Played!

by Michael A. Kahn

  He pauses to check his “notes.”

  “Let me see,” he says. “Sleepy Time Motel. Can I take a quick peek at the phone logs for, let me see, ah, yes, for the Thursday and Friday two weeks ago? That would be the tenth and eleventh of September.”

  “Wait right here.”

  She goes into the back office and returns a moment later with a photocopy of several pages of telephone phone logs.

  “Here you go.” She hands him the documents. “This is for all of that week, but it’s divided by day so you’ll be able to check those dates you mentioned.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Boy, it’s been a real circus out here.”

  “Really? How come?”

  “That poor little gal got killed on that Friday. The fourth. Talk about a shock.”

  “Good lord!” Milton raises his eyebrows and opens in his mouth. “I didn’t realize it happened here. I read all about it. That’s terrible.”

  “They had me on Channel Two, you know?”

  “No kidding?” Milton smiles. “A real celebrity, huh?”

  “You betcha.” She gives him a wink. “Behave and I might just give you an autograph.”

  “Oh, my! I will behave. I promise, ma’am.”

  She laughs.

  Milton says, “Well, Thanks again, ma’am. We’ll compare it to our records. If you’re not catching all the calls, we will send someone out here next week to adjust the system.”

  Milton gets in his car, pulls out of the motel parking lot, and drives about a mile down the road, where he turns into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven, parks, shuts off the engine, and reaches for the telephone log.

  There were no phone calls from Room 205, which is the room where Cherry’s body was found. There are, however, two calls from Room 206, and both to the same telephone number, one on Thursday afternoon at 5:37 p.m. and one on Friday morning at 9:43 a.m. Milton circles the phone numbers, takes out his cell phone, starts to dial, and then pauses. He scans the parking lot. There is a pay phone along the walkway to the left of the entrance to the 7-Eleven.

  He walks over to the pay phone, lifts the receiver, drops in two quarters, glances down at the printout, and dials the number on the telephone log for Room 206

  The sound of the phone ringing. Once…twice…three times.

  And then a click. And a pause. And then a woman’s voice: “You have reached the law offices of Leonard Pitt & Associates. We are sorry no one is here to answer your call, but our offices are closed for the day. Your call is very important to us. At the sound of the tone, please leave your name and telephone number and someone will call you during our regular office hours. Thank you.”

  Beep.

  Click.

  Milton hangs up the phone, turns toward the parking lot, clenches his fist over his head, and starts softly chanting, “Attica! Attica! Attica!”

  Stage 4: The Stride

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Milton stands next to Peggy at the kitchen window as they peer out into the backyard. Both are smiling.

  “I must confess,” Peggy says. “Your brother is cute. And sweet. Our girls adore him.”

  Sara and Maddy both have on their princess outfits, complete with tiaras and scepters. Hal is on his hands and knees, apparently playing the role of the royal pony. Maddy rides as Sara leads him around the swing set. Hal neighs, snorts, and then whinnies. Both girls start laughing, Maddy so hard that she almost falls off Hal’s back.

  “He’s been playing with them for the last two hours,” Peggy says. “They’ve played house, he read them some books, and now they’re doing princesses at the castle.”

  Milton nods. “That’s nice.”

  Peggy turns to him. “Oh, it’s wonderful, Milton.” She gives him a kiss. “You have to get him out of this horrible mess.”

  Milton nods. “First things first. We got him out of jail. Out of jail and into our house.”

  Peggy smiles. “Sort of our house, right? And sort of the court’s house.”

  Milton shrugs. “Sort of. We’ll be okay. Hal is going to show up for the trial. And with any luck, maybe I get this over without a trial.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “What kind of idea?”

  “I’ll explain it later. But you and the girls are going to have to leave town for a few days.”

  Peggy stepped back. “What are you talking about, Milton?”

  “It’ll be safer for everyone, and the girls will love spending time with your parents. I’ll explain after they’re in bed.”

  “I do not like the sound of this, Milton. Not one bit.”

  ***

  Three hours later. The dinner dishes are washed, the girls are asleep, and Peggy is upstairs reading the new Scott Turow novel. Hal and Milton are seated side-by-side out back on the patio. Suspended above them in the clear night sky is a full moon.

  Hal shakes his head. “I don’t get it, Bro. It’s not my DNA. Why isn’t that enough?”

  “That’s exactly what I said to Moran. He brushed it off.”

  “How?”

  “He said at most it might indicate you planted the semen or had an accomplice.”

  “I didn’t have any damn accomplice. I didn’t do anything. She played me, Bro. Pure and simple.”

  “I know, Hal. I know.”

  “And those phone calls to Pitt’s office from that motel room? What about that?”

  “He claims it doesn’t prove anything. He says a guy like Pitt, who does all that advertising on TV, gets dozens and dozens of calls every day. He says it’s more likely someone in that room saw one of his ads and called him.”

  “On two different days?”

  Milton turns toward his younger brother. “Hal, they’re convinced the case is a lock. Unless we can hand them a confession, they’re going to just press ahead.”

  “Oh, Jeez.” Hal lowers his head into his hands. “I’m stupid, yes. And a total sucker. I’m guilty of that, but I’m innocent, Milton. I didn’t kidnap her, and I certainly didn’t kill her.”

  Hal turns to Milton, tears in his eyes. “What can I do?”

  Milton leans back and stares up at the moon. After a long pause, he lowers his head and looks at Hal. “You can hand them a confession.”

  Hal frowns. “From who?”

  “The killer.”

  “A confession from the real killer?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I am, indeed.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Milton smiles. “Then I shall explain, little brother.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  To fully understand what happens next, you need to know something about Milton that may not be readily apparent. In the biological hierarchy of the species Homo sapiens, there is a taxonomic subspecies known as Nerd. Beneath that subspecies, according to the International Code of Zoological Nomenclature, there exist many sub-units, mostly comprised of males under the age of fifty with above-average IQs and below-average athletic skills. There is the Sub-Unit Fan Boys, whose members often show up at Comic Con events in Star Wars costumes. Many Fan Boys own action figures (still in their original plastic containers) of various Spawn characters, fervently believe that the Great American Novel is the Neil Gaiman graphic novel The Sandman, and are stereotyped as still residing, at the age of thirty, in the basement bedroom of their mother’s house. (Many actually have their own apartments.) And then there is the Sub-Unit known as D & D’s, whose members gather late at night in suburban basements to play Dungeons & Dragons. And then there are, of course, the Sub-Unit Sports Geeks, usually of the baseball genre, who worship at the Shrine of Bill James, micro-manage their fantasy baseball and football teams, and bombard sports websites with obscure statistics and passionate riffs
on BABIPs and TZs. And so on. Researchers continue to identify new sub-units.

  Milton is a member of that special sub-unit of Nerds known as Quote Geeks. You want Walter Sobchak’s defense of remaining Jewish after divorcing his wife? Milton can deliver it verbatim and with an impressive impersonation of John Goodman. Just listen to Milton’s rendition of Walter’s final riposte, after the Dude tells him that his clinging to Judaism just proves that he’s “living in the fucking past”:

  “Three thousand years of beautiful tradition, from Moses to Sandy Koufax?! [Shouting] You’re goddamn right I’m living in the fucking past!!”

  Name your movie and Milton will give you the lines, delivered with all the intonations and emotions of the original. You want Alec Baldwin’s “watch” speech as Blake in Glengarry Glen Ross? Done. Steve Martin’s rental car rant as Neal Page in Planes, Trains and Automobiles? Done. John Belushi’s Pearl Harbor pep talk as Bluto in Animal House? Done. Peter Finch’s amusement park diatribe as Howard Beale in Network? Done.

  Close your eyes, try to ignore the nasal voice, and you can be in Rick’s Café in Casablanca, Morocco, or Michael Corleone’s study in Las Vegas.

  Former members of Milton’s study group at the University of Chicago Law School still speak in awe of his rendition of “The Further Adventures of Nick Danger” from Side B of the Firesign Theatre 1969 album How Can You Be in Two Places at Once When You’re Not Anywhere at All.

  The ENTIRE Side B.

  By heart.

  One of his masterpieces is Jack Nicholson as Boston gangland chief Frank Costello in Martin Scorsese’s motion picture The Departed. Over the phone, you’d swear it was Nicholson.

  Got it? Good. Now back to the present:

  Billy Bledsoe is on the couch in his living room. He’s spooning cold ravioli out of a can while he watches a UFC match on TV. As he scrapes out the last chunk of ravioli the phone rings.

  He glances over at the phone, irritated.

  Caller ID Blocked reads the message.

  After the fourth ring, he picks it up the receiver. “Yeah?”

  “How much he pay you?” a gravelly voice asks.

  Bledsoe frowns. “How much what?”

  “For killing her. How much?”

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “Your new partner.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You got shit in your ears, Billy? How much?”

  “Hey, man, what the fuck you talking about?”

  “What do you think I’m talking about, Bledsoe? The price he paid you to kill his wife.”

  “Hey, man, you must be nuts. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Listen careful, Little Billy.” A pause, and now at a slower pace: “I was at the motel. I heard the gunshot. I saw you walk out of her room. Got the license plate off your car. That black Mustang you drive. Took me a while to find you, but I did. You following me, Billy?”

  “You must be fucking crazy, man. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Here’s what I’m talking about, Billy. I’m talking about the fact that I got you by the short hairs. You startin’ to catch on?”

  Bledsoe’s face is flushed, his breathing quicker. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the guy who’s going to go to the cops day after tomorrow and tell them what I saw at the Sleepy Time Motel last Friday around noon. Unless, of course, I find me a partner before then. And you know what that means?”

  “What?”

  “That means twenty-five large, partner. Before midnight tomorrow.”

  “Twenty-five grand?”

  “The job’s worth fifty. Easy. I’m assuming you’re not a total douche bag and cut the price. All I want’s my twenty-five. You bargained for more than fifty, good for you. Keep the extra. But if he got you for less than fifty, too bad for you. Either way, I want my twenty-five.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Couple other things, partner. I’ll call tomorrow night at seven. On the dot. To let you know where to bring the money. You can tell your boss if you want. You do, though, you better be careful. Real careful. The man’s got guns and we both know he knows how to use ’em. So you be sure to tell him that killing you—no matter how tempting that might seem—ain’t gonna solve his problem. I’ll just deal direct with him. And one last thing, Billy. Listen careful. You try to fuck with me and I guarantee you’ll find yourself in a world of hurt.”

  Click.

  Bledsoe slowly hangs up and stares at the TV screen. Ten minutes pass as he sits motionless on the couch, the near-empty can of ravioli resting between his legs.

  Finally, he reaches for the phone and dials.

  Pitt’s voice: “Hello?”

  “We got a big problem, Boss.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Some bastard saw me leave her room. Wants twenty-five large to keep quiet.”

  A long pause, and then: “Get over here now. Park in the alley. Come in the back door.”

  Click.

  Bledsoe hangs up and just sits there. Eventually, he reaches for the remote and turns off the TV.

  He stands, takes the car keys off the coffee table, heads for the door.

  He pauses as his hand touches the doorknob.

  That’s when he recalls part of that mystery phone call: You can tell your boss if you want. You do, though, you better be careful. Real careful. The man’s got guns and we both know he knows how to use ’em.

  Bledsoe walks back to his bedroom. He reemerges carrying a Hi-Standard Longhorn handgun. He sights down the 9” barrel, slides the gun into the shoulder holster, slips on a black leather jacket, and heads out the door.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “Whoa!” Hal shakes his head in amazement. “That was awesome!”

  Milton shrugs. “We shall see.”

  “Bro, you could like totally win an Oscar for that performance.”

  “First things first.” Milton holds up the flip-phone. “We need to dump this.”

  They’re seated in Milton’s Chevy Impala, which Milton had parked behind the Missouri History Museum in Forest Park. That’s where he’d made the call, not wanting it to be traced back to his house—an unlikely danger, given that it was one of four cheap pre-paid flip-phones he’d bought at Walmart that afternoon, thanks to a tip from Uncle Heschie, who’d represented a few drug dealers over the years.

  He starts the engine, pulls out of the parking area, and drives slowly along Lagoon Drive until he reaches the Grand Basin, where he brakes and puts the car into Park. To their left is the Grand Basin, which sits at the foot of Art Hill. The eight fountains in the Basin, all brightly lit, shoot water thirty feet into the night sky. At the top of Art Hill stands the imposing bronze statue of King Louis IX of France—Saint Louis—on horseback, sword held high, backlit by the Saint Louis Art Museum. Three couples are strolling along the classical promenade that lines the Grand Basin.

  Milton opens the door and looks at Hal. “Wait here.”

  Hal watches as his brother walks around the front of the car to the right side of the road and through the tall grass on the unlit side of the basin, where he heaves the phone into the water. He comes back to the car, shifts into Drive, and heads toward the Forest Park exit at Skinker.

  “So what’s next?” Hal asks.

  “I will call him tomorrow. Set up a drop point.”

  “You really think it’ll work?”

  “Maybe.” Milton looks over at Hal and smiles. “They don’t cover this part in law school.”

  Hal laughs. “You are awesome, Milton.”

  “We shall see.”

  They drive in silence until Milton turns onto the Forest Park Expressway.

  He glances over at Hal. “How are you holding up?”


  “I’m hanging in there.”

  “Good.”

  “Got some decent news from the Grizzlies today.”

  Milton looks over at him. “Oh?”

  “I drove over there after work this afternoon to pitch batting practice.”

  The Grizzlies are the Gateway Grizzlies, a professional baseball team in the Frontier League. Their home field is across the Mississippi River in Sauget, Illinois.

  “Batting practice? Isn’t the baseball season over?”

  “It’s the Grizzlies’ version of winter ball. More like fall ball. This month and part of next month.”

  “How did you do?” Milton asks.

  “Bobbie Carson told me to throw my game stuff.”

  “Who’s Bobbie Carson?”

  “Their pitching coach. Pitched two years for the Royals.”

  “What does that mean? Game stuff.”

  “Like it’s a real game.”

  “How did you do?”

  Hal shrugs. “Not too shabby. Faced four batters. Struck ’em all out.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  “Can’t throw heat anymore.” Hal shakes his head. “Not since that accident. But I got some decent control again, especially with the curve and cutter. Both were working for me today. Except for a couple foul balls, those four guys never made contact.”

  “Contact?”

  “As in getting the bat on the ball. Four strikeouts. Afterward, Bobbie told me that if I can get through this criminal stuff and come out of it in one piece, they’ll have a place for me in the rotation.”

  Milton nods. “Good for you.”

  “Yeah. Sure would be nice.” Hal sighs. “Been a long strange road back.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Leonard Pitt and Billy Bledsoe are seated in the den of Pitt’s home. Pitt is behind his desk. Bledsoe is on the upholstered leather chair, his feet resting on the matching leather ottoman. Drapes are drawn, lights are low. Pitt is staring at the corner of the Persian rug in front of the desk, frowning. He looks up at the crinkling sound. Bledsoe is removing the wrapper from a Tiparillo.