3 Favor

by Parnell Hall

27.

  “WELL, WHAT DO WE do with him now?”

  “That, of course, is the question,” Barnes said.

  “I guess we should talk it over.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Do you suppose we should talk it over with him?”

  “I don’t know if he wants to talk to us.”

  “Well, he certainly wanted to talk to Minton.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s only natural,” Barnes said. “After all, he employed him. You always want to talk to the guy you hired. Find out if you made a good investment. If you’re getting your money’s worth. It doesn’t mean he’ll want to talk to us. He didn’t employ us.”

  “Well, he’s a taxpayer, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but he’s from New York.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So he probably won’t talk to us.”

  “We could ask him.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Does this mean we have to read him his rights again? I’m getting mighty sick of it.”

  “I’m getting mighty sick of it, too.” Barnes turned to me. “Mr. Hastings, would you like to do us all a big favor and stipulate that your rights have been read? I’d hate to drag Preston through it again.”

  God, these guys were good. It was psychological torture of the worst kind. A third degree would have been a relief compared to it. Anything rather than their inane, jovial banter.

  “All right, look, guys,” I said. “I know you’re having a good time. But frankly, this is a little hard for me to handle. I don’t do murders. I do broken arms and legs. Then this thing comes along. The witnesses blow an identification and suddenly I’m a murder suspect. Then I have to wait a whole day for the guy to come who can get me off the hook. And then, for some reason that I cannot fathom, he screws me instead. Now, I would just love to play macho with you boys, and keep up the bright, snappy patter. But I happen to be a card-carrying coward, and the truth is, I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. So do whatever the hell it is you guys gotta do, because I am not the swiftest thinker in the world, and I have to adjust to being kicked in the face here.”

  Preston looked at Barnes.

  “Emotional isn’t he?”

  “I’ll say.”

  “It would appear we are going to have to continue this conversation without him.”

  “It would appear so.”

  “Why don’t we do so, and then on the off chance his thought process should catch up with him, he can feel free to chime in.”

  “O.K.,” Preston said. “So what have we got?”

  Barnes shook his head. “Well, you know, it’s a new one on me. The guy’s been I.D.‘d now by three independent witnesses. And yet he still maintains that he is innocent and these witnesses are either mistaken or lying. Now, aside from, say, Bennie Logan or petty thieves of his ilk, this doesn’t happen. You don’t have a moderately intelligent, educated person making a flat denial of that type. You see what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I do. It’s too stupid, even for him.”

  “Exactly. If an educated person were going to try to lie his way out of it, he would come up with something more convincing than an implausible flat denial.”

  “I agree.”

  “So why is he doing it?”

  They both looked at me.

  I said nothing. It wasn’t a conscious decision on my part to say nothing. It was simply that by then my brain was Jell-O. I just gawked at them.

  “O.K.,” Barnes said. “Ridiculous as it sounds, let’s suppose for a moment that this guy is telling the truth.”

  “I find that hard to swallow.”

  “So do I. But let’s just take it as a premise. O.K., if this guy is telling the truth, what does it mean?”

  “It means Minton is lying.”

  “That’s one thing. Now, why would Minton lie?”

  “Because he’s mixed up in it, of course.”

  “Of course. Which would make sense. He is Steerwell’s boss. And there are those pictures Steerwell took.”

  “The ones our friend here took.”

  “Allegedly took. Do be fair, Preston. But leave that for a while. What about the other witnesses?”

  “What about ’em?”

  “The other witnesses can’t be lying. Well, the secretary could, because she works for Minton, but not the next-door neighbor. That’s too much to swallow. Unless you can find some way to connect her with Minton. But once you connect her with Minton, you get her coincidentally living next to Steerwell, and—it’s just too much, it’s too much, forget it.”

  “I agree.”

  “So, if this guy is telling the truth, and those witnesses aren’t lying, then it must be as he says. They’re mistaken.”

  “I’m with you so far.”

  “O.K. Well, that gives us a nice little picture. Here’s this guy, sitting here. He’s not guilty. He presumably has nothing to hide. And yet he’s a clam. He won’t tell us anything. Why is that? Only one reason. He’s protecting someone. Who? A client.”

  “Naturally.”

  “So, take it a step further. If the witnesses are mistaken, and he’s protecting a client, then there’s only one thing left that makes sense: the client that he’s protecting is a man who looks enough like him to be mistaken for him, and that man is the man who hired Steerwell and the man who ran in and out of Steerwell’s house.”

  Preston looked at me. “Anything to that, clam?”

  I blinked. I opened my mouth, closed it again.

  “He’s not talking,” Preston said.

  “You really expect him to?” Barnes said.

  “I suppose not.”

  “Well, that brings us back to the original problem. What do we do with him?”

  “This is a problem,” Preston said. “What do you think we should do?”

  “I don’t know,” Barnes said. “I leave it up to you.”

  Jesus Christ. Here they were, playing dibbsies with my freedom as if they were discussing who went first in a game of marbles. And Barnes had just deferred to Preston, leaving my fate in Bad Cop’s hands. Bad Cop would fry me.

  Preston yawned and stretched. His hands brushed the ceiling. He looked like some giant bird, flexing its wings before swooping down on its prey.

  He frowned and pursed his lips. “I say we let him go.”

  28.

  THE REVENGE OF BAD COP.

  They’d done it again. Preston had just one-upped me in the game of “You can go.”—“Then I’ll stay.”

  And this time I wasn’t ready to go for the win by saying, “That’s all right, let’s talk.” An incredulous, “Huh,” was the best I could muster.

  “That’s interesting,” Barnes said. “And now, why would you say that?”

  Preston shrugged. “Well, the problem, you see, is motive. Now, I know we got the theft of the pictures, we got the fingerprints on the wallet and we got the three eyewitness identifications and all that. But the problem still is motive. I just can’t fathom why a douche-bag ambulance chaser from New York City who’s never been here before should come down here and kill two people. It just doesn’t make any sense.

  “Whereas the bit about protecting a client I can buy.”

  “You’re saying you believe him?”

  “Well, no, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying the explanation could be plausible. And, of course, we have to consider the alternatives.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well,” Preston said. “We’ve got enough to arrest him on suspicion of murder. We could hold him on that. But the prosecutor isn’t going to be too happy. Because we don’t have enough to convict. Because we don’t have the motive. And we’re not going to get it, ’cause the guy’s a clam.

  “And then we have practical matters to consider. If we arrest him for murder, then we gotta lock him up in the county jail way the fuck out in Mays Landing. And then we gotta run out there every time we wanna talk to him or have some witness I.D. him or whatever.”

  �
��Oh, you’re always griping about the county jail in Mays Landing.”

  “Well, it’s a real pain in the ass. I suppose you like going out there. And another thing is, if we charge him with murder, that asshole lawyer will come roaring back in that fucking stretch-limo and start screaming at everybody until we won’t be able to think straight.”

  “I hope Mr. Hastings didn’t misunderstand you,” Barnes said. “What Sergeant Preston meant to say, was that he would certainly hate to inconvenience your estimable attorney by making him come all the way back from New York.”

  “Certainly,” Preston said. “My sentiments exactly.”

  Barnes turned back to me. “Well, Mr. Hastings. I think Sergeant Preston’s made a pretty good case. The only thing is, letting you go is going to get us some awfully bad press. I mean, what with there being so much evidence against you, and all. But we aren’t out to win any popularity contests here. What we are concerned with is the administration of justice. A very corny thing to have to say, but there you are. The point is, we don’t really give a shit what people say about us, as long as we’re doing our job. We can take the flak.”

  Barnes looked at Preston, nodded, then looked back at me.

  “So you can go.”

  29.

  THIS TIME I KNEW they were following me.

  I didn’t see them, of course. I’m no good at that. But I knew. It was the only thing that made sense. The only reason they could have released me this time. Oh, a lot of what Barnes and Preston had said was true. And a lot of what they surmised was deadly accurate. But still, I would have been willing to bet you that releasing me would not have turned out to be the prescribed course of action written in the police procedural. No, they had to have a reason.

  They were following me for sure.

  And if that was true, I had a lot to consider.

  As I’ve said, I couldn’t lead them to Harold and Barbara.

  But where could I lead them?

  I figured I had twenty-four, maybe forty-eight hours at the outside, before the whole thing blew up in my face. By then, one of a number of unpleasant things would have happened. The cops would have got a lead to Harold and Barbara. Or Barnes and Preston, for all their bravado, would take so much heat they’d have to pick me up and charge me.

  Or I’d crack up.

  The third possibility seemed the most likely. And it wasn’t necessarily going to take any twenty-four to forty-eight hours, either. If you can’t understand that, then you probably (1) have never been arrested for murder and (2) are thinking of TV detectives who get arrested for murder every week and are used to it so it doesn’t faze them.

  Don’t judge a man till you’ve been standing in his shoes. Madonna sings that in one of the songs on her True Blue album. Shit. Do I have to confess to listening to Madonna? Well, I’d rather do that than confess to murder. Why am I saying this? I’ve got confession on the brain. Why? I’m not guilty. At least not of murder. Grand larceny, well, that’s another matter. God, how often can I say that? Yes, I’m guilty of grand larceny. How glamorous. I bet that could get me laid in the singles bars. “Hi, I’m guilty of grand larceny. Wanna fuck?” Jesus, what a line. No, I can’t handle it. Maybe I should just confess. Confess to the murders, too. Then they’d leave me alone. Then I wouldn’t have to think about it. Then—

  Shit.

  I am cracking up.

  I lay in the bed in my hotel room, drenched with sweat and torn with doubts.

  What the hell should I do?

  I got up, took my clothes off and took a shower. When in doubt, take a shower.

  When I got out, I felt cooler, if not more clear-headed. I put on fresh clothes and combed my hair. I looked at myself in the mirror. Damn it, I didn’t look a thing like Harold Dunleavy. Not that I wanted to. As far as I was concerned, the only thing I envied about Harold Dunleavy was Barbara MacAullif Dunleavy.

  Somehow I had to help her.

  And him.

  I picked up the phone and called MacAullif. I was hoping he might have some advice, seeing as how I was sort of at wit’s ends, myself.

  He was out. Just my luck. The one time I wanted to talk to him.

  I called Alice. She was glad to hear from me. It had been a while. In all the excitement I’d forgotten to call home. I told her I’d been busy.

  She asked me how the case was going. I told her things were coming along.

  I shaded the truth a little. Alice asked me how I was, and I told her I was fine. I saw no reason to alarm her.

  I didn’t lie to her. I just didn’t mention that I’d been indicted for grand larceny and was suspected of two murders.

  A sin of omission.

  I hung up the phone. I felt awful. I’d needed to talk to somebody. MacAullif wasn’t there, and this was something I couldn’t talk over with my wife.

  I was on my own.

  All right, asshole, what are you going to do?

  I realized it didn’t matter. I just had to do something, anything, or I’d go nuts.

  I went out and got in my car. I pulled out of the parking lot, headed for Atlantic City. I didn’t know where I was going, I was just going. That was the ticket. Don’t think about it. Just do it.

  I knew the cops were following me. It was amusing. I wondered what they’d think if they realized I didn’t know where I was going.

  This signs assaulted me again. The signs for the casinos. They were like sirens, calling to me. Luring me.

  I succumbed to the lure.

  Fuck it.

  Let the cops follow me.

  I’ll lead ’em somewhere

  To the casino.

  To Tallman.

  30.

  HAROLD DUNLEAVY WASN’T in Tallman’s Casino. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had been. The cops wouldn’t have been able to single him out from the other few thousand people there. And he didn’t know me, so there was no chance of him rushing up to me and saying, “Hey, you son of a bitch, what you doing messing around in this case?”

  It would have been reassuring to see him, actually. Particularly since I couldn’t risk driving by his house anymore. It would have been nice to know he hadn’t skipped town. It also would have been nice to know that he was still alive. So many of the people I’d been following lately had been winding up dead. But Harold wasn’t there.

  M. Carson, the blonde, nimble-fingered blackjack dealer wasn’t there, either.

  Neither was Tallman, for that matter.

  All in all, it looked like a pretty unprofitable evening. Well, I’d left the hotel with low expectations, so it wasn’t that surprising to see them fulfilled.

  One good thing: this would sure keep the boys from Major Crimes guessing.

  I figured I’d hang out for a while and see if anyone showed up.

  I dug the change out of my pocket. I had five quarters. Well. Big spender. What the hell.

  I walked over to a slot machine and fed the quarters in one at a time.

  On the fourth one I hit a ten-quarter payoff

  Hot damn.

  I celebrated by playing two quarters at once.

  I hit a twenty-quarter payoff. Right after that, another payoff for eight.

  Jesus Christ. I was getting to where I could use one of those plastic cups.

  I hit another twenty-quarter payoff.

  Christ, I was smoking. At this rate, I might hit the jackpot. Two thousand quarters. Let’s see, divide by four, that’s five hundred dollars. I could imagine the phone call to my wife: “That’s right, honey, I went in there with a buck twenty-five, and guess what?”

  My last quarter came up zilch.

  I smiled wistfully, returned my plastic cup to its former place.

  I looked at my watch. My entire trip through exultation into bankruptcy had taken a whopping fifteen minutes.

  I looked around. Still no sign of Harold and M. Carson. But some men that looked vaguely familiar were threading their way through the tables at the end of the room. As they drew closer, they dis
pelled all doubt. It was the King and his Court.

  Well, fuck it. I wanted to lead the cops to Tallman, and there’s Tallman. So what did I do now?

  I felt like looking behind me, whistling, and pointing, “There he is!” Somehow that didn’t strike me as being very wise. What I had to do was go up to him and speak to him. The thing was, I couldn’t think of a fucking thing to say. You see, I didn’t want to say anything that would be even remotely connected to the case.

  That was largely because of the King’s Court.

  Now, I am admittedly not the best judge of character in the world, but it didn’t take a genius to see that these guys were most likely not the King’s financial advisors. In fact, if their average I.Q. was over a hundred, I’d have lost another bet.

  I didn’t know if Tallman was mob connected and these guys were mob, or if these guys were local talent he’d just hired himself, but either way, they looked like muscle, not brains. So, under the circumstances, murder didn’t seem like a good subject to bring up.

  So what was I gonna say? I didn’t know. But I was winging it all the way, anyway, so what the hell.

  I stepped away from the slot machine right into the path of a waitress with a tray of drinks. She stopped short, martinis and breasts both jiggling and threatening to escape the confines of their containment. She started to flash me a dirty look, then, apparently remembering the customer was always right, converted it into a lopsided smile, and skipped nimble-footedly around me.

  I sidestepped too, then strode out into the middle of the floor and headed straight for Tallman.

  As I approached, the hands of two of the members of the King’s Court strayed inside their jackets. I wondered why. Then I realized. I was wearing a suit and tie, and so were they, and so was almost no one else in the casino. After all, it was Atlantic City in the summertime. Short sleeve shirts were the order of the day.

  I tried not to notice the hands in the jackets. I strode right up to Tallman.

  “Hey, Tallman,” I said. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

  The Court tensed.

  The King afforded me a regal, condescending look.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. These waitresses you got working here. In the skimpy costumes with the boobs pushed up and jiggling like Jell-O. That’s bullshit, man. That’s bush league. I come in here after a hard day’s work. I’m gambling, I’m dropping some money. You think I want to see that shit? All tease and titillation? I can get that on TV. You think I want to see push-up costumes? Hell no! Bare breasts, that’s what I want to see. Bare tits.”