Neon Dragon mk-1

by John F. Dobbyn

  I was caught flat-footed. “But didn’t you just say…”

  “I know what I said.” He stood up, and the chair spun. “And I know you. I could order you to hell and back, and you’d still go to Toronto, wouldn’t you?”

  There was no point in not telling him the truth.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’ll probably go on taking these foolish chances for the rest of your life. You’re too damn much like me.”

  I was grinning, and I didn’t hide it. I think inside maybe he was, too, in spite of the fierceness of the scowl.

  “If you get hurt up there, you’ll get it double from me when you get back! You understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll watch it.”

  “I want to see you right here the instant you get back.”

  I nodded. “The instant I get back.”

  I walked out of there on six clouds. I got looks of sympathy from the corridor dwellers who heard the ruckus and thought Mr. D. had devoured another associate. I sensed that back of the bellowing, the man cared whether I lived or died. I never got that feeling from anyone else at Bilson, Dawes.

  I decided to check into my office, as briefly as possible. Julie held out a pink please-call-back slip.

  “Are you and ‘Lex’ still tight? Sounds like there’s trouble in Paradise.”

  I said it quietly while I checked the slip. Tom Burns wanted me to call him back at his office. “We’re cool. I’ve got him right where I want him.”

  “Right. On your back, taking bites out of your neck.”

  I just shook my head and smiled. I looked back down the corridor.

  “Did you ever notice something, Julie? When you walk down toward that office, the floor seems to rise. You know why that is?”

  She looked blank and curious, and I just winked.

  Tom Burns picked up on the second ring. It was his private line with no secretarial intermediates.

  “Any pay dirt, Tom?”

  “I checked the twelve jurors. The twelve of them continued on with about the same lifestyle they had before the Dolson trial. The only exception was that one of them died about a year after the trial.”

  “Of what?”

  “Heart attack. Nothing suspicious. He had heart problems before the trial.”

  “So we struck out.”

  “Did I say that, Mike? Hold your horses. I checked probate. The one who died left the usual things a carpenter from South Boston would leave his daughter in his will. Plus a three-hundred-thousand-dollar bank account.”

  “Bingo.”

  “There’s more. I checked with the other jurors personally. The guy who died was the holdout that made the hung jury. The others were ready to convict. I also checked to see if any of the others were approached with a bribe. None. But they only needed one.”

  “You’re a thing of beauty, Thomas. What kind of an account was it?”

  “According to the will, it was a regular savings account. South Boston Savings.”

  “In his name?”

  “Right.”

  “Which was?”

  “Ronald Perry.”

  “I need to get some information on the account. Do you know who the executor was under the will?”

  “By coincidence, the daughter who came into the three hundred grand. Joyce Perry Frank. She works at the Shaughnessy Funeral Home in Southie.”

  “You’re too good, Tom. I’ll get back to you on the bill.”

  “Not this time, Mike. Just go with it.”

  I checked the phone book for the address of the Shaughnessy Funeral Home. I called and made an appointment with Joyce Perry Frank for two o’clock. I didn’t give any specifics. I didn’t want her to lose that sympathetic, consoling tone of voice until I had a chance to explain what I needed.

  There was just time to dash through two hot dogs from one of the Washington Street vendors and pick up a package of Tums for desert. Then out to Southie.

  It was nearly two by the time I found the D Street address. I had passed six similar establishments before I found the Shaughnessy Funeral Home. Not surprising, since Southie is still overwhelmingly Irish, and among the Irish, funeral homes are a bustling industry. It’s not that they die more frequently than anyone else. They just seem to do it with more panache. An Irish friend of mine used to refer to the obituary column in the Globe as the “Irish Sports Section.”

  Joyce Perry Frank was a roundish woman in her late forties, early fifties. She was neatly attired in a suitably colorless dress. She had that mortician’s ability to smile with her mouth while her eyes conveyed empathy with the bereaved.

  “Mrs. Frank, this is a bit difficult. I hope you’ll understand. First, the good news. Nobody died.”

  From her expression, I wasn’t sure she considered that good news.

  The question was whether to go with the truth and ruffle some feathers, or spin a yarn that would get the same result without ruffling feathers. The problem was that the truth might later become public, and it could be devastating if it took her by surprise. I opted for the truth up front.

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Mrs. Frank. I’m investigating an incident of possible jury tampering. It occurred in a criminal case some ten years ago. I’m afraid that the juror was your father.”

  She stiffened.

  “I believe there was a payoff. A big payoff. Something in the range of three hundred thousand dollars. That’s water over the dam. Nobody wants the money back. There’s something more important at stake. The wrong man was blamed for it. It nearly destroyed him. He still lives under the weight of it. It was a great injustice. He deserves to be cleared.”

  “What will this do to my father’s reputation?”

  “Well, it may bring it all up again. Apparently, everyone considered it jury tampering ten years ago, anyway. My investigation could confirm it. It would also pinpoint your father as the juror.”

  I could see the concern on her face. “What is it you want, Mr. Knight?”

  “You were the executrix under the will. I’d like to get your permission to see the records of your father’s bank account. I need to know if a major deposit was made around the time of the trial. If it was, the next step is to find out who paid the money.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet. One step at a time.”

  “And this will mean my father’s name in the paper?”

  “It could. And I know that’d be painful. And I don’t mean to seem insensitive, but your father’s at rest now. The man I mentioned has been in sort of a living death for the past ten years. He can’t shake the suspicion.”

  “Are you his son?”

  “No.”

  “But you seem to have a son’s feeling for him.”

  I had a shot of recollection of how much Mr. Devlin reminded me of the only father I’d known from the age of fourteen.

  “Something like that.”

  She stood up. “I’ll have to think about it, Mr. Knight.”

  I stood, but I didn’t move. I needed one more attempt.

  “Mrs. Frank, two things. First, if you help me with this, I’ll do everything in my power to see that the juror is not named. All that’s even suspected now is that it was just one of the twelve.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll do my best. The second thing is hard to say without seeming overly dramatic. I’m the only one who cares enough to see this through. I have to go on a trip day after tomorrow. I may not be coming back. Today could be my last chance to work on this.”

  She took a deep breath that ended in a sigh. When she looked at me, I could see that whatever she’d decided had cost her emotionally.

  “I’m going to give you what you want, Mr. Knight. My father was never happy since that trial ended. It changed him terribly. I think it finally brought on the heart attack that killed him. I believe he’d want me to do this.”

  I nodded. “I understand. If I could have a sheet of
paper, I’ll draft a consent form. Do you have something showing that you were your father’s executrix?”

  “Yes, in my desk. I’ll get it for you.”

  By three o’clock, I was getting cozy with one of the officers of South Boston Savings. I was referred to “our Mr. Dunwoody” for this special request. Our Mr. Dunwoody turned out to be one of those people who finds excitement in neatness.

  My heart leaped when I checked out his desk with the pad of unsullied paper squared off with the corner of the desk. One silver pen was at attention in its little holder. No fistful of half-sharpened pencils rammed into a Skippy jar here.

  The reason this brought joy to my heart was that this was exactly the kind of puppy who might take it as a challenge to his prowess to come up with a copy of a ten-year-old bank statement.

  And so he did, but not until he went over the documents I handed him as if they were commanding him to release the Queen’s diary. Fortunately, he found that “Everything seems to be in order.”

  I had a printout of activity of the account in hand in fifteen minutes. Looking at items occurring shortly before the start of the Dolson trial, I checked for any out-of-line deposit.

  I thought the fixer might have been subtle enough to spread payments out over a period of time, but he wasn’t. It was bold enough to knock your eye out. Three days after the hung jury came in, the sum of three hundred thousand dollars was deposited in the account. As a matter of fact, other than the opening of the account and the monthly addition of interest, that was the sum total of activity in the account. Either he was afraid or ashamed to dip into the funds, or maybe he just wanted it all to go to his daughter.

  That settled for me the question of whether or not the jury had been fixed. It left hanging the big one-who was the fixer?

  It was about three thirty when I made a cell-phone call to Julie from the bank. I thought I’d save a trip back to the office if there was nothing pressing.

  Julie told me that Gene Martino had called about three. He wanted me to get back to him around four thirty. That meant he was on trial, probably in Suffolk Superior Court. He’d be back in his office by that time, after court adjourned at four o’clock. Any other county court would have taken him until closer to five.

  I asked Julie if he mentioned which courtroom. He hadn’t, but he mentioned suffering the slings and arrows of the outrageous Judge Mandoski. I decided to fly direct to the courthouse to catch Gene in person in case there was something he’d rather whisper in my ear than in a phone.

  I was more than familiar with the Right Honorable Judge Mandoski. Before the Suffolk Superior Court took up residence in the federal court building, His Honor was the ruling titan of the equity session held in the east wing of the olde Suffolk County Courthouse. I believe the first case pleaded in that courtroom was pleaded by Cicero personally-quite possibly before Judge Mandoski. He was a crusty old tyrant, who peered through glasses that looked like thermopane. He had an acerbic wit that could strip an argument down to its naked essence and leave counsel bleeding from lashes to the ego. I could show the scars.

  Gene was wrapping up a plea for a preliminary injunction. His argument was pockmarked with craters created by scud missiles hurled from the bench. Defense counsel would have enjoyed the bombardment but for the realization that as soon as she rose to defend, the missile launcher would be turned in her direction.

  At four o’clock precisely-and typical of the old boy-out of the clear blue, without a prior hint of which side was ahead on points, Mandoski, J., awarded the decision to Gene.

  I caught Gene at counsel table, somewhat stunned but just beginning to realize that he’d won.

  “Congratulations, Gene.”

  “Mike. You got my message. What, were you in the courthouse?”

  “Close enough. Hey, you had the old boy eating out of your hand.”

  “Actually he was eating my hand. Let’s get the hell out of here before he comes back for dessert.”

  We found a spot at the end of the corridor that leads to the world beyond the realm of Mandoski.

  “What have you got for me, Gene?”

  His voice came down to a lawyer’s whisper.

  “This is the damndest thing, Mike. You wanted the names of the limited partners behind that apartment house in the South End. I sent interrogatories to the general partner, Robert Loring. He refused to answer. OK, I figure I’ll get him at the deposition. So, he refuses to answer the question at the deposition. I take him to court on a motion to compel him to answer. It’s a mail-in motion. I’ve got a right to the information. Get this. The judge denies the motion.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “No grounds. He just writes ‘Denied’ and scribbles his initials on the motion and calls the next case. I say, ‘I beg your pardon, Your Honor.’ He says, ‘You’re out of order, Mr. Martino. I’ve called the next case.’ This is crazy, Mikey. They’re guarding the names of these limited partners like the recipe for Coke.”

  “So it would seem. Who was the judge?”

  “Judge Montark. You know him?”

  “I’ve been before him a couple of times. Very low-key. He’s always seemed straight.”

  “He did to me, too, until this. I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you, Mike.”

  “Thanks for trying, Gene. Actually, it helps. I owe you one.”

  It did help. It told me that the usual channels of court procedure were, for some reason, closed. If I was going to get the information, it would have to be through less orthodox methods.

  21

  It was Wednesday evening about seven-thirty. I’d told Lanny Wells I’d pick her up for our first official date at eight o’clock, which was rapidly approaching. I’d fumbled through two shirts and four ties before coming up with the perfect combination. Then I threw the tie out altogether.

  It was not in the least calming to realize that my current state of advanced jitters was my own fault. I’d spent what seemed like decades squeezing eight days into every week just to keep even with my self-imposed demands. The last thing on my weekly list, and the one that always got pushed off the list, was the kind of boy-girl mixing that keeps most people’s lives in balance.

  The last serious date I could remember was with Emily Snipes. I’m not demeaning it. She was the cutest girl in kindergarten. It went nowhere, however. The ardor had cooled by first grade.

  The clear result of an imbalanced social life was a case of nerves that for some reason beat my usual pretrial shakes. I was well beyond the age of acne panic, but I had so many razor cuts that I looked like I’d tried to kiss a pissed-off alley cat.

  With the full and certain conviction that I would probably find a way to mess things up, I put the tie back on, took it off, and drove to Lanny’s apartment house on Commonwealth Avenue around Clarendon.

  Without having much to measure it by, I had the feeling that Lanny and I had probably come as close to developing a feeling for each other, at least from my perspective, as two people can in casual meetings over a piano at Daddy’s.

  I hit the button for apartment 603 at about eight, give or take four seconds. The warring hoard of butterflies in my stomach could have defoliated an apple orchard.

  Then the door opened, and Lanny beamed a smile that blew everything out of my consciousness except the incredible thought that this angel had chosen to spend the evening with just me. The butterflies scattered. I burst into a grin that just seemed to bubble out of everything within me.

  She gave me a little kiss on the cheek as I took her hand. I tried to remember the exact date-because I didn’t ever want to forget it.

  She wore a deep-blue dress with some kind of glitter around the shoulders. It was the first time I’d seen her hair up, which to my untrained eye added a sweet sophistication to natural beauty. When we came together, her three-inch spike heels brought her just under my cheekbone.

  I held her hand on the way down the steps, and I was still holding it while I opened the passenger door of my b
lue Corvette-my one excess in life. When she held my hand a little longer than necessary, I realized that the primary love of my life had been replaced. I apologized to my Corvette.

  For some reason, God chose to remove the clouds and sweep the sky with stars. A new moon stayed ahead of us on the drive up the coast along the North Shore, above Boston. I realized by the time we passed through the chain of seacoast towns from Marblehead and Salem to Beverly and Beverly Farms that never had a stomachful of butterflies raised a ruckus more needlessly. We fell into conversation and laughs and the comfort of each other’s company as if all this had been waiting to happen.

  We arrived in Manchester-by-the-Sea a little before nine. There was a little time to watch the waves spread white foam across Singing Beach before dinner. I mentioned that it got its name from the sound that particular sand makes when you walk on it in bare feet. We agreed to test it next summer.

  Danny had held our reservations at the Circolo. We were a little late, but he welcomed us, as he did everyone, as if our presence had made his entire evening. He had a table by the fireplace for us, and insisted on choosing the wine himself.

  I discovered through dinner that among the many loves we had in common, excellent food was high on the list. Calories and cholesterol played no part in our selections, guided by Danny’s intuitive suggestions, and every inspired opus of his chef brought unabashed smiles and raves from us both.

  To improve on perfection, a pianist close by was giving the most tender, loving treatment to some of Jerome Kern’s and Cole Porter’s gifts to humanity. Before the final coffee, he smiled at us and nodded toward the small dance floor. There was no one there, but the lights were dim, and we had never danced together-until then.

  It was midnight when he played “The Way You Look Tonight.” I think I was born knowing those beautiful Dorothy Fields lyrics, but I asked Lanny how it went. She sang it to me in a whisper. When she sang those moving lyrics, I could scarcely breathe. We danced the last chorus in a kiss.

  It was nearly one when we bundled up and left the warmth of the fireplace. The main street of Manchester was vacant except for my trusty Corvette, waiting about fifty feet from the door. A light powdering of snow had brought back an almost Christmas softness.