Goofy Foot

by David Daniel

  “Good to see you,” he greeted me, in a wood-rasp voice. We shook hands. As I was about to sit, he flapped open my sport jacket. “Not up to anything sneaky, are you?”

  “Like getting you on tape? What’d be the point?”

  “My case is on appeal,” he said, waving me into the booth. “I’m gonna get my shield back.”

  Not according to Ed St. Onge, I knew, but I just nodded.

  “Name your poison,” he said.

  It wasn’t necessarily a euphemism. I asked the bartender for coffee. He brought it and poured another shot for Stinson. Bushmills chased by Guinness. He was going all-Irish. “You want any food with that?” I offered. “That stuff drinks hard.”

  He belched softly. “Nah, I already had a coupla tube steaks,” he said, as if I wouldn’t have guessed.

  “Tell me about you and Ross Jensen.”

  “That lousy bloodsucking SOB. Am I making my point?”

  “Go on.”

  “Some gold dust’d be a nice thing.”

  “You’re on paid leave.”

  “I got expenses. Drinking top shelf ain’t cheap.”

  “Bad info is. Show me your line, then we’ll talk what it’s worth.”

  He frowned. “An honest cop doing his job is a target for lawyers. Their job is to bend the law. Difference between them and crooks is lawyers get to make the rules, too. And it’s all a lousy game. They win, and they do that phony dance about how the system works and how it’s flawed but it’s the best there is. Justice be damned, it’s who wins and who loses. It’s all mental macho.”

  “What about Jensen?” I asked.

  “That’s what I’m saying. I hate him, okay? If there was an open season, I’d choke the bastard myself. But if you’re asking did I hassle with his kid—the answer is n-o.”

  “Okay.”

  He lit another weed and forked smoke from his nostrils. “So, you’re working for his old lady? What’s she like?”

  “She likes her children. Have you spoken to Ross Jensen since your case?”

  “Threatened him, you mean?” It was an interesting word choice. I let it hang.

  “Not a chance.” Stinson huffed more smoke. “You don’t talk to lawyers. You pay, they talk. They’re too in love with the sound of their own bullshit to listen.”

  As a legal commentator he was a half bottle ahead of me, and I had no interest in catching up. I took a twenty from my wallet and palmed it on the table.

  “Gee, I’m going all giddy,” he said.

  I laid a ten on top of it. “I’m trying to get a line on his stepdaughter.”

  He scrubbed his whiskered chin a moment. “Well, now, here’s a tale.” He leaned forward, a gleam in his eye, glad to tell it. “I went to his office a couple weeks ago.”

  “I thought you said you hadn’t seen him.”

  “Keep listening. I went at night, after closing.” He gauged me, weighing my reaction. When I showed nothing, he said, “Fancy lobby, skylights, palm trees. The building’s constipated with lawyers. You’d need a suppository the size of a hand grenade to clean out the joint. Randolph, Blinkman and Bearse were on the second floor. But security was nothing; a Girl Scout could break in. People like that are so arrogant they think no one’s going to come at them.” He spilled more Guinness into his mouth and wiped his lips. “I went in and sat in his big soft chair—like sitting in God’s hand. You got the picture? We’re probably looking at a couple grand for the desk alone. At first I thought I’d trash the place, toss files all over, maybe take a leak on his rug.” Stinson gave me an expression that was more grimace than grin. “I’m kidding. In the end, it was enough to be there. To be there and to know it. You getting this?”

  “It’s got ‘movie’ written all over it.”

  “Wait. He had the photo there. ‘The family.’ The photo that big shots always have that says, ‘I’m jus’ plain folks. My family comes first.’ Meanwhile, they’re sticking it to the rest of us working stiffs and hauling off the seven-figure bonuses and a home on Nantucket. You notice that?”

  “The photo,” I said.

  “It was Jensen and his old lady—nice-looking broady, from the picture. You’re working for her. She hot?”

  “Keep going.”

  “Okay, and a little kid in pigtails. Seven, eight. The one you’re talking about was out of the picture.”

  “She wasn’t in the photo?”

  He was shaking his head, his face damp in the neon gleam. “She was out of the picture. It was one of those clear plastic frames. I turned it over and saw she was folded over on the back, so the rest of the family could fit. I mean, c’mon, would it kill the guy to get a bigger frame?”

  “You recall what she looked like?”

  “The fold-over?” He rolled his shoulders. “The way they do these days—short black hair and ratty clothes, kind of an ‘I’m-pissed-at-the-world’ look. But she wasn’t any dog. Had her old lady’s looks.”

  I uncovered the bills. He scooped them up. “Have a drink,” he said.

  “Another time.” I was on my feet.

  “You say when. Hell, if things don’t work out with the job, I’ll get into your dodge.” He laughed. “That’s gotta be nice—no heavy lifting, except your client’s wallet. ’Cause I got it coming,” he called after me with bitter relish. “You know what it’s like, Rasmussen. To’ve been a cop and been shafted. We’re two of a kind!”

  As I drove back downtown, I cooled. I was even able to summon a small ration of pity for Stinson, but no sympathy. He could rant about the stacked deck and about Ross Jensen, and maybe he was right—I wasn’t Jensen’s biggest fan, either—but Stinson’s real enemy was the man in the mirror. As Ed St. Onge had said, a bent cop has to go. Some people had felt that way about me.

  24

  I got back to my building to find Jensen himself in the lobby staring at the pedestal ashtray with its collection of stale cigar butts. “Oh, here you are,” he said quickly.

  “Is she back?” I said at once.

  “What? No, but we need to talk.”

  I led him upstairs. I felt restless, but I sat, and he did, too. He cleared his throat. “The fact is we won’t need your services any longer. Things are moving to the next level.”

  “What level is that?”

  “The Standish police have agreed to take a close look.”

  “As close as they did the first time?”

  Jensen scratched his lean jaw. He glanced past the gold lettering on my windows to the stone sill where a troop of pigeons sat atop the spikes meant to keep them off. They looked like plump yogi mystics. He sighed. “Look, I know you were a cop here, and I heard about State Senator Cavanaugh. My guess is the reason you lost your job is you stood up to him—because I also know you speak your mind.” It was a more balanced view than many people had been willing to give it. “The fact is—and this hasn’t changed since when we first talked—now more than ever, since the litigation I’m working on is just about wrapped up, I can’t risk any sort of scandal over Michelle’s being gone.”

  “What scandal?” I sat forward. “Do you know things I don’t?”

  “Cavanaugh’s one kind of lawyer. He sees a license to practice as permission to steal. As you may or may not know, he’s chairing a committee looking at casino gambling.”

  A faint alarm bell had begun to sound in a back corridor of my brain. “You want to talk specifics?”

  “Do you think it matters?”

  “Let’s try.”

  “Something about an initiative from a Native American group who want to build a casino down on the South Shore.”

  “In Standish?”

  “I don’t know exactly where. I don’t know when or what tribe. What I do know is that Massachusetts is one of the few states that hasn’t rolled over and wiggled its tush at big gambling. This could change that, and I believe it would open the door to woes we haven’t seen yet.”

  “What’s Cavanaugh’s role in it?”

  “Beyond t
he fact that he’s progaming—this month, at least—I have no idea.”

  “You don’t know a hell of a lot, do you? Why bring it up? What’s it got to do with you?” I was more frustrated than angry. Jensen’s jaw tightened. “Or is it about me?” I said.

  “My point is he’s one kind of lawyer and he’s a loose cannon, likely to hit anything that happens to be around. You working, in that town … it’s a stretch, but I can’t risk it. My name turning up in the newspapers, in any context, could torpedo what my firm’s been working on for months.”

  “What are the other kinds?”

  Jensen frowned. “What?”

  “If Cavanaugh is one kind of lawyer, what are the others? What kind are you?”

  “One who sees his job being to serve his client’s and his firm’s best interests.”

  The sonic boom of Latin rap from a car passing in the street below rattled the panes. I was trying to stay in the conversation and to make sense of something, but it lay just beyond me. “Fair enough—you letting me go. It’s your prerogative. And, yeah, the cops can do things I can’t. My strong suit is information—I’m not in the business of solving crimes. But if the cops don’t see a crime, they fade. You’re the one who’s been saying all along that no crime’s been committed. I hope that’s true. But it’s a fact that your stepdaughter and Nickerson seem to have vanished, that a woman Nickerson met in a bar turned up dead a few days later, and there are questions that no one seems to be able to answer, or to be trying very hard to find answers to.”

  “What are you so angry about?”

  “That you’re not angry, dammit. Look … I’m nervous. Forget the firm for a moment—Michelle’s your family. I would think it’d make sense to find out everything you can, damn the torpedoes.”

  Jensen’s color stayed high, but his words were steady: his courtroom training, no doubt. “I’m confident that the Standish police will help with that.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “What do you mean?”

  If I told him the truth, he was going to think I just wanted to keep the job, but I couldn’t worry about what he thought. I said, “I believe something has happened to Nickerson. I think he was trying to get money and it may have gone wrong.”

  He swallowed. “Jesus, do you think he’s … dead? Do you think Michelle’s … ?”

  “I don’t know. I do know Delcastro’s overextended and, frankly, some of his help don’t have much experience. Waving white gloves at beach traffic isn’t crime investigation.”

  He pulled himself back together. “I’ve addressed that, and I’m satisfied that there’ll be extra resources committed to finding Michelle.”

  “That’s good to hear. Did the chief inform you, too, that by his working the case, it’s going to be on the blotter and it’ll become news? You know that, because we’ve already talked about it. In my opinion, news could be a plus because there may be people who’ve seen Michelle and Nickerson, but you should be prepared for it.”

  “I’ve addressed that, too. I’ve got assurances that their investigation won’t become headline fodder.”

  Who could guarantee that? Cops were public servants. But I nodded. He’d made his closing argument and rested his case, and when he drew a check from his inside pocket and slipped it across the desk, already made out, I knew any more words from me would just be blowback. “I’ve included a little extra there,” he said.

  The check was for nearly twice what I’d earned. “Call it a severance package,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve had expenses, and I value what you’ve done.” He rose. “If you’ve still got things at the beach house, I’ll have Paula box them and get them to you.”

  What could I do? He was paying me, even handing me a little parachute so the landing wouldn’t hit so hard; he had say over axing me, too. I considered mentioning the family photo Grady Stinson claimed to have seen in Jensen’s office, but there was no way to do so without an explanation. The very fact of my consorting with Stinson would likely put someone in jeopardy, probably me. I recalled what Bob Whitaker had said about Jensen at the police station the night his stepdaughter had been pulled in for loitering, and even on that I had to award him some points. He’d shown up. The kids you really worried about were the ones whose parents had given up on them. I thanked him, and we shook hands. I said I’d prepare my final report for him, and he left and that was that.

  Since the demise of the building’s elevator, the postal carrier had taken to putting mail for the upper-floor offices into a bin in the lobby. Either Fred Meecham or his paralegal assistant, Courtney, or I, whoever happened by first, would bring the other’s mail up with his own. I’d done so this time, and Meecham stopped by now to get his. “Where have you been?” he asked.

  “Working. But I’m through now.”

  “Bad timing. The city golf tournament just ended.”

  “Yeah, tough break.”

  “Did you see this?” He held up the late edition of the Sun to show me a page-one photo of a grinning state senator Cavanaugh, Lowell’s own. He was at Nabnasset Lake Country Club, according to the cutline, giving tips to the club pro. Fred Meecham shook his head. “The pompous son of a bitch. He’d tell Ben and Jerry how to make ice cream.”

  But I wasn’t looking at Cavanaugh. I was gazing at a face in the crowd, one of the ever-present gallery at the fringe of the action, generally as anonymous as the faces on the post office wall—until you recognized one. Like the portly old gent with a white mustache, who was familiar because I’d met him last night at Ted Rand’s party: the former judge, now acting as Rand’s counsel.

  A small mental wheel started turning. Could Cavanaugh have told Jensen to ax me because he didn’t like me? Or because I was getting nosy in Standish? I tossed those ideas; in that direction lay the twisty, fevered road to John Carvalho’s puzzle palace. Coincidence worked better. The old judge liked golf. Still, the implied link between state committees and land development and local affairs was interesting.

  “Fred, do you believe it’s possible for a private citizen—let’s say a powerful developer—to influence decisions on Beacon Hill?”

  “Duh. If you’re doing that kind of advanced theoretical thinking, you’ve got too much time on your hands. That’s why we need to get you some marketing exposure.”

  When Meecham had gone, I opened my bottom desk drawer and took out the office bottle and noted how the contents sloshed a little with my shaking hand. I set the bottle down. I reached past the Smith & Wesson and drew out the fat yellow envelope. It had been a while, so I sometimes forgot how fat it was. But I never forgot what was inside. Call it morbid fascination. I unwound the string seal and lifted the flap, but I didn’t take out the contents. I poured two fingers of Wild Turkey and capped the bottle and put it away. Then I put the drink away—in a quick swallow. I still didn’t open the envelope. I knew every document in there, from press clippings to the transcript of the probable-cause hearing to the final ruling—violation of Massachusetts General Laws chapter 268-A, section seventeen—inked by then Lieutenant (now Captain) Francis X. Droney, informing me that I was permanently relieved of my duties as a sworn officer on the city police force.

  “Taking a bribe” is how the hash translates. A city councilman was shaking down developers, who were clamoring to renovate some of the old real estate downtown, but he was slick, and no one had been able to catch him. Working with the state cops, we set up a sting. I was tapped to carry the payoff, paired with a statie wired to catch the transaction on Memorex. But before anything could happen, someone shot him in the head. I was left with the bag of money. The shooter was dead, and although the statie didn’t die, any corroborating account of my version of the night’s events did. The statie is a fine, friendly fellow who plays shuffleboard in Tampa now year-round, and the only time I ever see him—last summer, for the city golf tournament, as a matter of fact—he smiles and shakes my hand and is convinced he knows me from somewhere.

  Nothing ever smelled right about
that night. Not the fact that somebody had obviously tipped off the city councilman and set up an out-of-town lead-pusher (who, not so sadly, ended up silent, as only the dead truly are), nor that the statie’s wire wasn’t there, or even that the receipt for the cop money I was alleged to have taken later vanished from an evidence lockup. But I wasn’t around long enough for a detailed investigation. After a hearing and due process I was let go. I kept every scrap of paper I could find on the case; it became my clock spring for a time—and Lauren finally gave up. I didn’t blame her. It’s lonely being on the outside of another person’s obsessions. I put the case in a bottom drawer because it wasn’t paying any bills. I thought about it still, though it didn’t burn as bright as it once did. Maybe it was just a reflex. Some people clip coupons. The former city councilman is in the state machine now—you know him. The aforementioned Mr. Cavanaugh. Maybe you vote for him, I don’t know. I do know he supports raising your taxes and his salary. He’s a liberal conservative or vice versa, a John Bircher with an ACLU card. He’s been bought and sold more times than a Washington Street hooker and hasn’t had a clever thought in a decade. I send him a Christmas card every year. I sign it “Sincerely Yours” and my name. Maybe some cousin on patronage cans it after she shakes the envelope and a check doesn’t fall out. Maybe Cavanaugh actually sees the card and his memory’s about as sharp as the ex–state cop’s (Cavanaugh’s got to be sixty-something now) and he figures I’m just another Jack looking to get my snout in the trough. Maybe it’s my delusion that he remembers and has one more little toss in the wee hours of a restless night and imagines a footstep on the stairs. But I think he knows we’ve got unfinished business.