The Big Law pb-2

by Chuck Logan

  “Good point.” Tom nodded. But he resented the agent messing with him. He asked, “How long since you quit, Lorn?” The agent narrowed his eyes and Tom smiled. “Your fingers are still stained yellow from nicotine. Camels? Un-filtered Luckies? Pall Malls?”

  “Pall Malls,” said Lorn. “And it’s fourteen months.” The agent cleared his throat. “This time.”

  Tom hobbled to the windows and wondered if he could get Lorn Garrison to smoke a cigarette as part of his deal.

  Whole pack. One after another.

  Tom found it interesting, setting up housekeeping with FBI agents. They had been distant figures when he was a reporter. Their personal manners were always obscure behind a tightly controlled official screen. Now he saw them in a relaxed state. Because the safe house was remote, it was easier to do their own cooking than order out. Surprisingly, the laconic Garrison turned out to be the chef.

  This afternoon he planned to make spaghetti. He had slipped a red apron over his pinstripe shirt. And, as a concession to static duty in the safe house, he had removed his tie.

  The apron bulged over the big pistol on his hip.

  Seeing him standing there, wincing a little as he methodically sliced onions, reminded Tom of a scene in The Godfather.

  Cooking for an army of hoods who had gone to the mattresses.

  “What kind of gun is that?” asked Tom.

  “Pistol,” corrected Lorn patiently.

  “Okay then, pistol.”

  “Forty caliber.”

  “Why not a nine millimeter? I thought everybody used nine millimeters?”

  Lorn looked warily from side to side, a conditioned reflex.

  “Nine millimeter is for pussies,” the agent said phlegmatically.

  Tom grinned. Lorn was the kind of material that would make a great color piece on the changing of the guard at the FBI. Probably shook J. Edgar’s dainty little hand when he received his badge. Wonder if he’s ever thought about that dainty little hand buttoning on a dress. But that was too over the top for Garrison. That would probably get Tom knocked on his ass. So he pursued the gun talk: “Why for pussies?”

  Lorn smoothly moved the sliced onions aside with the edge of a long butcher knife and assessed a green pepper.

  “’Cause it’s a woman’s gun. Light, to fit in their nice little hands. Not too loud. Not too much recoil. Makes tidy little holes. You know; like we don’t really want to hurt anybody.”

  A serpent of mannered distaste coiled in his border state accent.

  “Can you carry any kind of gu-pistol you want?”

  “Forty cal. is the current policy.”

  “But if you could pack anything you wanted, what would it be?”

  Lorn set the knife down and wiped his hands on a dishtowel. Then he carefully unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were heavy, thick with black hair, liver spots, and freckles. A fading blue tattoo in the shape of a globe, anchor and eagle showed just below his rolled cuff.

  “Forty-five.” Lorn was emphatic.

  “Isn’t that kind of dated?” observed Tom.

  “Yeah,” Lorn grinned. “Make a hole in you the size of this.”

  He held up a gnarled right fist.

  “You’ve actually seen that?”

  Lorn Garrison’s piercing eyes passed right through Tom for a second and then he turned back to his knife and cutting board. Tom thought, So you’ve seen people shot. Big deal.

  I’ve been shot. And I’ve seen Caren Angland try to fly.

  Tom stood up. “I’m going out for a walk. The doctor said it was okay if I take it easy.”

  “Take Terry. Just stay down near the shore,” said Lorn.

  Before he left, he couldn’t resist dialing up his messages one more time. The first saved message was from Ida. “If you need to talk, Tom, I’m always here…”

  He tapped number three twice, which speeded up the message, then he erased it.

  Agent Terry was a scrubbed, light-skinned black guy with freckles. Real in-shape. Like Tom was going to be when he became Danny Storey. They were about fifty yards down the beach, making slow progress through driftwood. Tom marveled how fluid his imagination had become. He fantasized Ida Rain’s flawless body, naked and headless, skipping in the cold. Conversationally, he asked, “Hey, Terry, you ever screw an ugly woman?”

  Terry quipped, poker-faced, “When I was a little kid I remember seeing a few ugly Negro women. As I got older I might have seen one or two plain black women. But now, THE BIG LAW/143

  I know for a fact, there is no such thing as an ugly woman of color-so you must be referring to white women.”

  Tom grinned. “But if you wound up with an ugly one-you think making her wear a mask would improve things?” For the rest of the walk, Tom gave Ida back her head-because she gave such great blowjobs-but he made her wear a mask.

  After their walk, Tom asked Terry how he stayed in such good shape. So, downstairs, Terry changed to a sweat suit and showed Tom the calisthenics routine he used on the road. It involved stretching, push-ups, crunches, a jump rope and weights. Terry was coaching Tom through the exercises, a little impressed because Tom was taking notes, when cold gravel scattered outside. The agent from Duluth wheeled up to the house with the tape.

  26

  Lorn, Tom, and Agent Terry gathered before the TV/VCR

  in the living room. Front row seats. The others sat in back.

  Terry inserted the tape in a Play Pack cassette and pushed it in.

  “Okay,” said Lorn. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Terry thumbed the remote. The blinds were pulled. A pack of Red Hot Blues corn chips was open on the coffee table.

  Diet Cokes had been set out.

  The mosaic of static on the screen transformed into a basement still life featuring a couch, a coffee table and an easy chair. One minute passed. Two. Garrison cleared his throat. Tom began to see himself employed by Prison Industries at Stillwater Prison. As Garrison started to turn to Tom-

  Keith Angland walked onto the screen followed by a short older man. Keith sat on the couch against a background of dark paneling. His knobby elbows jutted from a polo shirt and rested on his knees. He smoked a cigar. So did the husky balding man in a cardigan who took the chair across from him. The older man had a scarf thrown shawl fashion around his throat and shoulders. Little white numbers ran in the corner of the screen establishing the time and date.

  A bottle and glasses sat on the coffee table between them.

  Angland poured two shots of clear liquor and they downed their drinks. The other man set down his glass, leaned forward and placed his hand on Angland’s shoulder. “Fuck ’em. What did they do for you. They never appreciated you. It’s hard, I know, Keith. But you’re doing the smart thing,” he said in a gravel voice.

  “Bingo, that’s Kagin,” said Lorn quietly.

  On the screen they made small talk. Then they both stood up. Caren’s ghost appeared. Her fixed smile looked like a still photograph pasted in the animated footage. She had on the same fashionably baggy denim jacket she’d worn on the day she died.

  Terry shook his head sympathetically. “Goddamn man, goddamn,” he said softly.

  “Shhhh,” said Lorn.

  Voices bantered, tinny amateur audio.

  “I’m going to Hudson. Do you need anything special?” she asked.

  “Nah, we’re good,” said Keith.

  Caren departed, and they made more small talk, about remodeling basements. A third man entered the frame. He was heavyset, with ringlets of dark hair, and he wheezed when he said, “She’s gone.”

  “Bring it in,” said Kagin.

  The third man continued to wheeze as he hauled a large suitcase onto the carpet in front of Angland. The same suitcase Tom buried in the woods.

  The older guy, Kagin, chided the Wheezer. “Shit, Tony, you’re outa shape, ain’t that fuckin’ heavy.”

  “Twenny-five bricks is always heavy,” protested the Wheezer.

>   “Bricks?” said Tom aloud.

  “Shhh,” said Lorn again. But he came forward in his chair and reached for the telephone.

  On-screen, the wheezing man popped open the suitcase and proceeded to stack compact bundles on the coffee table. “Your five,” he said to Kagin. “Rest is for you,” he said to Keith. “Now who’s the rat?”

  While Kagin stacked the money bundles into a gym bag, Angland reached down and flipped a magazine open on the coffee table. He tossed some papers to Kagin.

  A photograph. Stapled sheets of paper.

  Angland explained. “Transcript of the wiretap the task force put on your organization.” He tapped the photograph. “I told you not to do any business with this guy on his phone line, or in his living room.”

  Kagin picked it up. “Alex, Alex.” He pursed his lips and shook his head sadly.

  Lorn was talking on the phone in high spirits. “Sharkey, Yeah. I’m watching it. Forget Angland. Grab your dick, boy.

  This is Chicago, big time. I got Kagin and guess who? Only Tony fucking Sporta giving a suitcase full of money to Angland for Gorski’s ID. I shit you not. They are dividing it up before my eyes.”

  Tom listened to Lorn with one ear and the tape with the other. On the tape, Kagin studied the picture. “Who are these other guys?”

  “FBI agents,” said Angland.

  “And they pose for pictures like this, huh. Lookit them. All grins, like they shot a big deer or something?”

  “Right. Celebrating after taking down a big score. Except it’s a lot of product, your product they confiscated in Chicago.

  Before I threw them some curves.”

  “An’ we ‘preciate that, Keith, all you done. Shepherding through those three shipments,” said Tony the Wheezer.

  And Kagin, still staring at the picture, shook his head.

  “Somebody should tell those guys it’s not real smart to be taking pictures,” he grumbled. Lorn and Terry exchanged incredulous expressions and burst into laughter.

  On the screen, Angland said, “They first squeezed him in Brighton Beach. He was stooling on you regular in Chicago and kept doing it when you brought him up here.”

  Kagin said, “This is all good stuff here. But before the others will accept you, you gotta take a blood test.” He tapped the THE BIG LAW/147

  picture with a stubby finger. “If you’re coming in with us, you gotta whack this creep.”

  Angland shrugged. “Understood. I’ll handle it.”

  “Bingo,” crowed Lorn. “Tom, buddy, you just swept the Oscars.”

  Tom grinned. Best Actor.

  On the screen they were now talking about money.

  “It’s hunnerd percent pure. No fluorescent, unmarked; it’s all washed through the Red, White, and Green Pizza chain in Illinois, Iowa, and Michigan,” said Tony Sporta.

  “They just opened up here,” blurted Tom.

  “Yeah,” said Terry. “We think that’s their distribution network for powdered coke. They did it that way in Jersey.”

  “Shhhh,” said Lorn.

  “You count it all yourself?” asked Angland.

  “Shit no,” said Kagin. “We run it through a currency counter and weigh it. Ten bricks is what-Hey, Tony. What is ten bricks?”

  “Twenny-two pounds. Ten thousand one-hunnerd-dollar bills is twenny-two pounds; pile about thirteen inches on a side and four and a half inches deep. That’s ten bricks,” wheezed Sporta.

  “Yeah,” said Kagin, with a profligate wave of his palm. “We only handle fifties and hundreds. The fives, tens and twenties we burn. Just not worth it at this level.”

  “Burn. No shit?” said Angland.

  “Yeah, I got this fifty-five-gallon drum at the summer place I got on Lake Michigan. You know. Roast wieners. Have a few beers. I’ll show it to you when you come down to Chicago to pick up your next load.”

  Angland poured another round of drinks. Kagin opened a slim portfolio and slid sheets of paper across the coffee table.

  “This is where the niggers are shipping that crack bullshit to in St. Paul out of L.A. and Detroit. You go bust their animal asses. Make you look good at work, eh?”

  “This is fine, thanks,” said Angland, carefully folding the sheets of paper.

  “Good,” said Kagin. He coughed and waved his cigar. “Let’s go up for some air, huh-my eyes are burning up down here.”

  The three men walked off screen. Tom stared at the couch, the table, the paneled wall and the suitcase full of money.

  “Twenny bricks” remained in the suitcase. According to Sporta, that was forty-four pounds of hundred-dollar bills.

  Two million dollars.

  Tom squirmed in his chair and crossed his legs. He was actually getting a hard on. Terry stopped the tape and thumbed rewind. Lorn was saying, “…and bring some equipment so we can copy this thing.” He turned, one hand over the receiver and spoke to Tom. “Sharkey says you done good. I got a feeling you’re flying first class.”

  Tom endeavored to look like a dutiful citizen. Lorn was back talking to a U.S. attorney in charge of a midwestern task force.

  “Tony doesn’t have Kagin’s balls. He’s too old to do more time. He’s got a bad ticker. He definitely could flip. Come over here and have a look at this thing. Get a search warrant for Angland’s house to see if that money is still there. Right.

  See ya.”

  An hour and a half later, Tom watched a dozen justice department attorneys huddle around the VCR after viewing the tape. A crew was making duplicates. The Minnesota U.S.

  attorney was there grinning his slightly bucktoothed grin.

  But Joe Sharkey, the prosecutor out of Chicago, was the one cloud walking.

  Sharkey was the man to make the deal. Short, intense, with pinstripes on everything he wore, including his socks, he strutted, with his thumbs hooked in his pinstriped sus-penders. The other suits in the room congratulated him in awed voices, “Joe, this is a career-defining case.”

  Sharkey set his narrow jaw in his knife-edged face.

  And he’d say, “If Sporta flips on Kagin, we’ll be into the Italians and the Russians. Jesus…they’ll have to build a whole new Marion, we’ll get so many bad guys.”

  The lawyer gave off an unholy glow, like, boy, am I gonna look good at the press conference when I spring this one.

  Already dreaming of a corner office at Justice.

  Tom continued to stand quietly, meekly, reverently. Until finally, the attorney let Lorn Garrison lead him across the room to meet the man who delivered the tape into his hands.

  “Homage is due,” said Sharkey, throwing a wiry arm over Tom’s shoulders and hoisting his can of Coke.

  “Here, here,” saluted the room full of feds.

  The attorney smiled broadly. “You want to disappear, Mr.

  James-shazam. I personally sprinkle you with pixie dust.”

  “But I still have to pass with the Marshals,” Tom wondered aloud.

  “Hey, you’re not some bottom-feeding thug,” said Sharkey.

  “The tape is pure platinum. You’re going to be flying up there right behind the pilot, trust me. You’re gone.”

  Tom smiled modestly.

  Twenny bricks.

  That night Agent Terry escorted Tom back into St. Paul, so he could remove clothes and toilet articles from his apartment. When Terry used the bathroom, Tom slipped into the corridor and dropped his letters down the mail chute. Then Tom packed a single bag and never looked back.

  Shazam.

  27

  All his life he had come up here and watched the Devil’s Kettle lash the Brule in an endless crack-the-whip against the granite walls, then disappear into the depths of the earth. It had always been a mystery. As a little boy, he believed a monster lived down there, thrashing in the raging current. When I grow up, he’d told himself, I’m gonna catch that monster.

  A clump of iris turned black on the snowy rock in the center of the Brule River. The rock overlooked the pothole and was assume
d to be the place where Keith Angland threw his wife to her death.

  Or, more accurately, to the first stage of her death, mused Broker as he rehashed the conclusions he and Jeff had aired earlier today. He stood on the observation platform over the Kettle, rolling an unlit cigar in his mouth.

  Apparently she didn’t go in all the way, so Keith had to risk his own life, climb down, and shove her the rest of the way, inch by inch, while she clawed his arm to bloody ribbons.

  Of course, given the terrain and the weather, this method of coup de grace virtually insured he would need assistance to climb back out. That, or take his chances getting down the icy cascade, then off the partially frozen and extremely treacherous river.

  No one seemed to remember that Keith had a weapon.

  Even though he’d shot James. If he was so bent on killing Caren, who was clinging to the rocks about thirty feet below, why not lean over and squeeze off one or two rounds and let gravity take it from there. Keith had a basement full of marksmanship trophies.

  And why would Keith shoot a reporter and then let him get away? Keith ran marathons. James was the original couch potato.

  The theory Jeff and Broker suggested was more plausible: a confused struggle in the snow on slippery footing. But two of the parties to that scenario had survived, and neither of them would talk about it.

  Broker rotated his neck and shoulders. Working out the tension. You gave up this line of work, remember, he told himself.

  And then-the FBI touches down like a tornado, sweeps up Keith and James, and disappears. They don’t even interrogate Jeff or me. If I was working this case I’d damn sure want to know why Caren would drive three hundred miles to see an ex-husband she hadn’t spoken to in five, six years…

  Broker was finding his way out of the wind tunnel of shock and remorse. Hearing old music; the compulsion to solve something. Two days in a row he had left Kit with Jeff’s wife, Sally, and had climbed the trail up to the Kettle.

  A lot of people were making the trek. A few were gawkers.

  But mostly they were women paying their respects. After Duluth television sent a remote team to film on this spot, women came to lay flowers. The story rolled down a familiar nightmare alley-abused wife dies at the hand of her violent husband.