07-Shot

by Parnell Hall

  And I wasn’t gonna do a damn thing about it. Hadn’t done a damn thing about it. Had just stood quiet and helped to indict an innocent woman.

  Pardon me if the cup of my ignominy runneth over, but, oh, Jesus Christ.

  The blinking light on my answering machine was starting to give me a headache. And I never get headaches. I stared at it, fascinated. Blip, blip, blip. Are you really capable of causing me pain?

  Blip, blip, blip. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It was hypnotizing me. Blip, blip, blip. It’s a message. It’s a code. Morse code. Blip, blip, blip. It’s the letter S. The beginning of an S.O.S. A cry for help. A distress signal, that I’m sitting here refusing to heed.

  Either that or the fucking office wanting to know why I wasn’t answering my beeper. I may be bummed out, but let’s get things in perspective.

  I sighed, reached over, pressed the button on the answering machine.

  Beep.

  “Stanley, this is Wendy. You’re not answering your beeper. Please call the office.”

  Right again. Wendy/Janet. Or Wendy, actually, since she’d identified herself. The girl was inaccurate, but surely I could trust her on the subject of her own name.

  Beep.

  “Stanley ... If you’re there, pick up.”

  Shit.

  Alice.

  “Look, Stanley, I know you don’t feel like talking. And I know it probably didn’t go well. But if you’re there, pick up the phone ... Okay, you’re not there. But if you get there, call me. Okay? ... Call me ... Love you ... Bye.”

  Oh, shit.

  Nothing could depress me more than that.

  Wrong again.

  Beep.

  “Mr. Hastings, this is Melvin Poindexter. Please call my office at your earliest convenience.”

  32.

  I DIDN’T CALL MELVIN POINDEXTER at my earliest convenience. I didn’t call Melvin Poindexter at all. Not only that, I got the hell out of the office before the son of a bitch could call me.

  Now, I know that’s silly. I didn’t have to answer the phone, I have an answering machine. But I was afraid Alice might call again. And if she did, I couldn’t bear the thought of her saying, “Stanley, please pick up the phone,” and me sitting there not doing it. So I got the hell out.

  I did call Rosenberg and Stone. I called ’em from a pay phone on the street corner.

  Wendy/Janet answered on the first ring. “Rosenberg and Stone.”

  “It’s Stanley.”

  “Stanley. I’ve been beeping you all morning. Where are you?”

  “Didn’t Richard tell you? I was in court.”

  “Richard didn’t say a thing about it. In fact, he’s been asking for you too.”

  “But he knew all about it. He ...”

  “What?”

  I realized from my point of view Richard knew all about it. I’d discussed the whole thing with him, shown him my subpoena. But only in terms of how it related to me. Not the fact that it was this morning and that I wouldn’t be working.

  “I guess he didn’t know it was today,” I said. “What does he want?”

  “Something about some pictures. Whether you got them or not.”

  Shit. The Raheem Webb shots. The last thing I wanted to deal with now.

  “Oh. Anything else?”

  “That’s all Richard wants. But a man’s been calling all morning asking me to beep you. He seemed pretty upset that you didn’t call back.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I have it here. Let’s see. Mr. Poindexter. You want the number?”

  “No, I have it.”

  “You better call him. The guy’s pretty upset.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. A Sergeant MacAullif called, wants you to call him back. That was just a little while ago. I told him you weren’t answering the beeper but if you called in I’d tell you.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “So, what’s the story? You on the beeper now?”

  “Yeah. Why, you got a case?”

  “Not any more. I couldn’t reach you, so I gave ’em all out.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll give you the next one that comes in.”

  “Great. Make my day.”

  “What?”

  “Fine. Thanks.”

  “So what’s the story on the pictures?”

  “Pictures?”

  “The pictures Richard wanted. Did you get ’em?”

  Oh, Jesus, the Raheem Webb pictures. That seemed so long ago. That was before I got shot.

  There are events in your life that change things, things that happen that, once they do, your life is never the same again. They can be catastrophic, like losing a leg, or pleasant, like having a kid, or perfectly mundane, like getting a job. But once they happen, it’s impossible to envision life as if they hadn’t happened.

  Needless to say, I have never lost a leg, but if I had, I would be dealing with life on that basis and it would be hard for me to relate to a life in which I hadn’t lost a leg. I have had a child, and it’s hard for me to envision a life in which I hadn’t. And I got a job, my private detective work. I’ve only had it a few years, but it seems as if I’ve always been one, as if I couldn’t envision what life would be like if I weren’t.

  And now my life had changed again. By an event which would have to fall into the catastrophic category. Oh, don’t get me wrong—it wasn’t catastrophic in any physical sense—physically I was fine.

  But I had been shot.

  And from now on, my life would fall into two categories—before I was shot, and after I was shot.

  From now on, it would be hard to envision what life would be like if I hadn’t been shot.

  And that was what I was dealing with here. Because I hadn’t talked to Richard Rosenberg since Friday morning. And, I suddenly realized, Richard Rosenberg didn’t know I’d been shot. Richard Rosenberg, Wendy/Janet, et al., were treating me as if this were just another ordinary day. Well, fine, why shouldn’t they? They didn’t know my life had changed. And even if they did, what the hell, their life hadn’t changed. Just another ordinary day. Richard agitating, Wendy/Janet beeping, life goes on.

  Well, what the hell, I can deal with that. Give me an assignment and I’ll go do it. Just what I need, simple busywork. All I’m really up to right at the moment. Suit me just fine.

  Only life has a way of sticking the knife in, twisting it, turning, gouging a bit.

  Richard Rosenberg wanted to know if I had the pictures of Raheem Webb.

  Yeah, I had ’em. And they were gorgeous, exactly what he would want.

  And I couldn’t give them to him.

  33.

  RICHARD LEANED BACK IN HIS desk chair, sighed and shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s a mess.”

  I’d come in to the office to tell Richard about the Raheem Webb pictures. I’d been saved from having to do so by my sling. When I walked in with that on, Richard naturally wanted to know what had happened.

  I told him. I told him everything. The whole shmear. I held nothing back. After all, he was a lawyer. Anything I told him was confidential. Maybe he’d have some good advice.

  Besides, there weren’t too many people I could talk to anymore. “Why didn’t you call me before?” Richard said.

  “Before what?”

  “Before you went to the grand jury. Before you talked to the cops.”

  “I didn’t know what you’d tell me to do.”

  “Of course not. That’s why you needed the advice.”

  “All right. I figured you’d tell me what not to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what to tell the cops.”

  “Exactly,” Richard said. “You’re now on the hook for making a false report. You lied to the cops in an official investigation. They’ve got it in writing. You signed it.”

  “You wouldn’t have advised me to do that?”

  “What, are y
ou nuts?”

  “That’s the point, Richard. I would have done it anyway. Would you have wanted me to do it with your knowledge?”

  “I wouldn’t have let you do it.”

  “How were you gonna stop me?”

  “By talking some sense into your head. There’re ways to do things. Legal ways. You wanna withhold things from the police, that’s entirely possible. But you don’t have to out-and-out lie. You could have had me present when you made your statement, and I could have advised you what to say.”

  “Wouldn’t that just make the cops suspicious?”

  “You think they’re not suspicious now? You tell some fairy tale no third-grader would believe. Whaddya think the cops are gonna do? Thank you very much and go act on it? All you’ve done is double your troubles. The cops were investigating a simple shooting. Now they’re investigating a suspicious shooting, and they’re investigating you.”

  “I know.”

  Richard sighed, tipped his chair forward. “Well, what’s done is done. Let’s take it from there. Which actually makes life easier. You’ve already committed the crime. Now we just have to figure out how to get you off.”

  “I haven’t committed a crime.”

  “Of course not. You’re innocent until proven guilty. And so far, no one’s charged you with anything. They haven’t even connected you with the murder.”

  “You think they haven’t made the connection?”

  “Oh, sure, they’ve made the connection. You were a grand jury witness, for Christ’s sake. These two sergeants, Thurman and, uh ...”

  “MacAullif?”

  “No, the other one. The one who questioned you.”

  “Reynolds.”

  “Right. They’ve undoubtedly talked. And Thurman knows you were messing around in this. And they can put two and two together. No, I mean they haven’t thought to charge you with the murder.”

  I stared at him. “What?”

  He shrugged. “It’s the next logical step. You were messing around in this thing, you were bird-dogging the guy. Working for his girlfriend. Then he gets killed and you keep messing around and get shot. It isn’t a far cry for the cops to start thinking maybe you killed the guy, either alone or as the girlfriend’s accomplice.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Are you shitting me?”

  “Not at all.”

  “The cops have an open-and-shut case against this woman.”

  “Sure, but what if you were in it too? You kill the guy, you call the broad, say things got out of control, he’s dead. She comes rushing over and you arrange an elaborate coverup.”

  I stared at him incredulously. “Richard. Why the hell would she do that? Put herself on the spot? If I killed the guy, she’d just smile sweetly and let me take the rap.”

  “Yeah, but maybe you had something on her.”

  “What?”

  “You were digging around, getting dirt. Maybe you got some dirt on her. You call her, tell her, help me out or I’m gonna blow the whistle.”

  “Richard—”

  He held up his hands. “I know it’s farfetched. I’m just telling you, once you start lying to the cops, it starts ’em thinking. Who knows how far their imagination can go?”

  The phone rang.

  Richard picked it up. “Yes?” He listened a moment, then covered the mouthpiece, cocked his head at me. “A Mr. Poindexter on the line wants to talk to you.”

  “Jesus. I’m not here.”

  “Wendy/Janet told him you were.”

  “Great. I’m in conference with my lawyer, I’ll call him right back.”

  Richard relayed that message, hung up the phone. “How long you gonna keep ducking him?”

  “As my lawyer, how long would you recommend?”

  “I don’t know. How often does hell freeze over?” Richard spread his fingers wide, put his hands on the desk. “All right, he said. “Here’s the situation. From now on, you are talking to no one. And I mean no one. A cop asks you about this case, you say, ‘Call my lawyer.’ This Poindexter calls you at home, you say, ‘Call my lawyer.’ Someone asks you the time of day, you say, ‘Call my lawyer.’”

  “Fine by me. And what do we do then?”

  He shrugged. “Depends what they want. This is the kind of case, you gotta play it one day at a time.”

  “Richard, I can’t pay you.”

  “Who asked you?”

  I sighed. “Thanks.”

  “Forget it. Now, have you got those pictures?”

  Shit.

  I told Richard the situation. To say he was pissed off would be a gross understatement. The man was practically speechless. In fact, when I finished talking, it actually took him several seconds before he could think of a single thing to say. “Moron” was the first word that he latched onto. “Unbelievable, incredible moron. You’re not a social worker. You’re not a do-gooder. You are a private investigator working in my employ. You are assigned certain simple tasks which you are expected to do. That is all that you are required to do, all that you are expected to do, all that you are supposed to do. I thought that we had discussed this case. You told me when you handed in the fact sheet that you had certain reservations. And what did I tell you at the time?”

  “I know what you told me at the time.”

  “And then you go and do this.”

  “What was I supposed to do, just let the kid get beat up again?”

  “You don’t know he got beat up.”

  “Yes, I do, and so do you. Come on, Richard, cut the shit. You wanna sue anyway, go ahead and sue anyway. I can’t stop you. I’m just telling you how it is.”

  Richard sighed. “Let’s see the pictures.”

  I opened my briefcase, took out the packet, handed it to him.

  Richard pulled the pictures out, leafed through them one by one. He stopped, looked at one, shook his head. “A dream come true.”

  The phone rang.

  Richard scooped it up, listened a moment, covered the mouthpiece again. “You’re a popular guy. Now Sergeant MacAullif wants to talk to you.”

  “Shit.”

  “What’s the message?”

  “I’ll call him back.”

  Richard relayed that, hung up the phone. He picked up the photos, leafed through the rest of them. He sighed, put them on his desk.

  “What you gonna do, Richard?”

  What he looked like he was gonna do was jump over the desk and bite my head off. Instead, he waved his hand. “All right, all right. I’m rejecting the case.”

  “It’s the right thing to do.”

  Richard grimaced. “Thank you, Wilford Brimley.”

  The phone rang again.

  Richard snatched it up. “Yes?” he barked impatiently. He listened for a moment, shook his head, opened his mouth and rolled his eyes. He covered the mouthpiece, cocked his head at me. “Unbelievable,” he said. “Now I have a Sergeant Reynolds on one line and a Sergeant Thurman on another.”

  I stood up.

  “That’s enough for me. I’m getting the hell out of here before these guys figure out I’m not calling back and start showing up.”

  Richard nodded. “Probably a wise idea.”

  I looked at him. “Oh yeah? You’re a lawyer and you tell me that? I thought flight was an indication of guilt.”

  “It is,” Richard said. He shrugged. “But what the hell. You’re guilty.”

  34.

  I WENT OUT ON A CASE. Wendy gave it to me on my way out. Wendy and Janet were real sympathetic and real solicitous, what with me being shot, and Wendy was real happy to have something for me.

  Don’t get me wrong about Wendy and Janet. They’re perfectly nice girls. Totally inept at their chosen profession, but otherwise fine girls.

  I shouldn’t call them girls. They’re in their twenties. I’m a sexist pig. The feminists are gonna get me. And the cops are gonna get me. And Poindexter’s gonna get me. And the grand jury’s gonna get me—they’ll listen to all the testimony, and instead of indicting
Melissa Ford, they’ll indict me. Just like Richard predicted. And then the IRS will get me for tax evasion. Even though I pay my taxes. They’ll come up with some new tax I never even heard of and they’ll nail me for that. And then they’ll throw me in jail and my cell mate will turn out to be the Black Death. But he won’t kill me, he’ll get killed, and then they’ll peg me for it.

  Yeah, a simple mindless case was just what I needed, and I was duly grateful to accept a signup out in Queens. I got out of the office ahead of the posse and took the subway home to get my car.

  Well, not home again, I still hadn’t called Alice, but into my neighborhood. I got my car and I drove out to Queens to see Felix Cortez, who had slipped in his bathtub and broken his wrist.

  Yeah, that was about my speed. That was about the sort of case I could handle.

  And I couldn’t even handle that. Boy, when things go wrong, they just go wrong. When I asked Felix Cortez how he fell, he told me he slipped on a bar of soap.

  Wonderful. Who the hell did that make liable?

  Ordinarily, that wouldn’t bother me. Because Richard has explained the situation, not that particular one, but the general idea, usually with regard to ice and snow. Say a guy slips on icy pavement. When I go to shoot it, the ice isn’t there but the pavement is cracked. Those cracks didn’t trip him, but I shoot ’em anyway, because the cracked pavement is a contributing factor.

  In this case, even though the guy slipped on a bar of soap, the unsafe tub floor was a contributing factor and I would have to shoot that.

  Oh yeah? Tell me about it. It’s a horseshit case, Richard. Are you really gonna sue someone for that?

  I felt like telling Felix Cortez I was sorry he didn’t have a case, but if he was stupid enough to slip on a bar of soap, it was his own damn fault.

  I restrained myself with a great effort. Richard would flip out. It was bad enough I’d just talked him out of the Raheem Webb case. If I screwed up this one for him, I would advance rapidly to the top of Richard’s all-time shit list, not a prime position to be in with one’s pro bono lawyer when facing a slew of felony counts.

  Self-preservation is the first law of nature. I kept my mouth shut, signed up Felix Cortez, and dutifully photographed the offending bathroom fixture.