Known to Evil

by Walter Mosley

"You mind explaining what it is that we've done here?" I asked. There was no reason to cry over spilt influence.

  "You know that I report to City Hall," he said. "Not directly to the mayor but we know each other to speak. A long time ago this, unofficial, position was created in order to keep things running smoothly without bringing attention to the actions necessary. I'm what you might call a chief bureaucrat--with teeth.

  "When I first took the position, I was . . . anxious. My decisions are often taken on my own, without counsel or review. I was uncertain . . .

  "On Tuesday and Thursday mornings I'd go to a diner not far from here. Angelique was seventeen and a waitress at the time. Her first name was too long for the tag so she used Tara as her name. We used to talk. Those conversations relaxed me. She made me feel normal, and I suppose, I fell in love with her a little."

  Rinaldo uncrossed his legs, clasped his hands together, sat up straight.

  "Not in a sexual way. More like a man feels toward the daughter of a good friend. We had long talks in between her customers. She saw me in an avuncular way, and I, behind the scenes, tried to help her get on with her life.

  "She never had a father in the house, and her mother . . . had problems. So I tapped a college counselor to develop a friendship with her--"

  "Iris Lindsay," I said, remembering the gravestone in the photograph.

  "Yes. Poor Iris died only a few months ago. She greased the wheels for Tara to get into college, and a few other things. Tara never knew. She didn't even know my real name.

  "After she left the diner I had Christian research her background, and Sam Strange's predecessor set up certain monies and benefits for her--with the help of an ever-watchful Ms. Lindsay. Helping Tara made me feel more balanced.

  "I've kept up the support, and over time she's developed relationships with certain city employees who answer to this office. I could never tell her what I was doing, but I kept an eye on her. If she filed a complaint about some neighbor or applied for a scholarship or a job, I was usually able to help. I thought I was being discreet, but I guess Sanderson's people found out. They must have kept her report to the police out of the system."

  "What would she care about some woman you help out?"

  Rinaldo let his hands rise in an uncommon show of helplessness. "Sandra's life has no partitions," he explained. "Her son died a while ago--a rare heart condition that went undiagnosed until the postmortem. Then she got it in her head to erect a building in memoriam for Desmond. Some monolithic downtown waterfront monstrosity. The city was against it. A dozen interest groups were against it. She came to me to try to work a way around the problem. I might have gone along, but this 'memorial' was also going to make her bank over a billion dollars. It seemed to me that she was more concerned over profit than she was for the memory of her son.

  "But, like I said, there are no partitions in her life. I knew she was bitter over my refusal to get involved. I didn't realize that she was also a little insane."

  "You think she went after Angie for revenge?"

  "Either that or to blackmail me. We'll never know now."

  "Is Grant's last name Corman?" I asked then.

  "Why?"

  "A Grant Corman is bodyguarding Sanderson."

  "I see."

  "That's a very sloppy mistake, if you don't mind my saying so."

  "A man is only as good as those who represent him," Alphonse said. "You disobey . . . and Mr. Strange gets careless."

  57

  Rinaldo decided to take the afternoon off with Angie. They were going to have lunch at the old diner where they'd met. She was on his office phone, calling all her friends, telling them that she was fine, when he took me aside again.

  "I'm not used to having people disobey my directions, Leonid," he said.

  "It's a long way from Mr. Brown at the diner, huh?"

  Not only did he smile at my little insight, he was surprised at his own humor.

  "I have to admit, however," he said, "that you've done a very good job. Still, I can't continue to include you in my, my inner circle, as you've proven yourself to be a wild card. I cannot, this office cannot afford that kind of behavior."

  "So you repay me by cutting me off?" I asked.

  I was thinking that separation from Rinaldo and his world might be the best thing that ever happened to me.

  "Do not come here again," he said. "If I ever need you, I have your number."

  "What about Sanderson? Do I have to worry about her?"

  "I'll take care of everything connected to me," he said. "That includes Sanderson and her actions."

  I wondered at the machinations the Special Assistant planned. I guess I winced a bit at the possible fates of Grant Corman and Sam Strange.

  "Is there something wrong?" Alphonse asked.

  "No," I said, almost wistfully. "My arm hurts some and I'm really tired."

  "Should I have Christian get you a car?"

  "No thanks. I drove here."

  "STOP!" SOMEONE SHOUTED.

  I was three blocks from Rinaldo's office on lower Broadway. My troubles were over, and so I just kept walking. It wasn't until the uniformed cops had surrounded me that I realized I was, once again, the subject of a major arrest.

  "What's this about?" I asked as they grabbed me and chained my arms behind my back.

  No one answered my questions. They didn't inform me of my rights or ask anything, just shoved me in the back of a police cruiser and drove me to One Police Plaza.

  I was taken to a windowless gray room that was too small even for an interrogation. There they left me to wonder if Rinaldo had lost his juice. Or, maybe, I was a loose end now that the job was done.

  I sat on the aluminum chair, my wrists in chains, for a very long time--hours. No one spoke to me, much less offered water or the use of a toilet.

  I was growing more and more certain that Sanderson had caused me to be brought here. And if I was identified as one of Rinaldo's operatives, then Patrick was probably free.

  I wasn't scared, though. That was the business. Sometimes you lost.

  Hush would protect Katrina and the kids. He'd settle any recurring problems with Dimitri and the pimp; and if he didn't, Twill certainly would. Katrina would honor my commitment to Gordo.

  There was a lot of unfinished business in my life, but that was okay, too. At times, when faced by Death or imprisonment, I was reminded of when I was a child and President Kennedy had been assassinated. There had been twenty-four-hour coverage of the tragedy on television and radio. And then one afternoon I saw the image of a very tall man standing next to the First Lady--Jacqueline Kennedy.

  "Who's that man?" I asked my father.

  "That's their president, son."

  "No, Dad. The president's dead."

  "The minute he died this new one took his place."

  "That fast?"

  "No one is so important that somebody else can't take his place," he told me.

  I never forgot it.

  "WAKE UP!" SOMEONE SHOUTED, making me realize that I had fallen asleep.

  "What?"

  "You're going to have a little talk," the man said.

  He was flanked by three uniforms. They took me seriously in police circles. You kill one monster of a man with your bare hands and they never forget.

  "You should let me use a urinal before I get there or I'm gonna piss all over your floor."

  CAPTAIN JAMES CHARBON'S OFFICE was on a high floor with a great view. I could see the Statue of Liberty through the window over his shoulder.

  I was feeling warm, feverish. This played tricks with my vision. But I would have been able to pick out Charbon with my eyes closed. He wore a particular brand of cologne that had very little sweetness to it. His eyes were steel gray. His haircut was military, and his handsome features were offset by an innate cruelty.

  "Mr. McGill," he said.

  One of the men who had brought me there pushed me into a chair. He didn't have to use much muscle.

  There
were a lot of people in the good captain's office: my four policemen, a woman taking notes on a court stenographer's machine, and a fleshy, middle-aged man perched on the corner of the big mahogany desk.

  "We got you," the captain said.

  "No question about that. Can you free my arms?"

  "No."

  "I see."

  We, all eight of us, remained silent for the next span of seconds. I was expected to say something but didn't.

  "Do you know what we found in the trunk of your car?" the man sitting on the desk asked.

  "Who are you?" I asked.

  "Broderick Tinely."

  "Oh," I said. "The prosecutor."

  He wasn't pleased that I knew him.

  "There was a pistol in the trunk of your car. The same gun used to slaughter poor Wanda Soa."

  "Oh."

  As in a darkened cinema, I imagined faceless men in suits, on a broad screen. They make their way into John Prince's empty apartment, find a pistol in a drawer and take it away.

  "Do you have anything to say?" Tinely asked.

  "Um . . . no."

  "This is murder, McGill," the city prosecutor informed me. "Even if you slither out from under the primary charge, we'll get you as an accomplice after the fact."

  "I finally got you, Leonid," Charbon said.

  I couldn't think of a word to contradict him.

  "WHERE'D YOU GET THE GUN?" Prosecutor Broderick Tinely asked for the hundredth time.

  We were back in my cramped little cell. I was surprised that they fit in there with me.

  He was flanked by James Charbon, who, I could only suppose, wanted to be there when I finally broke.

  I had a full fever by then. My head was pounding and I could barely concentrate on the words spoken.

  The interrogation had been going on for hours. I was so weak that I could hardly hold my head up. The pain down my left arm was excruciating.

  "Where'd you get the gun?"

  One hundred and one.

  I looked up into the prosecutor's face. His jowls were fat and his head bald, like mine, only white.

  "Sandra Sanderson the Third," I said in a loud and clear voice.

  The fear in his eyes made me chortle.

  Charbon slapped me, pretty hard.

  I knew then that I must have been very sick because I didn't feel even a sting from the blow.

  The door behind the two swung open and Carson Kitteridge walked in.

  "What's the meaning of this, Lieutenant?" Charbon bellowed.

  "Excuse me, Captain," Carson said. "I'm sorry to interrupt your interrogation but I'm here to arrest Mr. Tinely."

  "What?"

  "For accepting bribes, sir," Kitteridge said, playing it meek and mild.

  "Get the hell out of here," Charbon said.

  "No, Captain," said another voice. "Lieutenant Kitteridge and I are taking Tinely into custody, and we're also relieving you of this interview."

  Nathan Samuels, assistant chief prosecutor for the city, walked into the room. There was a nimbus of light around him. I attributed this to my fever.

  "But, Mr. Samuels . . ." Charbon said.

  "Leave us, Captain." He didn't have to say it twice.

  "And you, Mr. Tinely," the pudgy boss of the DA's office said. "You go with the officers in the hall."

  People seemed to be leaving. Along with them flowed my consciousness.

  "Come on," Kitteridge said to me. "Stand up."

  I managed to get to my feet but couldn't keep the balance. I fell, in what felt like sections, to the floor. The concrete felt cold on my skin, and that was best sensation I'd known in a long time.

  58

  When I opened my eyes I was on my back, gazing at a white ceiling. The headache was gone, along with most other feelings. I rubbed my fingertips together, felt very little.

  "Leonid?"

  Aura was sitting there next to me, wearing the black dress and red shawl I'd bought for her when we first got together.

  "Am I dying?"

  "No," she said. "But you are very sick. The wound on your arm became infected and you were suffering from a serious concussion. The doctors were worried, but I knew you'd pull through.

  "When they see that you've regained consciousness the staff will call your family. They were all here until an hour ago. I waited for them to leave before I came to sit with you."

  "Where's your boyfriend?"

  Aura smiled and took my hand. "You should have told me that George was threatening you."

  "Wasn't your business."

  "I saw the folders on his desk and he explained them to me. I pointed out that he was trying to prove that you were connected to some of the most dangerous crime families in New York. I asked him what he thought they might do to him if he dragged their friend into court."

  "What'd he say?"

  "He's just a poor fool. It took twenty-four hours for the gravity of the situation to sink in. But after that he was ready to leave immediately."

  "A whole day? Is that how long I've been here?"

  "Two."

  "So George left his CFO job?"

  "He left New York. He wanted me to move down to Florida with him, but I said no."

  "I don't like the weather down there myself."

  "I didn't want to leave you, Leonid."

  She leaned over and kissed me.

  "Things'll be different when I get out of here," I promised.

  "You just get better."

  "I'm sorry about George."

  "He served his purpose," she said.

  "What's that?"

  "He showed me who my real man was."

  TWILL BROUGHT ME HOME in the Pontiac the next day.

  Gordo was already ensconced in the den. He looked better than I did. The doctor said that it was the next few months that would tell the tale.

  Lieutenant Bonilla was true to her word. Gustav's operation closed down a day or so after our talk.

  Dimitri rarely came home in those first weeks. He and Tatyana celebrated her freedom night and day.

  Hush called me on a Wednesday afternoon and asked me to take a look at page thirteen of the New York Post. A fellow named Mallory Davis had been found strangled in his East Side apartment. The photograph of Davis looked an awful lot like Patrick.

  As a kind of final favor to me, Rinaldo sent men to free Shell and Mammoth. He said that he'd find work for them.

  And Sandra Sanderson III was committed to a mental institution in California; something about a suicidal depression. Her son's children took the reins of Regents Bank and decided to turn it into a publicly traded corporation. A few weeks after that, Sandra took a lethal overdose of sleeping pills.

  When I could sit up and see straight I called Breland and told him to tell Ron that if he made it all the way through the program Jake Plumb enrolled him in that I would bring him together with his ex-wife and son.

  "HEY, POPS," TWILL SAID the morning after I'd been brought home.

  I was in the bed, resting. Katrina was out somewhere--probably with her boyfriend.

  "Boy."

  "You take workin' hard to a whole new level," my son said.

  "Thanks for tryin' to help your brother. But please just call me when you get in trouble again. You shouldn't take so many risks."

  "You the one got to take it easy, Pops. You know, somebody out there might could kill you one day."