Montgomery campus at noon with a copy of the disk.”

  “Dr. Cantil?”

  “Kai-Li.”

  “Okay, Kai-Li. Are you convinced now that it’s an emergency?”

  “Let me explain. You see, Tom … May I call you Tom?”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  “My family is scattered from Hong Kong to Bermuda to Scotland. I had a long, lonely, boring Christmas break ahead of me. Then this crazy attorney walks into my office with a problem that sounds like actual fun.”

  I studied her face. “But you’re not completely convinced that it’s the emergency I think it is.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “Not completely. But it is interesting.”

  Thirteen

  I awoke in an uncertain room, a polyester print tucked under my chin. Susan had been out of my life for some time, and I was edgy from having dreamed of her—or someone like her. My night vision of Susan had floated from a true picture of her to someone almost her, someone who kept the shaggy blonde hair and flashing smile but whose eyes had turned an absorbing Asian green.

  It was late. Midmorning. I pushed out of bed onto the balls of my feet and walked stiffly across the carpet to pull open heavy hotel drapes. Hard winter light cut at my eyes, and I retreated to the bathroom to shower and shave and finish waking up.

  Half an hour later, downstairs in the Auburn Convention Center, I found Sunday brunch being served in the dining room. I ordered waffles and then found a pay phone in the lobby where I placed a call to Joey. He didn’t answer. Neither did Loutie Blue.

  I returned to my table as waffles and sausage, orange juice, and coffee arrived. Some sort of convention that involved pudgy, middle-aged women seemed to be the hotel’s only other business. The women all chose the buffet—it was “all you ca
n eat,” and that’s what they were having. Maybe it was part of the package.

  I ate waffles with maple syrup and watched. After all, someone was watching me. Some guy with a suit and a badge had found me in Auburn and stolen my photographs of the Cajun stranger. And I thought it would be nice if I could catch a glimpse of the person who found me such interesting and easy prey. But unless the man had morphed into a chubby, fifty-something housewife—which I was beginning to believe was not outside the realm of possibilities—my stalker wasn’t in evidence.

  Stuffed with waffles and orange juice, I headed back up to my room to stuff my nylon bag with clothes and toilet articles before checking out. As the door clicked open, I heard the soft wind-noise of the shower running. I’d already started to shut the door, planning to get the hell out of there, when I realized I couldn’t do it.

  The scariest thing about ghosts is the unnatural fact that you can’t see them. I was tired, and I was ready not only to see this one but to kick its ephemeral ass.

  I pushed inside. The outer room was empty. I grabbed a brass desk lamp for a weapon and stopped outside the bathroom door. The shower kept running. The knob turned in my hand. I burst inside and snatched the shower curtain aside.

  No one was there.

  My shampoo was still on the tiny ceramic shelf. The hotel soap was next to the drain where I’d dropped it and left it. I turned. On the fogged plate-glass mirror above the sink, someone had used what looked like a finger wrapped in a washcloth to draw a smiling happy face. Beneath the drawing my visitor had written a greeting: HAVE A NICE DAY, ASSHOLE.

  Ten minutes later, a few minutes after 10:30, I pulled out of the hotel’s parking deck and headed for the interstate. It was not a pleasant drive. I found myself repeating a pattern of speeding recklessly and then slowing in a useless effort to force calm.

  Kai-Li had said that Beth, the state bar association’s voice of Emerging Issues in Legalmetrics, would meet me at Auburn University in Montgomery—she called it “A.U.M.”—to deliver a disk containing the state bar directory broken down by law-firm affiliation.