by Grant Mccrea
I’m sorry, said Russell Graham, ADA, with a sorrowful shake of the head that seemed almost genuine. But there’s not much to say. We’re doing the usual forensics. You’ll get them when you’re entitled to them.
If and when.
If and when, he smiled.
I was just wondering, I said. If Jules did it, why would he leave the body right there? In an alley? Right after a loud fight that everybody in his building must have heard? Doesn’t really make sense, does it?
Crimes of passion, said the ADA with a hint of irony. People aren’t always thinking too clearly.
Crimes of passion?
They were in the middle of a fight. Uncontrolled anger. People don’t act rationally. Or maybe he was trying to hide the body, put it in the Dumpster, and somebody came along. Scared him away.
All right. I see you have your theories. All I can say is, he says he didn’t do it. So I’m not sure there’s anything more to talk about. Right now, anyway.
I understand.
Clearly he did. And clearly this wasn’t going anywhere.
I’d been hoping for some kind of response. Something about the kind of plea that might be available if the kid got charged. A crime of passion, after all. He’d said it himself. Not first degree. Plead it down to manslaughter. Depraved indifference. Whatever. I sat for a moment, waiting for Russell Graham, ADA, to say something that might go somewhere.
His smile was obliging.
No words followed.
Damn, I thought. This guy’s no fun.
I had to get something out of him before I left.
Could I ask you one favor? I said.
Ask away.
Well, if you do end up charging Jules, down the road?
Yes?
Let’s not do the perp walk thing, okay? Handcuffs and all that? I can bring him in.
Well, said the ADA evenly, I’ll certainly take that into consideration.
I appreciate that. I’ll be in touch.
You know where to reach me.
I left the building with a spring in my step, bursting with pride at my show of wit and investigative acumen.
FitzGibbon’s kid was in good hands.
21.
I CALLED JULES. He was home. On the way to his loft I stopped to look at the alley where the body had been found.
It was a normal alley. Apartment buildings on either side. A tall metal fence blocking egress at the far end. Razor wire on top. Garbage cans. Wind-blown trash. A Dumpster. The smell of motor oil and rot.
The body had been found propped up against the Dumpster, at the far end of the alley. There was no bloodstain now, if there had ever been. Blunt trauma. Not necessarily a great deal of blood. Anyway, there would be crime scene photos. I’d try to get a look at them later.
There were four doors leading off the alley, three on one side, one on the other. All were of the metal kind. No visible handles. They could only be opened from the inside, it seemed.
I made a note to check out where the doors led.
Fire escapes clung to the side of each building. They were the type with a retracting last flight. Nobody without a ladder could climb them from the outside. The bottom flights were in the retracted position. They looked in working order.
I surveyed the scene.
No way out, for Larry Silver.
I could smell the fear.
I looked more closely at the metal door on the left. It had an abandoned air. Long shoots of weeds grew through the cracks in the asphalt in front of it. Not a door that had been used for months, at least.
I looked at the doors on the other side. Same thing. Emergency exits, probably.
I went back to the Dumpster. Got down on my knees. Peered underneath.
Two green eyes peered back.
I hope you don’t have rabies, I said to them, and tossed a pebble in their direction.
The cat skittered off.
I had an urge to apologize.
I went around the Dumpster.
The cat was sitting contentedly on top of a stack of graying two-by-fours. It was black, with a white spot over one eye. White front feet. Damn cute. It didn’t look like an alley cat. No scars. No scabies. Clearly it belonged to someone. Maybe it was lost. It had a collar. Perhaps its address was on the collar. I felt obliged to find out. Take it back to its home.
Sorry, I said.
It stared at me. I approached it slowly. It sat and stared some more. A street cat would have hissed, spat, run away. This one stayed. Watched me creep up on it. Cocked its head to one side.
When I got within a couple of feet, the cat took one last look at me. Sprinted away.
Damn, I thought. Another metaphor.
I left the alley. Turned right. Three blocks to Jules’s building. The downstairs door was ajar. The elevator wasn’t working. I climbed the stairs. I knocked. I heard voices. One was sharp, female, not pleased. The other was Jules. Some argument going on. I couldn’t hear the words.
I knocked again.
The voices stopped. A minute going by. Metal machine music starting up. From somewhere inside.
The door opened. Jules was wearing baggy jeans slung down low, Union Jack boxers underneath, half exposed. And nothing else. If you didn’t count the tattoos. Japanese, they looked like. And a large leonine thing on his chest. An odd pattern of scars on his belly.
Hey, he said.
Hey, I replied, trying not to stare at the scars. Is this a bad time?
Nah, that’s just Lisa.
As though I should know who Lisa was.
She’s pissed I didn’t tell her you were coming. She’ll get over it.
Okay, if you’re sure, I said.
Sure I’m sure.
He didn’t ask me in, exactly. He just turned and walked to the couch. Threw himself on it. As much invitation as I was going to get, it seemed.
I took a seat in the beanbag chair opposite Jules. The music grinding and shrieking from somewhere upstairs. I looked at the bookshelf next to the sofa. Tattered paperbacks. Shōgun. The Man With No Name. DVDs. Kill Bill, both volumes. Reservoir Dogs. A set of nunchuks. Nunchaku, I recalled, in the Japanese. Kelly had taught me that. She was way into anime.
Fuck you, too! I heard a voice, pitched high over the drone and crunch of the music. Fuck you too fuck you too fuck you too … !
I looked up. The owner of the voice was on the balcony. She was tiny. Hennaed hair, one side shaved higher than the other. Nose ring. Sleeveless T-shirt. I couldn’t quite make out the tattoo on her shoulder. Something with a dragon, I thought.
I assumed that the imprecations weren’t aimed at me. I turned away. Jules ignored her. A door slammed upstairs. She was still screaming.
Domestic problems? I asked lightheartedly.
No sweat, he said. She forgot her meds. Her mom’s bringing them over. Then she’ll be all right.
Ah. Can she hear us down here?
Not over that stuff, for sure.
Because if she hears us, the conversation’s not privileged. Do you know what that means?
Sure.
His indifference was not reassuring.
It means it’s not legally private, I said. The DA can ask either of us, or her, what was said.
I said she can’t hear us, man.
He didn’t say it unpleasantly. Just reciting the facts.
All right, I said. I’ll take your word for it. Listen, I’d like to ask you a bit about your family.
The hell my family’s got to do with it?
To tell you the truth, I’m not sure your family has anything to do with it. I’m just going to ask you some questions. I don’t know if they’ll turn out to be relevant or not. But they might. Depending. So it’s important for me to ask you. It’s kind of my job.
Whatever, he shrugged.
All right. Let’s start with your father.
My father? What about him?
I didn’t respond. I wanted to see what he’d volunteer. It’s often a good technique. And no
t only for shrinks.
He looked at me from his reclining position. I gazed back at him, in my most professionally passive manner. Suddenly, he sat up. His eyes widened.
What? he said. You think he killed the prick?
Do you think your father could do such a thing?
He considered the question.
Wouldn’t put it past him, he said evenly.
Why? Did he even know the guy?
He’d do it for fun. Or just to bug me. Or frame me for it.
You mean that?
Sure I mean it. Why wouldn’t I mean it?
Sometimes people say things they don’t really mean.
Not me, he shrugged.
Well, all right. But do you mean to say that you actually have any reason to think your father might be involved in this?
You’re the one who brought it up, he said defensively, giving me a Look.
The Look said: You sure are stupid.
What are you so angry at each other about? I asked.
Ask him.
I will, but I’d like to hear your side of the story too.
He sat for a while in thought.
It’s about my mom, really, he said at last, with a reflective air.
Really?
Yeah.
How so?
When he threw her out, he wanted me to hate her. Like he did. He was pissed when I didn’t.
Wait a minute, I said. I’m not sure I understand. When I talked to your dad, he went all misty-eyed over your mother.
Who?
Your mom.
He gave me a withering look.
Shit, he said, you really don’t know dick, do you?
Maybe not. But I’d like to learn.
You talking about fucking Veronica?
Ah, I said, starting to get the picture. She’s not your natural mother?
No fucking way, lawyer guy. Nothing natural about that bitch.
I think I’m beginning to understand.
You don’t understand dick, he repeated, shaking his head.
Well, I said, looking to regain some lost ground, I’m trying to get all the facts. Then I can start trying to understand a bit better.
Shit, he said. Who the fuck doesn’t know that slut’s not my mother?
Me, it seems.
Thinking that maybe humility worked best with the kid.
He seemed somewhat mollified.
So who is your mom, Jules? I asked.
My mom’s my mom, he replied, helpfully.
What’s her name?
Lily.
Lily. I like that. Kind of old-fashioned.
Right, he said, unimpressed.
I decided to make him do some work for a change.
Well? I asked.
He thought for a while.
When he threw her out, it was really bad, he said.
How so?
There was so much screaming, and stuff.
Did he hit her?
I don’t know. I was upstairs. But it sounded like something awful going on.
And then?
And then, after she was gone, he wanted me to hate her. He wanted me to hate her like he did. But I didn’t. Why would I want to hate her? She was my mom.
Was?
She’s dead. She died. He killed her.
He killed her?
Yeah, I mean, she had nothing to live for, right?
I hear you. She fell apart.
He turned away. He was trembling. Crying, it seemed. Though he was doing his best to hide it. I went over to the kitchen area, looked in the fridge for a soda or something. There was nothing but beer. Shelf after shelf of beer. Foster’s. Heineken. Molson. Beck’s. You name it.
Mind if I have a beer? I asked. You want one?
Sure, he said, answering both questions at once.
I found a couple of Anchor Steam in the back. Brought them over.
Whether it was the beer, or the fact that I’d brought it over for him, Jules warmed up. Started telling me stuff. Maybe it was the memory of his mother. He certainly seemed to have adored her. And that, it appeared, had been the problem. The divorce was highly acrimonious. She’d had an affair. The old man was a vengeful bastard. There was a pre-nup. The litigation had gone on for years. Meanwhile, her boyfriend dumped her. Not so interested, once she’d become effectively single and, more to the point, poor.
Lily had gotten thinner and thinner. Her hair had begun to fall out. She’d stopped caring for her appearance entirely. She’d show up in court in a tracksuit and sneakers.
FitzGibbon was determined to make sure Lily didn’t get a dime of his money, and wasn’t shy about spending it to get what he wanted. He had three lawyers working more or less full-time on the divorce. And they weren’t just ordinary lawyers. He’d hired one of the most prestigious, and expensive, outfits in town. You could fit my entire firm in their lobby.
When the trial finally came around, FitzGibbon needed Jules to testify to what an awful mother Lily had been. And she hadn’t been the best, the most attentive parent, Jules admitted. She was self-absorbed. A poetic soul. She relied too heavily on the plentiful hired help. She’d had more than one boyfriend on the side.
But she loved Jules. And he loved her. So when it finally came to trial, he’d refused to testify.
FitzGibbon was not a man who was used to hearing the word ‘no.’ It was that word, too often spoken, that had gotten Lily kicked out of the house in the first place. And here was her son – FitzGibbon’s too, to be sure, but that didn’t seem to be part of the equation – standing up to him. It was almost too much for a man to bear. So out the door went Jules as well. Along with any hopes he might have had of inheriting Daddy’s riches.
But Jules had the trusts.
And he had his mother back.
Though that didn’t last long. Within months of his moving in with her, she was diagnosed with tuberculosis. It was the drug-resistant kind, and it ravaged her. Right before Jules’s eyes. She died two months later.
FitzGibbon did not attend the funeral.
Jules told me all of this in a rush, hardly taking a breath. It was as if he’d been waiting for years. For someone who’d listen.
When he was finished, we sat in silence.
I didn’t know what to say.
I went into the kitchen for another couple of beers.
We drank them slowly.
I’ll do whatever I can for you, Jules, I said. Not just legal stuff. Whatever I can do.
He looked up. He nodded. I got up. Shook his hand. Got out of there.
So there it was. FitzGibbon had omitted a few details from his little biographical speech. Veronica was neither his first wife, nor Jules’s mother.
An objective observer might have thought those facts important.
FitzGibbon probably had his reasons for leaving them out.
Maybe they were innocent.
I doubted it.
But what did any of it have to do with the blunt instrument in the alley?
Something, I felt.
But nothing that I could see.
22.
THE BEST THING ABOUT THE WOLF’S LAIR was its lack of success. Never more than seven or eight people in the joint. Except on Saturday night. I tried to stay away on Saturdays. For some reason, the college crowd showed up. Chatty misfit girls. Surly misfit guys. The socialized ones went to Armando’s, down the street. Armando’s had a DJ. They danced til dawn. The Wolf’s Lair crowd sat, stood or staggered. No dancing there. No doubt they all had two left feet.
I know I did.
Tuesdays, on the other hand, weren’t a problem.
I took my place at the bar.
Hal was in his usual spot, two stools down.
Hey, Hal, I said.
He looked up from the notepad he was scribbling on.
Rick, he said.
I’ve got a question, I said.
Fire away, boss.
What you said about Jake, the other night?
What I
said about Jake?
Something about him not looking you in the eye?
Did I say that?
Something like that, you did.
I don’t remember that, man. Sorry.
Oh.
I was a bit bewildered. He’d said it with such sincerity.
I turned back to the book I had brought with me. Sklansky. The Bible of Texas hold’em. I was on my sixth pass through it. My second copy. The first had disintegrated from use. Cigarette burns, spaghetti sauce, bathtub water. This one bristled with colored tape flags. Every second line was highlighted, underlined, highlighted again in a different color. You read, you played, you reread. You played some more. Suddenly, something you’d only digested in the abstract took on a life. You’d played that hand last night – you knew that situation - and here it was, on the page. Maybe not the very same cards, the very same bets. But the situation.
A hand on my shoulder. I turned my head.
Jake!
Yo Rick!
At least you remember my name.
Well, yeah.
He looked puzzled.
You got one leg up on my wife in that department, I explained.
Really?
That innocence. Charming.
He saw the book. The forest of tape flags.
Whatcha reading?
Sklansky.
I held the book up.
You’re kidding.
I am not. You know Sklansky?
Shit. He’s my brother. My right arm. Shit. You play?
I try.
Oh man. I got to get you to my game.
You’ve got a game?
Sure, I’ve got a game. I’ve got a helluva game. Hey, you serious?
Do I look serious?
He looked at the tattered remains of Sklansky.
Yeah. You look serious. Okay, listen, this game is very cool. Actors. Artists. Very successful people. I got to get you there.
Well, sure, I said. What’s the buy-in?
Five hundred. No limit.
I think I can handle that. How do I get in?
I’ve got to work on that.
Hm. Mystery. Impediments. I liked that.
What is this, the Masons? I asked. You need the secret handshake?
James Mason?
No, the Masons, I laughed. You know, the Masonic Lodge, all that?
He looked blank.
Charming, like I said.