by Val Bruech
Malone wasn’t hard to find: his derriere was propped up on a barstool like a mushroom cap on a narrow stem. His black and white plaid shirt, frayed at the edges, hung out over stained khaki pants. He was deep in conversation with the man on his left. The two stools on his immediate right were unoccupied.
I shook out of my coat, hung it on a peg, and sauntered to the empty seat farthest from Malone. I hesitated as if debating what to do. The customer at the end of the bar looked as if he had been rooted there for a week. He was fixated on the glass in front of him, which looked to be a straight-up Manhattan. The giant TV screen was tuned to a pre-season Cub game. No one was paying much attention. It was that kind of year already.
The bartender approached, towel slung across his shoulder. He was in his twenties, stocky with a dark complexion, likely related to the owner. “What can I getcha?”
“Two things, actually. You want the easy one first?”
“Whatever,” he shrugged with a genial smile.
If I said “Chardonnay,” they’d all look at me like I was Rush Limbaugh and had just wandered into the Democratic national convention. I glanced at the handles of his draught beers. “Old Style.”
“You’re right, that’s easy.” He drew down a glass and placed it on a coaster that proclaimed the goodness of some unknown lager.
“Now,” he leaned toward me, elbows on the bar. “I love a challenge.”
“I’m a lawyer. I’ve got a big trial coming up, and I need to find a witness. I heard he comes in this place a lot.”
The bartender tugged at his ear. “I’m subbing for my dad tonight. I don’t know many of the regulars.”
“This guy, his name is William Glidden, was a passenger in a car that was in an accident. If Glidden testifies and I get a good verdict against the driver, chances are Glidden can settle his case for decent money too.”
“I see.” He seemed to follow what I was saying. “Only problem is, I don’t know anyone named Glidden. What does he look like?”
“I don’t have a picture, but he’s in his late forties, thin sandy hair, medium build, about five foot ten. At his deposition he said he was a truck driver. Any help you can give me would be great.”
“Lotsa guys like that come in here.” He started to speak to the Manhattan customer, then shook his head. He spotted Malone who was still oblivious to my presence. “Let me ask this gentleman. If anyone would know, he would.” He waited politely for a break in Malone’s conversation with his buddy, then leaned over the bar and spoke to my quarry. I couldn’t distinguish their words but the bartender gestured in my direction and Malone nodded a few times. I sipped my beer, ecstatic. This was working out better than I could have scripted.
Malone finally turned towards me. “Nick here says you’re lookin’ for someone named Glavin?”
I turned my 100-watt smile on him. “Glidden. William Glidden.” I repeated the description.
“There’s a foo…few truckers who come in here, but none of ’em look like that.” He squinted. “Who’d you say you were?”
I dug my cardholder out and handed him a card. “Susan Marshfield. He’s an important witness.”
“Yeah, yeah, Nick told me.” He brought the card close to his face, then extended it as far as his arms could reach, then put it on the bar in front of him.
“You know Kyle Galvin?” he asked.
Kyle was a divorce lawyer in town. “Sure, I’ve known him for years. Guy knows his way around the courthouse.”
“Yeah. Well, good.”
“This guy Glidden…he may not be a trucker anymore. Do you know anyone around here who even looks like that?”
“Like what?”
I again described the non-existent witness. Malone scanned the faces of the patrons. “How old’s this clown supposed to be?”
“Late forties, give or take.”
“Well, you can give ’em to me. I need all the extra years I can get.” He winked and elbowed the guy next to him. “Really, honey, I know some guys who look like that, but their names aren’t Glidden.”
“That’s okay. Thanks for trying.” I smiled remorsefully.
My glass only had an inch or so left. “You ready for another brewski, honey?” He motioned to the bartender.
“No, thanks. I should ask around.”
“You can ask whoever you want, but if I don’t know him, chances are none of these other rummies does either.” He threw his head back and guffawed loudly.
I studied his face long enough to be impolite.
“Whacha starin’ at honey? Haven’t you seen a handsome man before?” He patted his medium-sized belly which rested happily atop a far larger one.
“None as handsome as you.”
I was kidding. I hoped he was too. “Actually, I was thinking that I know you from somewhere. Are you a police officer?”
He took a long toke on his beer, then carefully replaced his glass on the bar. “None of your business,” he mumbled.
“Oh…okay.”
His buddy on the left resumed their conversation, and Malone became animated again. I slid off the barstool and approached the pool-playing crowd, watching the sergeant out of the corner of my eye.
Faking a witness search was easy, having done it countless times for real. My empty glass finally gave me an excuse to return to the bar. Malone glanced at me. I shrugged.
“No luck.”
“Maybe you should try the sexy state.”
I frowned, then realized he meant the Secretary of State.
“Yeah, trace the address on his license. Or run a skip trace.” I looked at him in the mirror. “Do you do that kind of stuff in your off hours?”
He frowned. “Uh-huh.”
I took a calculated risk that he’d forget our entire conversation by morning. “Did you know Sam Kendall, the lawyer who was killed? He knew a lot of cops.”
“Not personal…not personally,” he shook his head. “Everybody knew him by reputation. He tried to fry some of the guys in court.”
“He ever fry you?”
“Naw, not me.” He focused his attention on a stuffed parrot perched on a swing in the corner of the bar. “I don’t do many street investigations.”
“You ever see him outside court?” I persisted.
He shook his massive shoulders. “Fuckin’ a, lady. You understand English?” He spun on the barstool so quickly his knees crashed into my legs and I had to grab the bar to keep my balance. Malone clutched my good arm above the elbow and yanked me close. His breath was sour and made me feel sick to my stomach.
“What are you, some kind of plant? Did Internal Affairs send you?”
I grasped his thumb where it wrapped around my arm and bent it back the wrong way. He yelped in pain and released me. We now had the undivided attention of every half-sober patron in the establishment. The bartender came from nowhere and slid between us.
“You’re outta line here. Chill, botha ya,” he commanded.
“Goddamn bitch. Tell her to leave me the fuck alone.”
I drew back. “Sorry. I was just trying to start a conversation. I guess I asked one question too many.”
Neither the bartender nor my apology mollified Malone. He swayed on the barstool, then steadied himself.
“Lar, it’s okay. She’s gone.” Nick was making the rules now.
“Miss, I have to ask you to leave.” He inclined his head in the direction of the door.
“What do I owe you?” I reached for my purse.
“On the house.” The barkeep faced me with his back to Larry. Brave fella.
“Thanks, Nick. Sorry about the ruckus.”
I had a clear view of Larry’s face over the peacemaker’s curly mop. Desperate for any indication of his possible involvement with Sam, I asked loudly “What about Cooper Hart, Malone? Who killed him?”
It took a couple seconds for my question to penetrate his alcohol-soaked brain. Then, eyes bulging, he lunged at me, knocking Nick aside like an insect. Three of his cohort
s jumped up and, with great effort, wrestled him back to the bar. Nick collected himself, grabbed me firmly by the shoulders and pushed me unceremoniously to the door.
“Out.”
“My coat.”
He loosened his grip, allowing me to retrieve it, but stood with his arms crossed, blocking any idea of reentry.
“We don’t like people bothering our customers. Don’t come back.”
I swung past Malone’s house on the way home. The driveway was deserted, and the house was dark. I thought about taking a quick peek in the windows, but I’d had enough of Larry Malone for one night.
The answering machine winked in the dark kitchen.
“Got a positive on your gun registration inquiry. Subject owns a three fifty-seven Magnum, purchase date 2/21/08. Also a twenty-two, same date.” A long silence.
“You sure know how to pick your friends.”
I turned my back to the machine. In the darkness I brushed against something on the counter. It crashed to the parquet floor, and I let out a shriek. I reached wildly for the light switch, flipped it on and stared at the broken and slivered glass that was scattered across the kitchen floor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The next morning before work, I found a pair of Latex gloves, spread a large tarp on the garage floor, and gently shook out the first of Malone’s garbage bags, hoping the contents weren’t lethal or toxic. Papers, Styrofoam food containers, and beer bottles rolled out. He didn’t believe in recycling, but he did believe in potato chips, apparently any brand on sale. Battle-scarred stuffed animals were liberated next, most with serious parts of their anatomy missing: eyes, ears, appendages. Broken costume jewelry, clipped newspaper articles once believed important, outdated women’s magazines, school announcements, homework, and lots of junk mail followed. I scanned everything carefully, then broomed it all back into the first bag. I upended the second sack. Discarded pizza crusts and dozens of empty junk food bags tumbled out. Malone needed a dog to take care of this stuff for him. My friend Kyle Galvin’s business card was partially obliterated by tomato sauce. Torn halves of a photograph fit perfectly together: Malone posing with a woman who looked like a doll next to his hugeness and two towheaded boys wearing awkward smiles and ill-fitting suits. If I hadn’t known there was a divorce pending, I would’ve guessed it after reviewing this debris. The bottom of the second bag was filled with ashes. I located a magnifying glass, sat cross-legged on the floor and strained to find anything legible that had escaped the flame, but the arsonist had done a thorough job.
An hour later I surrendered, having scored nothing remotely connected to Sam, finding not a shred of a police report. I showered, did what was necessary to present myself to the legal world, and drove downtown.
The prosecutors were particularly disdainful at morning pre-trials. Monica called during lunch, frantic. The firm was short-handed due to a flu bug. Could I cover a deposition? These question-and-answer sessions with a witness under oath are intended to allow each side in a civil case to discover the strengths and weaknesses of the other side’s case but often devolve into posturing skirmishes and pointless stonewalling. Thankfully my opponent was not the sort who objected to the form of every question and it went smoothly. It was also a welcome break from the Malone conundrum.
It was after five when I returned to my office, and the building was dark. The firm’s staff leaves messages and phone calls on my e-mail during the day, but after hours my answering machine picks up the calls. I punched the play button. A raspy voice that identified itself as “Digger” had called at 5:15 and would try again at 6:00. I started typing a summary of the deposition while I waited for him to call back.
I picked up the phone before the first ring faded. “Marshfield Law Offices.”
There was a clanging sound like someone dropped the receiver, then static. “Miss Marshfield?”
“Mr. Cullerton. How are you? Are those kids bothering you again?”
“No, no. Haven’t had any more problems with them. Hope it stays that way.”
“Me too.”
“I’m callin’ from the pay phone down at the grocery store.”
He paused.
“Somethin’ happened today, I thought maybe you oughta know.”
“What is it, Mr. Cullerton?”
“A policeman came by and wanted to know why you were here the other day.”
Cold clamps tightened in my gut.
“Did you get his badge number?”
“He weren’t wearing no badge. He was in a suit.”
“Did he give you a name?”
“Yeah, and a card too. I got it right here.”
“What’s the name?”
“Wait, I gotta get it in the light.”
“Says ‘Lieutenant Al Tite, Joliet Police Department.’”
Surprise and puzzlement chased each other like squirrels around my innards.
“You there, Miss Marshfield?”
“What did you tell him, Mr. Cullerton?”
“Well, I felt a little funny, him being a police officer and all. But what we talked about was private, just between you and me. I thought it should stay that way.”
My grip on the phone loosened to a mere chokehold.
“So what did you say?”
“Well, I hemmed and hawed for a while ’cause I couldn’t think real fast. Finally I told him that one of your clients died, and I was listed in the will so you had to come see me about what I get.”
I laughed out loud. “Mr. Cullerton, that’s inspired. You’re a genius.”
He chuckled delightedly. “I thought it was pretty good too.” Then his voice became somber. “No reason to put down the dead. Can’t do nothin’ for Anthony anyway. But I hope you know what you’re doing here.”
I hoped so too.
“What you did was very special. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me nothin. You scared those kids off. I can sleep good now.”
“That’s worth something.”
“You bet it is.”
“When I get some time I’ll be down to visit you again, okay?”
I squeezed the “never quit” stone while I awaited his response.
“That’d be real nice.”
“I’ll see you soon, then.”
“Okay, Miss Marshfield.
Al would know Digger lied to him: after all, Al had located Cullerton for me and he knew why I went to see him. Why hadn’t Tite reamed Cullerton out or cited him? What kind of cat and mouse game was he playing? I had a glass of water halfway to my mouth when another thought paralyzed my arm. Was Al having me followed?
I closed up the office, made sure the building was locked behind me and strode to the parking lot with all my antennae out. I recognized the few remaining cars left in the parking deck. They all belonged to the usual group of conscientious late workers. No shadow stirred, no garbage cans were out of place.
By this time of day, the downtown swimmers have finished their laps, and the pool is usually deserted. I had been faithful to Dr. Lopez, but I was desperate for a chlorine fix. Casey Aubury, who works the front desk and lifeguards for the family swims, greeted me warmly and buzzed the electronic gate open. Halfway to the women’s locker room, I stopped and retraced my steps.
“Casey, if anyone asks for me can you tell ’em you haven’t seen me?”
“You in trouble? You’re a lawyer. You’re too smart to get in trouble.”
“Sometimes being smart gets me in trouble,” I groused. “I’m just being careful. Some bad stuff’s been going on lately.”
He grinned. “Haven’t seen ya in a week.”
“Thanks.”
I changed, showered and made my way to the pool area. The sole occupant floated on his back, occasionally kicking up small ripples.
“Frankie! I’d recognize that flaccid body anywhere.”
“Flaccid. That means trim and muscular, right?”
Frankie was between seventy and a hundred pounds overweight. He claim
s to love swimming because it’s the only sport he can participate in horizontally.
“Muscular?” I retorted. “How can you be muscular when the only exercise you get is dealing pinochle?”
“Oh, I get plenty,” he winked. “I just don’t do it in front of people.”
“Where are all those juvenile delinquents you hang around with?” Frankie was the clown of the senior citizen group at the Y.
“I wore ’em all out.”
“Frankie, tell me the truth. How many laps did you do in the two hours you were here?”
“Laps? You think I want to hurt myself? I played beach ball. That’s enough.”
The Social Security set amuses themselves by batting a beach ball around and trying to keep it airborne.
“Can you spare a lane?” I adjusted my goggles to a tight fit.
He gave me an impish grin. “Sure. I’m almost out of here. The old lady says I reek of chlorine when I stay in too long.”
“Drives ’em wild, doesn’t it?” I pushed off.
“Have a good one,” Frankie yelled and waved.
My overhead stroke on the left side was painful and stiff, but with some adjustments I could swim in a straight line. The sheer joy of being back in the water again carried me through half my workout though I wouldn’t set any speed records today. How could I get Malone to lead me to the missing reports? Al’s face kept popping up. I tried to stuff it back wherever it came from, but he was insistent. Finally the rhythmic breathing and repetitive motion made all my concerns melt away and I ascended into endorphin heaven.
I stopped for a breather at the edge of the pool. Frankie had disappeared, and a lifeguard isn’t required for adult swim hours, so I was the only person in the entire pool area. As I reached for my water bottle, a grip like a vise clamped onto my skull and an equally crushing one dug into my bad shoulder. An instant later, another body plunged on top of me, forcing me underwater. Panic and pain flooded through me and I flailed wildly. Steel arms pinned mine from behind and rock-hard legs encircled me. Within seconds I was captured and helpless.