Falsely Accused

by Robert Tanenbaum

  It took three days for Stupenagel to recover her senses enough to converse for any length of time. On each of those days, after taking care of Lucy and dropping her at school, Marlene had come, and sat through the visiting hour, and chatted inanely to the unanswering, white-swathed figure on the hospital bed.

  When she arrived on the third day, Stupenagel’s bed was propped up and her eyes were open. They were ringed with yellow-violet bruises. Much of the rest of her face was concealed by plaster, except for a rough hole at the side of her mouth, through which she could suck nourishment and carry on a slurred conversation.

  “How are you, Stupe?” asked Marlene, sitting in a chair by the bedside.

  “Oh, I’m having a ball. Dope’s pretty good. Nurse said you’re paying the freight for this. Thanks, but you don’t have to. Call my dad.” She gave Marlene a telephone number with a 216 area code, and Marlene wrote it down.

  “You want to know what happened, huh?”

  “Sure,” said Marlene.

  “So would I,” said Stupenagel. “The last thing I remember I was in my apartment. I had just come back from uptown, I’d taken my coat and my boots off, and I was drinking a Bloody Mary I’d just fixed. I remember thinking I wanted to call you. Drinking the drink, and then I woke up here. First thought after waking up, it was some kind of explosion. Gas. Seems like not. I got pounded, they tell me.”

  “Yeah. You don’t remember anything?”

  “Nope. Traumatic retrograde amnesia, they call it. A cute kid doctor came in this morning when I came to and explained it all to me. Some of it may come back over the weeks. He said.”

  “What’s your guess, then?”

  “Hmm. Where to begin? Well, I’m working on an exposé of the Guatemala thing, a long piece for Harper’s. Somebody down there might have heard about it and sent somebody up here to do some Central American public relations on me. Unlikely, but possible. There’s the stalking piece—one of the guys I mentioned might have been brooding … an old boyfriend … shit, I don’t know, Champ—”

  “What about the Two-Five shakedown business?” asked Marlene.

  “What business was that?” responded the injured woman vaguely.

  “You know, Stupe, the gypsy cabs, the suicides in jail, that guy who roughed you up—”

  “Oh, God, of course! Jackson! Something just broke on that, but I can’t remember …”

  Marlene waited some time, but Stupenagel did not finish the thought. Finally she said, “Meanwhile, can I do anything?”

  A rattling sound came from behind the bandages, a sad attempt at laughter. “Now she asks!”

  “Right,” said Marlene, refusing the proffered guilt trip. “Every time you get your face smashed in, you have a free crack at my professional services. What do you want me to do?”

  “Check out the D.A.’s investigation of the shakedowns.”

  “There isn’t any investigation, not according to the former chief medical examiner.”

  “You talked to him?” There was a surprised squeak in the muffled voice.

  “No. He happens to be a client of my husband’s. Butch asked him.”

  “Hnnh. He might be in on the scam, then.”

  “I doubt that. I mean, Butch doubts that.”

  “Oh, well then, it’s the gospel. Okay, maybe you can get your hands on the original ausotsy—whoops, goddamn, I’m so fucked up—autopsy reports. We can show them to somebody, see if these kids really killed themselves.”

  “Okay,” said Marlene, “I’ll try. Is that it?”

  No answer. Marlene leaned closer. “Stupe?”

  “Mmmm? What?”

  “You drifted off.”

  “Yeah. I do that. Call my dad, okay?”

  “Sure. Get better now, okay?”

  Stupenagel closed her eyes and her hand twitched, but whether it was in farewell or a random spasm Marlene could not tell.

  From a phone booth in the hospital, Marlene called Mr. Stupenagel at his office in Cleveland. The man was calm and low-key about the disaster, asking for information, getting what Marlene had, thanking her politely, and signing off. It was clear that he had been waiting for such a call for a long while. Then Marlene called the morgue at Bellevue and asked to speak to Dr. Dennis Maher.

  “Peg o’ my heart!” said a light Irish voice in her ear.

  “Hello, Denny. How’s it going?”

  “Ah, flourishing, flourishing, my dear. They’re dyin’ to get in here!”

  Marlene laughed dutifully at the ancient joke. “Why I called, Denny, is I need some help.”

  “Unto the half of my kingdom. As you’re aware, my practice is largely with the silent majority, but I could brush up a bit for you, Marlene. Would it be a wee gynecological problem, he said hopefully?”

  Marlene ignored this. “Would you be free for lunch today? My treat?”

  “Oh, let’s see now—shall I gnaw upon a stale tuna sandwich from a machine in an office reeking of formalin, or shall I dine in splendor with a beautiful woman, her paying the tab? Oh, God, these decisions!”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. How about Malachy’s on Twenty-third?”

  “Would that be the saloon with the largest selection of unblended Irish whiskey in the whole of this great city? Why, I don’t believe I’ve ever entered the door.”

  “Twelve-thirty,” said Marlene, laughing, and hung up.

  Denny Maher was part of the great Irish Medical Migration of the 1960s, in which the Irish Republic’s decision to combine brilliant training with rotten salaries redounded to the benefit of New York’s best hospitals. Maher was one of the few forensic specialists in this wave, and the M.E.’s office had snapped him up. At thirty-six, he was single and a drinking man, characteristics not unrelated to each other. Marlene liked him. He had been something of a pet of the D.A.’s office for years, a big reason being his status as the purveyor of Olde Medical Examiner, a fruit punch made with absolute alcohol purloined from the morgue, which had long been the centerpiece of bureau parties at the old D.A.’s.

  He arrived ten minutes late at the saloon, looking the same to Marlene, who hadn’t seen him in a couple of years. A slight man, he had a boyish, freckled face and crinkly red hair. His eyes were watery blue, trimmed with the decorative red stigmata of the serious lush.

  Maher kissed Marlene on the cheek loudly, said a variety of flattering, and false, things in his consciously adopted stage Irishman’s brogue, ordered a whiskey, drank it, ordered another, a different malt, for purposes of comparison, drank that, compared the two, declared the second superior, ordered another of the second to reward the firm, ordered a steak, ate it washed down with a pint of Guinness, all the while talking delightful nonsense, and then, pushing away his plate, his face flushed red, his eyes rolling, asked, “And now, my benefactress, what is the little favor that Dr. Maher, late of Trinity College, Dublin, can do to repay all this magnificence?”

  Marlene said, “I want you to find and steal three autopsy reports.” She explained the situation and why she needed them, adding, “The word is, there’s something fishy about them, and the D.A.’s office has taken them in as part of an investigation.”

  Maher gave her an inquiring look. “Wherever did you hear that?”

  “It’s around,” answered Marlene. “Why, aren’t you aware of it?”

  “I am not, which is the same as saying the creature does not exist. As you know, m’dear, I have no life. I am totally dedicated to my profession. Many and many’s the night I’ve labored until dawn in those grim precincts …”

  “You mean, sleeping it off?”

  “… labored, as I say, and never a whisper of it have I heard. However, this canard on our glorious abbatoir shall not go unchallenged while Maher draws breath. I shall … exactly what was it that you wanted, my girl?”

  “Steal these three files.” She inscribed a business card with the names Stupenagel had given her and the dates of death, and slid it across the table.

  Maher glanced at it
and put it away, saying, “ ‘Steal,’ madam, is not a word that sits comfortably on a gentleman’s tongue. However, since it’s your own dear self and a matter of honor, Maher’s your man. And another drink to the success of the enterprise?”

  Marlene paid the tab and left Malachy’s with Maher’s promise to call that evening with the results of his search. She took a cab and arrived home to the usual hysterical greeting by the big black dog, whom she fed, and then checked her service. Among the messages was one from Mattie Duran. Marlene returned it immediately.

  “You remember Vickie Sills?” said Duran without preamble. “You met her when you were here. She’s got a problem you could help her with.”

  “Vickie … ?”

  “The knee. The pit bull?”

  Marlene recalled the knee. “What’s up?”

  “I got her into a two-family house in Bensonhurst. The husband apparently found out where it was and paid them a visit last night.”

  “What went down?”

  “The usual. He tried to break in. Had that damn dog with him. She called the cops, but by the time they got there he was gone. Now she’s terrified and doesn’t want to go back. She’s here now with the kids.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Take her out there again, calm her down, sit with her. He’ll be back.”

  “And then what?”

  “Use your imagination,” said Duran. “Show him his errors.”

  “Good plan,” said Marlene. “I’ll be by in a little while.”

  Marlene called the service and left a message for Harry, telling him what she had planned. She changed into her pirate clothes—the jeans no longer buttoning but coverable with the sweater—applied her patch, walked the dog, shopped for supper, dropped off some shirts at the Chinese laundry on Mott, and then it was time to pick up Lucy, who was delighted to learn that they were going to visit Isabella at the shelter.

  At the shelter, Marlene played for a while with her daughter and the silent girl in Isabella’s cardboard hut in the playroom, which Lucy thought hilarious. Marlene and Isabella were the babies and Lucy was the Mommy, provoking breathless fits of giggles from Lucy and vague Mona Lisa smiles from the older girl. Lucy also imposed on her mother for some sleight-of-hand demonstrations, and this developed into a full-scale magic show involving all the other kids as well. Coins jumped out of ears to the satiety of all. Time flew. It was past five before Marlene thought of her meeting with Mattie Duran.

  Entering the little office, she got a long, humorous, appraising look. “I like your outfit,” said Duran.

  “It’s designed to strike fear into the hearts of my enemies,” said Marlene. “Those that don’t laugh. It’s going to be a real sketch in my eighth month.”

  “Yeah, well, Ernie Sills is no laughing matter.”

  “This is the husband?”

  “Yeah,” said Duran, wrinkling her nose. “He’s a baker. Skinny little nasty guy with a nasty dog. He used to set the animal to watch her when he was at work. She couldn’t go out, and her folks couldn’t visit. When he got his load on, he used to make it chase her and the kids around the house. A real joker, Ernie. She finally called me and I went over there with the Animal Control people and got her and the two kids out of there. He got his dog back from the pound, by the way, before he thought of looking for his family. First things first.”

  “You ever talk to him?”

  “Hell, no!” Duran snapped, and seemed surprised at the question. “Why should I, the bastard?”

  “I don’t know—he could have a story. It would be something to find out what type he is. He can’t be very happy if he behaves like that.”

  Duran gave her a withering look. “Oh, save it for church!”

  “I thought the point was that we weren’t supposed to,” said Marlene calmly.

  Duran lowered her heavy brows and gave Marlene thirty seconds of the Indian stare. Then she said, “Honey, you want to be a social worker, get those unhappy families back together, you have definitely come to the wrong rancho. Why do you think I got quarter-inch steel plates and heavy window grating on this place? You think it’s a fashion statement? What we got here is the people nobody else will take because their old men threaten to shoot up and burn down any place that takes them in. Send them to jail? Yeah, sure, they send them to jail, three months, a year; then they’re right back out doing the same number. Of course, if they’re solid citizens, like your friend Ernie Sills, they get probation and R.O.R.: don’t do it again, boy, you hear? Yes, Judge, I sure won’t.”

  “I only meant—”

  “No social work, Marlene. Protection and deterrence, that’s the business.”

  It was irritating to be lectured like this, especially in terms that Marlene had once herself used at the D.A. Without much thought she put in, “You sound like a cop, Mattie. Which is surprising, considering you did all that time …”

  Duran’s face darkened to the color of damp rawhide. “You’ve been snooping,” she said in a tight voice.

  “My partner, actually. Harry is very particular about who we do business with, and, you know, we’re detectives. I figure you kept the loot, which is how come you can run this place. Where did you stash it, anyway?”

  “No comment. I guess you heard about the other thing.”

  “Killing your father? Yeah, that too.”

  Duran relieved herself of a great sigh. “He wasn’t my father. My father died when I was four. He was my stepfather. Not that it matters, but he started fucking me when I was eleven. When I was sixteen, he started chasing Carmen, my half sister. She was ten at the time. So I stuck a gun under his chin while he was sleeping one off on the couch and blew his brains out. I never lost a minute of sleep over it either. Carmen’s a nurse in El Paso, married, two kids. Very respectable. We don’t talk. You want to do some social work at that, now?”

  “No. But here’s the thing: I set up a guy and had him beaten half to death and put in jail. Maybe it was necessary, maybe not. And I took some lumps too. But I didn’t like it at the time, the setup part, and my husband didn’t like it, and I sort of half think he was right. So I’ve decided that I’m going to try as hard as I can to resolve these cases peacefully. No, let me finish! I know other people might have tried, but the point is, I have to try, personally. That doesn’t work, I guess I can get as heavy as necessary. Which is heavy enough. The other thing is, my partner thinks you had guys whacked, which—I said, let me finish!—is your business, but I don’t want to hear about it, and if it gets stuck in my face so I can’t avoid it, I’ll rat you out.”

  Duran was glaring at her, her face getting steadily darker; Marlene glared back, feeling, having said her say, more at ease with herself than she had in a long while. It had taken a good deal of the sting out of owning a gun.

  As if reading her mind, as well as making up her own, Duran relaxed and, with a curt nod of the head, said, “Okay, it’s your play. Meanwhile, assuming nice don’t work for you, do you have protection?”

  Marlene smiled. “As the nun said to Father Feeny. Yeah, I have a gun. How about yourself? I bet you have a big one.”

  At this Duran laughed out loud, a hearty noise that blew the sour tension out of the room. She reached into a drawer and put a pistol on the center of her desk.

  “Wow! That’s very impressive. May I?”

  Duran nodded. “It’s loaded.”

  “I guess,” said Marlene, who stood and picked it up. It was the most famous pistol in history, a Colt .44 Peacemaker, the one nearly everyone in the world has seen hundreds of times from early childhood in the hands of film cowboys and gunfighters. And like nearly everyone else who has ever picked up a Peacemaker for the first time, Marlene tried to twirl it on her finger. She found it was a lot harder than Hoot Gibson made it look.

  “Here, give it to me—you’ll drop it and break your toe,” said Duran. She took it from Marlene butt first and did a snappy finger twirl, forward, back, and forward again, and mimed sticking it i
nto a low-slung holster. “My grandfather’s,” she said. “He was a rodeo cowboy. And yeah, this is the one I used. I buried it before I called the sheriff so they wouldn’t take it.”

  “Incredible!” said Marlene. “And here you are in the big city, the world’s only feminist chicana desperado. This is why they call you the Durango Kid, right?”

  Duran snorted and slipped the thing back into its drawer. “Not such a kid anymore,” she said.

  “Me neither, now that I think of it,” said Marlene. “Don’t you dare laugh, but I have to go home and feed my husband.”

  Duran laughed anyway, long and loud.

  Marlene went home, opened her gun safe, and took out her gun. She read the little manual supplied by Colt, field-stripped the weapon according to its directions, and cleaned it with the little kit the gun dealer had tossed in. As she was reassembling it, she suddenly noticed that the sounds that Lucy had been making while playing had ceased. By design, the playroom shared a wall with Marlene’s office so that she could keep tabs on what her daughter was up to while working at home.

  “Lucy? What’re you doing?” she called out. No answer. She stopped what she was doing and listened carefully. At the same time she became aware of eyes on her back. She spun around in the swivel chair. No one. The door was closed. Then she raised her eyes up the rear wall of the office. At the top of this wall, where it joined the ceiling, was a long window, designed so that light from the street could pass from Marlene’s office into the playroom, which had no other natural light. There was a face in the window, grinning down at her from twelve feet up.

  Marlene put the gun down and walked out her door and into the playroom. Lucy had placed her miniature desk on a toy chest and two chairs on top of that to reach the high inset window, on whose sill she now crouched.

  “What were you looking at?” asked Marlene when she had helped the girl down and given her a stern lecture about neck breaking and the sorrows of the quadriplegic life.