“Well, I guess we’ll just have to get the right judge,” he replied, and Jack knew that Henry had grabbed onto that tiny strand of hope with both hands.
On Wednesday afternoon, Jack and Pat were in Dr. Erica Gardner’s empty waiting room.
“Jack, why don’t you just leave me here and go do something? Check in at the hotel. Visit your friends. Anything,” Pat said.
“We can’t check in at the hotel until four o’clock and there is nobody I want to see in this town. Besides, I want to be here with you.”
“I know, honey, but they’re just going to examine me today and take tests. They won’t talk about the results until tomorrow. You can be with me tomorrow.”
Reinforcements for Pat came in the form of Dr. Gardner, who appeared in the waiting room a few minutes later. She greeted Jack first, kissing him on the cheek. “It’s good to see you again, Jack.” She waited while he introduced Pat, then turned her attention back to him. “Jack, your wife and I need to get acquainted. It’s going to take some time to chat, do an examination, and have these diagnostic tests performed. Why don’t you go do what you men do with your free time and check back here in about three hours?”
Pat was standing behind Dr. Gardner looking at Jack with a big smile on her face. “All right, I can see I’m outnumbered,” he muttered and retreated toward the front door. “I’ll go check us in at the hotel and be back at five.”
They were staying at the Windmar Hotel in South Beach. Anxious and unable to settle down, Jack spent the next couple of hours walking the beach and sightseeing. He made a reservation for them that evening at a restaurant on the main drag, specifically telling the maitre d’ that he wanted a table on the patio overlooking the street.
Pat was waiting when he arrived back at Dr. Gardner’s office at five.
“How was it?” he asked.
“Great. Dr. Gardner is very nice and very professional. She had somebody from her staff drive me to the hospital for the CT scan and the ultrasound, and I didn’t have to wait at all. Everything was all arranged beforehand. She’s going to read the reports tonight.”
“Good,” Jack replied. “I got us all set up at the hotel and I made us dinner reservations.”
“Oh, where are we going?”
“Right on Ocean Avenue. We can watch the show while we eat.”
The show was the other people who walked up and down Ocean Avenue to see and be seen and the exotic cars that took their turn driving up and down the same runway.
“This is quite a scene,” Pat marveled after they’d settled in at their table.
“It never changes,” Jack told her. “Some of the buildings around here get redone and the styles change a bit, but the people are as wacky as ever.”
They went dancing after dinner at the Windmar nightclub. The music was a little loud, but after a few drinks they didn’t notice.
“I think this is the first time you’ve ever taken me dancing,” Pat shouted to him over the music. “You’re pretty good.”
The liquor had removed Jack’s usual inhibitions on the dance floor. He was flailing his arms and gyrating and laughing and having a grand old time. “It’s not the first time,” he shouted back. “I danced with you at one of Father O’Pray’s dances when you were fourteen.”
“I remember,” she laughed. “You stepped on my foot.” Later, in their room, they opened the sliding glass doors and made love to the continuous roar of the ocean smashing up against the shore. Their lovemaking was slow and sweet, and Pat didn’t have any pain this time. When it was over they lay there silently, listening to the waves and thinking about the news they would receive the next day.
At 10:00 a.m., they were back in Erica Gardner’s waiting room holding hands. Finally the receptionist ushered them into the doctor’s office.
Erica motioned them to sit. “I’m afraid I have bad news,” she said, leaning forward on her desk.
Pat spoke first. “How bad is it?”
“There is a mass in your uterus, which by its size and shape I strongly suspect is malignant. That’s not the worst part, however.” Pat squeezed Jack’s hand. He felt like he was in a dream—a nightmare. “There are other tumors in your lungs and liver.”
They were both stunned. Jack was normally a realist, yet he could make no sense of Erica Gardner’s words. He wanted to protest, to tell the good doctor there was some kind of mistake, that other than a little pain once in a while Pat was the picture of health—hell, they ran every night. All you had to do was look at her. Instead, he sat there silently, his arm around his wife, wishing they were someplace—anyplace—else.
“What does this mean?” Pat asked after a long silence.
Dr. Gardner took a deep breath. “The outlook isn’t good,” she began. “But there is always hope. Miracles happen every day.”
Miracles? Jack thought. Pat’s life is dependent on miracles?
“My cousin, Estelle,” Dr. Gardner continued, “is a gynecological oncologist here in Miami. I have already called her and made an appointment for you to see her this afternoon. I’ve discussed your case with her and I’m sending your films over right away. She will discuss all available options for treatment with you.”
Jack could not say anything. Pat, on the other hand, was able to focus on the doctor’s words and question them.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean by ‘the outlook isn’t good,’” she said.
“You have what we call stage four cancer, which means that in most cases it is terminal,” Erica told her. “That doesn’t necessarily mean that your case is terminal. You’re young and you’re healthy. Your chances of tolerating heavy doses of chemotherapy are better than most. If your tumors can be reduced and controlled, they can possibly be removed. But the cancer has spread through your system and it’s already in three places. That is not good.”
They left in a daze, stopping for lunch before heading over to Estelle Wright’s office, although neither of them was the slightest bit hungry. Jack was devastated. Pat was his rock, his world. He couldn’t remember his life before she’d come into it, and he certainly couldn’t contemplate a future without her.
Estelle Wright was very nice, but she didn’t have any better news for them. She took a needle biopsy of the tumor in Pat’s uterus and explained to her the joys of Carboplatin and Taxol, the two drugs that were going to be used in her chemotherapy regimen.
“We haven’t confirmed the diagnosis, but I’m going to go ahead and schedule you for chemotherapy based upon an educated assumption that you do, in fact, have cancer,” Dr. Wright explained matter-of-factly. “You’ll come in once a week. The chemo will be administered intravenously. It’s not a traumatic process at all.”
Jack could tell from her use of just the right words that Dr. Wright had given this little speech quite a few times in the past. He tried to concentrate as she continued with her description of what lay ahead. “You may become very tired and listless,” she said, looking directly at Pat. “Some people don’t. You may experience nausea, constipation, diarrhea—and your hair may fall out. You may have a loss of appetite. You may develop sores inside your mouth. You may need a blood transfusion from time to time. If anything gets too bad, call us immediately and we will admit you to the hospital. Do not hesitate to call. Someone is available twenty-four hours a day. I will meet with you every six weeks so we can discuss your progress.”
They didn’t say much to each other on the ride back home, partly because they didn’t have the energy to talk. Jack drove with one hand and held Pat’s with the other. Ever since they’d first heard the news, he hadn’t let go of her—not even through lunch. He wanted to tell her everything was going to be all right, but he couldn’t. This was out of his control. What he could do was be with her every moment of her fight.
“You’re not going to quit Henry’s case,” Pat suddenly said to him after many minutes of silence.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, refusing to acknowledge that she had r
ead his thoughts.
“I’m talking about what you’re spinning in your mind right now.”
“I’m just thinking that I don’t want to be away from you for one second. They can get somebody else to pick up Henry’s appeal.”
“Jack, honey, it’s three weeks to Henry’s execution. You can’t drop his case. You will never forgive yourself. I don’t want you to.”
“Sweetheart, I’m going to be with you. We’re going to fight this together. That’s the end of it.”
“No it’s not, Jack. We’re going to fight this together, but you are not going to let Henry go, and neither am I. His fight is our fight. That’s the way it has always been with us, and we’re not changing now.”
He looked across at her in the darkness as they drove along the back road that led to Bass Creek. Even now, with all they had been through this day, maybe now more than ever, she was magnificent.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
17
Tony Severino was lost in that world between deep sleep and first waking—the world of light dreams. He and his old partner Joe Fogarty were rousting some lowlife in the South Bronx for information. He was in Narcotics at the time, and this particular lowlife sometimes—though not very often—had information to give or sell. They found him in a bar in the middle of the afternoon, the only customer in the place.
Joe Fogarty walked up to the man, put his arm around him, and cuffed his neck in a pseudo headlock. “How ya doin’, Benny?” he asked. “Got anything for us?” Benny looked at the two of them. Tony saw his face, his eyes. Reality penetrated through his dream state. He sat up in bed.
“That’s him! Benny—what the hell was his last name? Joe Fogarty will know.”
“What are you talking about? Who’s him?” his startled wife, Frances, exclaimed from her side of the bed.
“Our murderer—I just remembered where I’ve seen him before.”
“Well, I’m happy for you, honey. Just try to be a little quieter the next time you find a murderer in your dreams. Some of us are still sleeping.”
Tony ignored the remark as he pulled off the covers and stepped out of bed. He checked the clock. It was 6:10 in the morning. There was no need to call Nick; he’d see him soon enough. He decided to get dressed and head for the office, then call Joe Fogarty at eight to see if he remembered Benny’s last name.
Tony caught Joe Fogarty at his precinct before he headed out for the day.
“Joe, I’m going to fax you up an artist’s sketch of a perp we’re looking for. Call me right away and let me know if you recognize him.”
Joe called him back immediately. “That’s Benny Avrile. You remember him, don’t you? He was one of our snitches. He’s still one of mine, although I haven’t seen the skinny little bastard in a while. Benny has these brief periods when he tries to go straight. Unfortunately, nobody will hire the poor son-of-a-bitch.”
When Tony told Joe why they were looking for Benny, Joe didn’t believe it.
“Benny a murderer? C’mon. Is there something in the water down there in Manhattan? This guy is harmless. I don’t think he even knows how to shoot a gun. Don’t get me wrong. Benny’s a lot of things, but he’s not vicious or violent.”
“I’ll keep your thoughts in mind, Joe, in case we need a character witness for Benny. Right now we just need your help finding him.”
“What I wouldn’t do if I were you is show up here and start asking questions in the neighborhood. If word gets out that you’re looking for him, Benny will disappear. If we see him, we’ll nab him and I’ll give you a call.”
“Fine, Joe. Just remember he’s a priority. This case is in the paper every day and you know what that means.”
“Yeah, I know. The powers that be are crawling up your asshole. I’ll get the word out around here. We’ll get him, Tony.”
Benny was maintaining a low profile. At first, he had a tremendous desire to run, but he had no idea where to go, and gradually the urge to flee dissipated. He started to believe that somehow he had gotten away with it all.
Even though he had run into the Bitch from Hell, as he liked to call her, on his first venture out, that didn’t deter him from continuing to stop at Tillie’s now and then for an afternoon beer. There was always the possibility that she would show up again, especially since he had shortchanged her, but that was a risk Benny was willing to take. Shit, she knows where I live anyway, he thought. If she’s coming back, she’s coming back. Nothing I can do about it. The money’s almost gone anyway.
Benny didn’t talk to anybody at the bar except Tillie, and he never stayed for more than a couple of hours. Usually it was just the two of them, and they shot pool or smoked a joint in the back. Tillie was just starting to get used to Benny buying his own drinks. Now, wonder of all wonders, Benny was supplying the pot as well.
One week after Tony Severino’s call to the Bronx, on a quiet, pleasant afternoon when Benny and Tillie, high as kites, were playing eight ball at the pool table in the back of the bar, Joe Fogarty walked into Tillie’s. He went right up to Benny, put his arm around him, and cuffed his neck in a pseudo head-lock. Joe Fogarty had obviously not bought into the dangerous-desperado routine they were selling downtown.
“Benny, Benny, where’ve you been? You don’t call, you don’t write. Old Joe is starting to think you don’t like him.”
“I’ve been right here where I’ve always been, Joe. You can ask Tillie.”
Joe ignored Tillie for the moment. Benny was the star of the show today. “I’ve got bad news for you, Benny. I’ve got to take you in.”
“For what?”
“Never mind. You’re in big trouble though, so just keep your mouth shut until they give you a public defender. Now turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Benny turned around and did what he was told. “I didn’t do anything, Joe.”
“Oh, you’ve done shit, Benny, but that’s not what I’m locking you up for. Like I said, just keep your mouth shut until you get a public defender. Don’t go pissing on people’s legs and making up stories, you understand me? Shut up until you get a lawyer.”
“All right, Joe.” Joe was a good guy. Benny almost wanted to tell him what happened, how it all went down, but he decided to take Joe’s advice and say nothing.
Joe checked Benny’s pockets after he locked the handcuffs in place and pulled out two tens and two joints. He threw the joints on the pool table. “You better hold these for him until he comes back, Tillie.” Then, taking Benny by the arm, he led him out of the bar and into his car.
Tony Severino put the phone down and spoke to Nick, who was on the other side of the desk, typing a report.
“They got him.”
“Good,” Nick replied. “Has he said anything?”
“Joe said he hasn’t talked. That surprises me, because Benny is a flapper.”
“Maybe we can get him to talk when we get him down here. Let’s go pick him up.”
They brought Benny back to Manhattan and put him in a cell on the second floor.
“Let’s just hold him for now,” Nick suggested. “Let him wonder what’s going on. In the meantime, we can finish our investigation. We’ll talk to him when we know what we need, if anything.”
Tony disagreed. “I think we should do it right away, Nick. If we get him to confess, we can short-circuit the rest of this investigation.”
“Think about it, Tony. If we put him through a lineup and tell him he’s been fingered already, isn’t he more likely to confess?”
“I guess you’re right,” Tony conceded, although he was irritated. He had located Benny and he knew he could wrap this case up if he got a shot at interrogating him.
With Benny in custody things started to move, although not as fast or as smoothly as Nick would have liked. They did two lineups, one each for Paul and David, who both identified Benny within seconds.
Angie came to the station to look at a few pictures. When she was unsuccessful in that regard, Nick took
her to see Ralph Giglio to try and come up with a sketch of Lois Barton. However, she proved to be as bad in the description department as Philly Gertz: after describing Lois’s long black hair, she came up blank. Ralph prompted her for almost an hour but got nowhere. Nick suspected that Angie was holding back again. He knew he’d have to have another heart-to-heart with her, but not right away. He’d talk to Benny first. Maybe Benny would give him something that he could use to make Angie open up about Lois Barton.
Something else troubled him as well. Tony had contacted the credit card company, who told them there had been no charges on Angie’s credit card after it had been stolen. That didn’t make sense if Benny had actually stolen Angie’s credit card at the bar that night. A guy like Benny should have charged thousands of dollars by now. Yet there was nothing.
It was just like Dan Jenkins, the coroner, had said the night of the murder: it’s never open-and-shut.
18
At mid-season the Lexingtons were three and one and tied for first place. Johnny Tobin, the hero of game one, had allowed a receiver to get by him for a long touchdown pass in game four. Even though the team pulled the game out, Johnny felt terrible. That evening they were having a few beers at their usual spot, the Carlow East. Johnny was huddled with Rico and Floyd. Floyd was consoling him.
“Everybody gets beat once in a while, Johnny. You just gotta shake it off.”
Rico, however, was still coaching. “What happened on the play, Johnny?” he asked.
“I don’t know. He just beat me, I guess,” Johnny said, looking down into his beer.
“Look at me,” Rico said sharply. Johnny looked at Rico, who stared into his eyes. “You’re gonna continue to get beat until you figure out why. That’s the way it is, Johnny. You don’t let things pass. You correct them.”
“Man, leave the guy alone, he feels bad enough,” Floyd told Rico. Rico and Floyd were best friends although they were polar opposites.
The Law of Second Chances Page 10