Game Bet

by Forrest, Richard;

  CHAPTER 7

  The firing had stopped. He knew they were standing on the rim of the ditch, directly over his head. Their voices seemed to be directed down the slope of the dirt wall to reverberate into the cement drainage pipe he had crawled inside.

  “I’d like to roll a frag grenade in there and let it go off against his balls.”

  “Who fired that first shot?”

  “One of the trigger-happy uniforms.”

  “The other one dead?”

  “Stiff as he’ll ever be.”

  “Who’s going down after the fucker?”

  “Maybe he’s dead.”

  “I saw the yellow bastard jump in there.”

  “Rawlings, you and Pierce go in and pull him out.”

  “He might be carrying.”

  “Hand me your piece.”

  Cory pulled his arms over his head and jackknifed his legs into fetal position as the AR-15 on full automatic raked the dirt behind the pipe. He heard the whine of ricochets as they bounded against the cement edge of the drainage tube.

  The commanding voice again. “You want to come outta there, or do I give a burst along the pipe?”

  He would have to scrabble backward out of the pipe, jerk himself erect, and face a dozen guns.

  “You got five seconds to come out.”

  Cory felt a cramp in his midsection as he inched slowly out of the pipe. The warm sun, now directly overhead, struck his eyes painfully as he stood.

  There were a dozen, and they stood around the edge of the ditch with handguns and rifles pointed directly at him. Some wore flak vests, some were in uniform, while others wore sport clothes with detective badges hanging from pockets.

  He raised his hands over his head.

  “Give me your hand.” The voice of command again, and Cory looked into the face of an older man in a sport jacket, the only one of the surrounding group who was weaponless.

  Cory reached toward the man’s grasping hand and felt himself jerked up the side of the pit and out onto the pavement. Hands pushed him against the side of a car and other hands frisked him. His arms were pulled painfully behind his back and cuffed.

  They were covering Jerry with a rubber sheet. The heavy attorney’s stomach rounded toward the sky like a minor mountain.

  Cory was pushed into the rear of a patrol car. His head bumped against the wire mesh that separated the back seat from the driver. He sprawled across the seat and felt his feet shoved in as the door slammed.

  The man in the jacket, who had pulled him from the hole, sat next to him and helped him to sit erect.

  “You all right?”

  “You killed Jerry.”

  “Some hothead opened fire and the men thought World War III had started. There will be a formal inquiry.” The man next to Cory settled back in the seat and extracted a pipe from his pocket. He carefully tapped tobacco into the bowl and lit it with a lighter that spewed a three-inch stick of flame. The smoke was a cloyingly sweetish aromatic mixture. He puffed and looked at Cory. “I’m James. Wilton James.”

  Cory didn’t take the extended hand. “You killed Jerry.”

  “You said that, Mr. Williams.”

  “Well, goddamn it! You just shot an attorney.”

  “I did not shoot anyone. Mr. Granville was unfortunately caught in the cross fire when you attempted escape.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “As I said. There will be an inquiry.”

  “And what happens to me now?”

  “We’ll have a chat at my office.”

  “You’re FBI?”

  “I am paid by the taxpayers of the City of Deerford.”

  “This is a federal case.”

  “Proper jurisdiction will be determined at a later time.”

  “How did you know where I was?”

  “There were only two names of lawyers in your address book at your apartment. Mr. Granville was the second.”

  “There’s an explanation for what happened to me in that building.”

  “I’m sure there is, Mr. Williams. There always is.”

  The man from Toledo was angry, and that was an unusual state of mind for him. He found it necessary to redial the Connecticut exchange a second time, and that was even more unusual.

  “Hello? Hello! Who’s there?” The person he reached knew who was calling and was disturbed that nothing had been said.

  The man in Toledo breathed deeply before switching on the scrambler. “Rook here. I am not pleased.”

  “The whole thing got botched. We’re working our way through it.”

  “I should hope so. If it were arranged for pawn to go the distance, much pressure would be relieved.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “I expect it.” He severed the connection.

  At police headquarters Cory was shoved, pummeled, and half carried down a hallway into a freight elevator and finally pushed through a door labeled “Wilton James—Chief Investigator.”

  His companion from the patrol car took his place behind the desk. Wilton James was a tweedy man. His sport coat had leather patches on the sleeves, and the mutton-chop sideburns gave him a professorial look.

  Cory was slammed into a straight chair before the desk. His cuffed hands bit against the rear slats, and he winced. “Can I have my hands free?”

  “But of course. Pierce, do the honors.”

  Sergeant Pierce, who looked like he should be playing linebacker for the Jets, stood, arms akimbo, at the door. At the command, he stepped forward and removed the handcuffs. He remained standing in the rear of the room as Cory pulled his arms forward to massage sore wrists.

  “Since you have slaughtered my attorney,” Cory said bitterly, “I demand new representation.”

  James’ voice was quiet and deceptively calm. “This morning the newspapers were asking questions, such as where was police security, and is Deerford another Dallas? This type of slander disturbs us, Mr. Williams.”

  “I demand an attorney.”

  “You are not in a position to demand anything. I could point out, as you have, that your lawyer is dead.”

  “Then I wish to make a phone call to my brother, in Boston. He’s an attorney and will arrange for local counsel for me.”

  “Your brother has already been contacted and is in the building.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “In due time, Mr. Williams. May I call you Cory?” Another leisurely puff of pipe smoke.

  “You can call me any goddamn thing you want. I demand—”

  The blow to the rear of Cory’s head made him sprawl him across the floor until he hit the wall. Pierce moved toward him, grabbed a handful of shirtfront, and dragged him to his feet before slamming him back against the wall. He tried to raise his arms and duck his head, but the motion was easily brushed aside as the man’s forearm smashed against his nose.

  Blood spurted down his shirtfront.

  The sergeant’s fist plunged into his abdomen. Cory clutched his stomach, slid to his knees, and felt another blow across the rear of his neck. His head seemed to explode into concentric rings of darkness, and he slid forward into unconsciousness.

  He awoke with a start and snorted as he moved his head away from the small ampule held under his nose. He was held upright in the straight chair. The bleeding from his nose had stopped, although the front of his shirt was covered with blood.

  “We’re ready for your statement, Mr. Williams. We would like to start with your identification of the other gentleman involved in the assassination attempt.”

  “Don’t know.”

  The bulky sergeant stepped toward him, but a nonchalant wave by James caused the detective to retreat back against the wall.

  “I repeat. The man who died in the building across the way. We still do not know who he is. His name, please?”

  “I never saw him before in my life.”

  “He was there for a cross fire. You both carried nearly identical weapons; both of you wer
e in windows on the sixth and seventh floors. Surely those are coincidences that boggle the imagination. I am sure you do not expect us to believe that two men, at the same spot, under nearly the same circumstances, were by chance both attempting to shoot the President?”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “Enlighten us.”

  The room seemed to edge out of focus a moment as Cory slumped forward. Instantly, arms were around his shoulders, pulling his upright.

  “We’re waiting.”

  He refused to speak.

  A numbing paralysis. Strong fingers pinched the rear of his neck. The black rings returned, their circumferences gradually tightening. The fingers were released, and as the black rings turned to red, the room swam back into focus.

  “Speak.”

  “I’m soiled. I have blood all over me. I’d like a shower and change of clothes.”

  “I ask again.” The pipe had gone out, and Wilton James slowly lit it without his eyes leaving Cory’s. “I’m emphatic on this.”

  “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “Everything.”

  Cory had been over the story with Jerry only an hour before, but he began again. “Saturday, last Saturday, I was at the Hunt Club with …”

  “What club? Where?”

  He began to talk. For the third time that day Cory told of the rainy afternoon, the conversation between the men, and the wager. He continued recounting the events, including everything except any reference to Ginny.

  He was interrupted. “You left the bar, the … Name?”

  “The Clock and Chime, sir,” Pierce added. “I know the joint.”

  “And you went where?”

  “I was in near shock. I wandered around. Stopped into a couple more bars. I don’t even remember their names. I went to a movie and don’t remember the name of the picture. Then I called Lewis and went over there.”

  “To borrow money?”

  “To get verification of my story and arrange to surrender.”

  “We were at the Lewis home that night. Somehow, I don’t recall seeing you.”

  Cory explained.

  “And where did you spend the night?”

  “In a vacant house. I think it was on Woodlawn Street.”

  “And the following morning you called your attorney, Jerry Granville?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Wilton James took a pointed device from his pocket and began methodically to clean his pipe. The room was silent. “The men present at the club when you made this so-called bet … what were their names again?”

  “You know about Norm Lewis, but there was also Joe Page and Eddy Robinson.”

  “Identify them further.”

  “Both Page and Robinson are prominent men. Page is a CPA with his own accounting firm in Deerford. Page and Clinton, I believe. He lives on Chester Street. I forget the number. It’s a white colonial, third from the corner. Ed Robinson is a vice-president of the Connecticut Insurance Company. He lives on—”

  “2345 Wilchester. We know.”

  “You made contact?”

  “It’s all very convenient.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You read the paper this morning.”

  “Only the article dealing with me and what happened.”

  “Not about the fire at the Hunt Club.”

  A few times in his life Cory had received statements that so shocked, and so startled, that the realization of their impact caused a physical reaction as if he had been struck. His father’s censure, immediately followed by the call from the girl, that he had died, the letter from the Department of the Army refusing to extend his service … and now the statement he knew was going to issue from the calm police inspector’s pipe-curled mouth. “What fire?”

  “The one that killed Robinson.”

  “I think I should hear what happened.”

  “That clubhouse was a firetrap. If it had been located within the city limits we would have closed it down years ago. Robinson evidently had a little hanky-panky lined up out there and was in the sack when it started. The volunteers managed to control it, but most of the second story was burned out, killing them both.”

  “Both?”

  “Robinson and the girl. We haven’t identified her yet. It would seem as if your story is to be verified by a dead man.”

  “What about Page?”

  “We’ll check into him.”

  “Lewis started it all. He’s the one who attached the camera.”

  James shook his head. “You’re asking us to believe that you went into a high-rise building carrying a rifle with a camera attached? And live ammunition? And accidentally saw another gunman whom you proceeded to shoot?”

  “That’s what happened.”

  “Mr. Williams, we found no camera.”

  Cory leaned over the desk and smashed down on its surface with his fist. “What are you people trying to do to me?”

  Wilton James arched his brow, and again the arms of Sergeant Pierce were around Cory, and he was thrown back against the wall. The man’s florid face was inches away; the breath smelled heavily of garlic.

  “Listen, crud. We know what sort of fuck-up you are. You’re a loser! We got a file on you already. Your record stinks! Kicked out of the army, a gambler deep into the books! You shit, and yet your dad was one of the greatest congressmen this district ever had!”

  “Leave my prisoner alone!”

  A tall man with sandy brown hair, wearing a dark business suit, stood angrily in the doorway. “You damn idiots! You want to blow the whole case before we’ve even started?”

  “Resisting arrest and attempted escape,” was Pierce’s laconic reply.

  “Why wasn’t he brought to the Federal Building?”

  “We were arranging safe transport,” James replied evenly.

  “I’ll bet. In what? A trundle?”

  Cory struggled to his feet and tried to focus his eyes on the man in the doorway.

  “Take your prisoner away, Mr. Atkins,” Wilton James said.

  “I wish we could fry the creep,” were the last words Cory heard from Sergeant Pierce as the FBI agent escorted him from the room.

  A montage:

  He was hustled through corridors and down an elevator, into the lobby of police headquarters. The room was filled with newsmen and television cameras. Bright lights, popping flashes, a thousand screaming questions.

  “Why’d you do it, Cory?”

  “What are your politics, Mr. Williams?”

  “Who was the other guy?”

  “A statement for ABC? What’s the blood on your front?”

  A woman: well coiffured, expensive suit, tight smile mixed with sexuality and ambition. “Have you ever been married? Do you have a girl friend?”

  An agent on each arm.

  “A statement …”

  “I want a lawyer.” His voice was an unfamiliar screech.

  Pushed into the street and an automobile. A five-block ride to the Federal Building, another elevator, exiting into a normal-appearing business office.

  Photographed and fingerprinted by a tight-lipped agent with emotionless dull, flat eyes. Another office, men seated along the divan, a secretary sitting in a corner before a transcription machine, waiting expectantly. Atkins behind the desk, someone by Cory’s shoulder, reading his rights as he numbly nods understanding.

  “Would you like something to eat, Mr. Williams?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Would you like to tell us anything? It might help all of us.”

  In addition to the transcriber, a tape recorder had been set up on Atkins’s desk. Cory saw the slow turn of the spindles. He had a strong sense of déjà vu and remembered the device on Jerry’s desk—it seemed a hundred hours ago.

  “All of it?” Cory asked.

  Men nodded, and he started again.

  The door had been locked minutes before, and up the corridor a guard sat on a stool with a copy of Playboy. I
t was a small cell, clean, with neatly folded blankets across the bunk.

  Cory sat on the edge of the bunk and leaned forward with his head in his hands. His right leg began to quiver and shake in a spastic-like tremor. He placed both palms on the offending knee and felt the contractions flow up through his arms. As if his brain synapses had been forged into one obsessive trail, one thought circled constantly. “This can’t be happening to me. Not to me. This can’t be.”

  He knew without doubt that not only was he enmeshed in a circuitous plan he did not understand, but also that his role had been carefully orchestrated. There was a plan behind all of this. This was not some haphazard scheme of the gods that had accidentally selected him as its tragic victim.

  Had they meant for him to kill the assassin?

  He doubted it. Who were they? Or was he giving some paranoid delusions corporeal body?

  He had to think, to put it together in some rational manner.

  The club’s beating against the cell door bars startled him, and his body jerked forward in a convulsive motion. Christ, his nerves were shot!

  “You got visitors, Williams.”

  He looked at the faceless uniformed guard. “What?”

  Again the staccato beat of club against steel. “Come on.” The door swung open, and he shuffled into the corridor.

  The defense attorney’s conference room was a small affair with one barred window, a marred and scratched table, and several straight chairs. Two jar caps overflowing with cigarette butts were the only items on the table.

  His brother, Steven, stood at the window with a cigarette clenched in his fingers. He was a gaunt man, resembling their mother in habit and looks. Until Cory had last tried to borrow money, the brothers’ relationship had been cordial but distant, growing apart as years and circumstances dictated. Steven was a partner in a conservative Boston law firm and had adopted the mores of that milieu.

  Cory gave a short wave to the other man, who was seated at the table. Henry Rockwell was a senior partner in a large local firm that had done a great deal of legal work for the Nutmeg Bank.

  “I thought you gave up smoking, Steve?”

  His brother stamped out the half-smoked cigarette on the floor. “I have. Jesus, Cory, what’s happening?”

  “It’s all a mistake.”

  “I know, I know.”