Fail

by Rick Skwiot

  “Angela’s graduating from Rosati-Kain this spring, Carlo’s a freshman at Saint Louis U. High, and Katie just turned ten. She’s at St. Roch’s.”

  Gabriel voiced approval but thought Jonathan Stone might be interested to learn that the mayor—the ultimate overseer of the city’s schools—entrusted his own children’s education to the Archdiocese of St. Louis rather than the St. Louis Public Schools.

  Marie retreated to the living room. Cira led Gabriel into the den on the left and slid closed two tall, polished pocket doors behind them. He indicated wingchairs on either side of the cold fireplace and went to a drink cart where he poured two snifters of brandy. Then he picked up a remote, clicked it, and the gas fireplace roared to life.

  “Cigar?”

  “Why not?’

  Cira sat across from him as they lit up. He looked tired and pasty. Difficult days for the city and for the mayor. The street department had run out of salt, year-end crime stats showed that St. Louis had retaken its title of Murder Capital, U.S.A., from New Orleans; and he’d lost his press secretary, mistress, and money-launderer all in one swoop.

  “I read your report, Carlo. Good police work.”

  “Can you put that in writing?”

  Cira smiled then fixed him with a gaze. “You sure you got this resolved?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  Cira blew out a cloud of smoke. “‘Pretty sure’? We can’t have any fuckups here.”

  Gabriel studied his cigar for a moment, and then looked up at his old friend. “Stone’s subdued now, in shock, what with losing his wife. Blaming himself for her suicide. Suicide being a mortal sin, he’s got all that Catholic guilt weighing on him. Says he almost went to seminary instead of grad school and that Ellen would still be alive but for him turning away from God. It’s taken all the venom out of him.”

  “Catholic guilt’s good for something.” Cira chuckled.

  “Besides, he tells me something went wrong with his computer storage and he lost all the research he was doing. He was keeping it in some online cloud account. I had my tech guy verify it. On top of that, a lot of the snooping he was doing was likely illegal—hacking into city files and such. So we have that hammer if we need it. But I don’t think we will.”

  Cira tilted back his snifter then puffed on his cigar. “Can you stick with him for a few days, at least till after the funeral?”

  “No problem. He trusts me. We’ve developed a relationship. He really has no one else.”

  The mayor watched the flames dance against the dark stonework of the fireplace. “I still don’t like it, Carlo. I’d like some closure here.”

  And there it was.

  “I hear you, Ange. I’m with you a hundred percent on that. I’m looking out for you, but I got to look out for me, too. Better to solve this the easy way with no unnecessary exposure for either one of us.”

  “I see where you’re coming from. Don’t you worry about that. I’m going to take care of you. I owe you. We’re still partners, just like the old days.”

  In other words, bend over and grab your ankles.

  “You bet,” Gabriel said.

  Cira stood and they again shook hands.

  When Gabriel got back to his car he paused to again study the house: the festive lights in the windows, the children’s snowman in the yard, the luxurious trappings, the cozy life of the Cira family.

  The next evening Stone and Gabriel sat sipping beer in Gabriel’s apartment, not saying much, waiting. Gabriel had already filled him in on his latest meeting with Cira and what it might portend. Now Stone stared out the window toward the Arch while Gabriel studied his English Grammar for Idiots.

  Even though he now had the English professor under wraps, he found he liked learning—or relearning—the rules of grammar. The English language was an intricate puzzle. Sentences were mysteries with subtle clues embedded in their structure, tone, and rhythm.

  “Now they say it’s okay to split infinitives.”

  Stone turned to him. “An anachronistic rule from fussy old grammarians. Splitting infinitives can help us to better express ourselves.”

  “Got it, professor.”

  Gabriel’s cell phone buzzed. He answered, listened, and said, “Send her up, Carl.”

  He greeted Laura Berkman at the door. She went to Jonathan Stone as he rose from the sofa and took his hand.

  “I’m so sorry about Ellen.”

  “She always respected you, Laura.”

  They sat and Berkman pulled a notebook computer from her leather purse and fired it up.

  “I spent some time going over your research, Jonathan. Checked other sources and did some soft soundings of contacts in a very indirect way so as not to tip your hand. But I don’t know if it’s much of a hand right now.”

  Stone’s shoulders sagged. Gabriel should have felt pleased, but found himself conflicted. Berkman went on.

  “First, as to the ghosts in Treasurer Maurice Townsend’s office. Yes, those folks are on the payroll and not earning their pay. But that’s not so unusual in government these days. Cira’s sister does have a degree in education and thus is not totally unqualified for a role as an educational consultant. And it doesn’t come under the state nepotism rules as Cira didn’t hire her—Townsend did.

  “Townsend’s pushing eighty and not running for reelection after thirty years, so there’s little point in going after him. The other stuff—political hacks and union bosses on the payroll—standard operating procedure. We do a story on such shenanigans every few years. As a result a couple people disembark from the gravy train then get back on at the next station.”

  She glanced up at Gabriel and then continued. “The most obvious law-breaking here, Jonathan, is your hacking into the Treasurer’s Office personnel files. And that’s something Cira’s people—which include prosecutors and judges—wouldn’t be shy about coming after you for.”

  Stone stroked his beard. “I was in a state. Betrayed husband and all that.”

  She glanced again at Gabriel, who said, “We may get to all that later, Laura.”

  “Okay,” she said, “the campaign-contribution laundering is interesting, if we can prove it. Right now it’s just hearsay you apparently culled from conversations with your wife.”

  “Not exactly hearsay,” Stone objected. “Some of that info came from emails she sent.”

  “So you hacked into her computer as well?”

  “Installed keystroke-monitor software. As I said, I wasn’t myself.”

  “Anyway, only a prosecutor could verify this, and it would require subpoenas and such to access law firm files. I can dig into it but not sure how far I would get, maybe far enough to garner some official notice. But if you’re out to get Cira, I doubt this would net him, only smaller fish.”

  “I’m not out to get anyone,” said Stone. “I haven’t even buried Ellen yet. But if not for this corruption, she might still be alive. My interest here is to do my duty.”

  Duty: a simple concept to some, such as Gabriel’s father. But he saw that all three of them—Stone, Berkman, and himself—were bumping up against issues that were neither black nor white, as well as slippery political realities that made abstract moral concepts difficult to embrace.

  “Sorry,” said Berkman. “I understand.” She returned her gaze to her computer screen and went on:

  “Chief of Police Donnewald may be more vulnerable. Last year we did a story on his nephew leaving the scene of an accident in what had been an impounded vehicle, sold to him by Mound City Towing at a bargain-basement price. I checked with the reporter who covered that, and he’s eager to follow-up if you can steer him to some hard data.

  “Lastly, the Stadium Towne kickback scheme…”

  “I know,” said Stone. “Hearsay and illegally acquired data. Something that would take an interested prosecutor, subpoenas, et cetera, to prove.”

  “I’m afraid so. But I can start digging. Your wife’s pass-through account is a good place to start. But I’ve n
o great hopes that it will lead anywhere. I’m sure Cira and his folks are covering their tracks as we speak.”

  Stone was nodding. “Okay, okay. I see.” He looked to Gabriel. “But I have another card,” he said, “that Carlo didn’t reveal. A file he didn’t include among those he sent you.”

  Gabriel lifted his chin at him. “You sure, Stone?”

  “I’m certainly not worried about saving face at this point. And as far as Ellen’s legacy is concerned—I want her death to serve a purpose.”

  Gabriel turned to Berkman. “We’d hoped this would be enough, Laura. What I didn’t send you was Jonathan’s documentation of Ellen Cantrell’s affair with Cira. Much culled from her personal computer, which has now legally fallen into her husband’s hands. And her admission of it to Jonathan, which he has on audio files.”

  “Not proud of that, either,” Stone said, “surreptitiously recording conversations with my wife. But at least then it’s not just hearsay.”

  Berkman shrugged. “But sexual escapades won’t even bring down a president or a preacher these days unless it’s with children, house pets, or farm animals. It might be a personal problem for the mayor, good family man that he is. And in March it might cost him votes with the church ladies—maybe enough for Alderman Milton Holmes to squeak past him in the primary, maybe not. But I don’t see what purpose it would serve except to make my paper look like The National Enquirer.”

  Gabriel spread his hands. “But what about Cira’s contribution to and complicity in her suicide, if that’s what it was?”

  “We don’t know her mind. Her death could be totally unrelated to Cira.”

  “Come on, Laura. Mistress with the goods on a corrupt pol ends up shot to death. I’m a cop, you’re a journalist. That doesn’t raise any red flags for you?”

  “‘Mr. Mayor, a follow-up, please. Did you kill your press secretary?’”

  “He’s certainly nervous about something,” said Gabriel.

  “If Stone’s right, Hizonor has a lot to hide.”

  “If I’m right that could include murder.”

  “But there’s no indication of that,” said Berkman.

  “Because Cira’s bum boy Donnewald has no doubt contaminated or destroyed all the physical evidence.”

  “Then bring in C.S.I. St. Louis. You might get a TV show out of it.”

  Gabriel glared at her. “You may know City Hall backbiting, Ms. Berkman, but you don’t know shit about murder.”

  “You may know the street, Lieutenant Gabriel, but not legal nuances.”

  “Yes, this is much too subtle and legally nuanced for a dumb-ass cop noted for thumping defenseless prisoners.”

  “Not that again.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing, Laura, this city was a hell of lot safer before you bleeding hearts got control of the police commission and courts.”

  “If we left it to you cops, we’d have watchtowers on every corner.”

  “That’s right, we’re all Gestapo at heart. But how about this? Cira told me point blank he wants me to make sure he gets ‘closure’ on this. What exactly do you think that means, Laura? What do you think he’s asking me to do? Give Professor Stone a bitch slap?”

  Stone stood and gazed out over the park while Gabriel and Berkman argued, taking no notice when they left. After Gabriel walked Berkman to her car, he returned to find Stone outside on the balcony, coatless, gripping its cold iron rail, staring east toward the apartment he shared with Ellen, the Arch, and the Mississippi.

  Gabriel froze, then stepped across the room, eased open the balcony door, and moved behind him, ready to grab him if he made a move. Twenty floors below, traffic hummed past on the boulevard.

  Gabriel whispered, “Jonathan…”

  Stone nodded and without turning said, “Okay, Carlo. We’ll do it your way.”

  - 26 -

  The next day, a little before noon Stone and Gabriel stepped from his apartment and rode the elevator down. The cop led the former professor out the side door of his high-rise onto Rosebury Avenue.

  “We’ll walk. It’s only a few blocks and there won’t be any parking anyway.”

  Stone nodded.

  The midday sky hung crisp, dry, calm, and cloudless. A beautiful day for a funeral. They walked down the middle of the plowed street, though many of the apartment-building sidewalks still held a half foot of snow.

  “You okay?” Gabriel asked.

  “Just.”

  “I’m sure it will be a media circus. You up to it?”

  “Yeah, but is all this necessary?”

  “You agreed to the plan.”

  “I mean the twenty-four-hour babysitting.”

  “I need to show Cira I’m best situated to control and deal with you. We don’t want him sending anyone else to supply some ‘closure.’”

  “If you’re trying to scare me, you’re doing a good job.”

  “I’m scared, too, but don’t want to rush in. I need to solidify my position. Besides, we still don’t know for sure if Ellen killed herself or whether Cira was somehow involved. If the latter, the stakes go even higher.”

  “Seem pretty freaking high already.”

  “Right you are, professor. Lots of potential downside if we fuck up. Not like teaching English, where the worst that can happen is to leave your participles dangling. We’re balls out, my friend, both of us.”

  Gabriel was right about parking: Even two blocks away there was no curb space. On Clayton Road, TV trucks with their satellite dishes sat in front of the mortuary, a white stone building from which a hearse- and limousine-led cortege fed double-parked down Concordia Lane.

  Once inside, Stone moved to the front of the chapel and bent to embrace a sixtyish couple—the Cantrells, apparently—who sat facing a closed maple casket next to a large flat-screen TV. Stone sat beside the father. Gabriel stood beyond the last row, back to the wall cop-like.

  He spied Laura Berkman seated near the front on the far right. He looked around but did not see the mayor. After a few minutes, however, he appeared, Chief Donnewald at his side. They moved up the aisle and sat midway on the left, where chairs had been reserved. As they sat, the service began.

  First came a video of Ellen Cantrell’s life—childhood stills; tape of her as on-air newswoman in college and in St. Louis; more of her as City Hall mouthpiece. No Jonathan Stone to be seen except for a single wedding photo.

  When the screen went blank, a middle-aged man who had been sitting next to Mrs. Cantrell rose and introduced himself as the pastor at the First Presbyterian Church of Kirkwood, an old St. Louis suburb. As he went on about the Cantrell family and Ellen, Gabriel tuned him out, focusing instead on Stone. When at last the minister invited the audience to bow their heads in prayer, Stone turned. His eyes met those of Gabriel, who shifted his gaze to the left, toward the mayor and the chief. Stone turned back ahead.

  As the service concluded, Stone moved first, brushing by his in-laws and striding down the center aisle to Cira and Donnewald. Gabriel moved against the flow toward them. He arrived as Cira, holding out his hand expecting Stone to shake it, was saying, “If there’s anything I can do, Jonathan, just let me know.”

  “I think you’ve done enough already.” Stone ignored the mayor’s outstretched hand.

  “You’re rightfully upset. Give it time.”

  “Time? An interesting choice of words. I think you’ll be the one doing time.” He turned to Donnewald whose mask of sympathy had vanished. “You, too, if I have anything to say about it.”

  With that Stone strode away to the waiting limousine that would carry him graveside. Cira and Donnewald scowled at Gabriel.

  “‘Subdued,’ Carlo?”

  “I better stick with him,” Gabriel said, moving to follow Stone.

  Cira clutched Gabriel’s elbow. “We need to talk. Soon.”

  Gabriel nodded and hurried down the aisle after Stone. He joined him inside the warm limo, which had been waiting, engine idling.

  “How’d I
do?” Stone asked.

  Gabriel grimaced. “I think it worked, but I wanted more determination and dementia, loose cannon personified. Instead you go all professorial, ‘An interesting choice of words, that.’”

  “I did not say, ‘that.’ Anyway, I told you I couldn’t act. Besides, I was scared shitless. When Donnewald glared at me I thought I’d soil myself.”

  Gabriel nodded. “He’s one tough son of a bitch. Better buy some diapers, my friend. It’s only going to get worse.”

  The cortege moved west down Clayton Road. Stone sat mute staring out the window. Gabriel likewise remained silent. At Lindbergh Boulevard they turned south. After another ten minutes they were pulling into a snow-shrouded cemetery and soon stopped near a green tent erected over a freshly dug grave. As they emerged into the cold, Stone moved toward the tent. Gabriel slipped away.

  He walked past the arriving cortege, where friends, family, co-workers, and likely some curious citizens seeking to rub elbows with the downtown media/political crowd rose from their automobiles buttoning coats and pulling on gloves.

  He moved over the hilltop and down into a shallow valley where, stepping off the plowed lane into ankle-deep snow, he found a blue spruce—his mother’s favorite—that he had planted some ten years earlier and not seen since. There with gloved hands he brushed snow from a marker for Theresa Sanchez Abregon de Gabriel and Samuel Joshua Gabriel—the final date yet to be added to the latter.

  His mother would be near eighty now. Both his mother and father were from a different era, people who remembered the Great Depression and World War II. Folks from simpler times who believed in black and white, right and wrong, no room for discussion.

  He offered up a silent prayer:

  Don’t make them suffer, Lord. They’re good folks, despite his tough hide. Show them forgiveness for their shortcomings and remember their goodness, and I’ll try to do the same. Grant me some forgiveness as well. And some guidance. Most of all protect me. I’m going to need someone to cover my back. Amen.

  Gabriel crossed himself, turned, and made his way back up the hill.