by Michael Pool
"Looks like your ride's here. Let's get you up and at em." Collins kept the gun in his right hand and grasped Waylon's inner bicep with the left. He helped Waylon to his feet. "You just remember what I said, Waylon Tompkins. We run The Lord's Salvation Thrift Store here in town. You pay your debt and want to stay clean, then you come see us."
"I might just do that," Waylon said, knowing it was another lie even as he said it.
Collins led him by the arm into the living room just as his wife Mora opened the door to reveal two police officers, each with a hand on his pistol. Both cops glared at Waylon before the bigger one, who had a thick moustache, spoke.
"Get facedown on the ground," he said. "Now."
Waylon complied as best he could with his hands bound, dropped to his knees and then lay facedown like the man instructed. Collins guided him by the arm all the way to the ground, then let go and stepped back.
"We found him in the kitchen," Collins said. "He's got a van back in the alley with some of our stuff in it, too."
The cops stepped up and flanked Waylon on either side. Waylon winced when they each drove a knee into his kidneys. They replaced whatever had been used to bind his hands with a set of handcuffs instead, then yanked him to his feet by the cuffs.
"Shit, man, ouch," Waylon said. "I'm compliant. Ya'll don't have to be so rough about it."
The mustached cop slapped him upside the head. "Stop resisting," he said.
"Easy there, gentlemen," Collins said. "No need for that. I think he's had enough for today."
Neither of the cops replied, but they didn't hit Waylon again, either. Instead they led him toward the front door.
"Does this mean I don't get the Scarecrow?" Bernie said from behind him. Waylon craned his neck around so that he could just see the edge of Bernie's tear-streaked face poking out the bathroom door.
"That ain't up to me now, bub," Waylon said. "I'm sorry I got you into this mess, though. I get out, I'll bring you a Scarecrow plate, up at your work. Sound okay?" Another lie.
Bernie seemed to be waiting for permission from Collins to speak. The old man nodded his head.
"Okay, shawty. Sorry about the television. I guess you won't get to watch your shows now either."
Waylon knew they had cable in county lockup, but figured this wasn't the time to bring it up. "I guess not," he said instead.
"You come see us when you get out," Collins said. Waylon nodded as the cops moved him out the front door again.
"When you bring the plate I could give you a mohawk," Bernie said.
"I suppose you could, Bernie," Waylon called over his shoulder, thinking how the old woman had already pretty damn much given him one.
"I'm just jokin'!" Bernie said.
As the officers led Waylon out to the backseat of a cruiser parked at the curb, he couldn't help wondering if it was the truth.
Proof of Death
by Mike Madden
I take a deep drag, unleash a billowing cloud and kick my feet up on the credenza. The client lifts the nameplate off my desk. That plate is an antique, a family heirloom, a fifty-year-old brass block inscribed Law Office of Joseph Skelter. And it's mine. I launch another cloud across the desk and he sets it down, his face registering mild annoyance at the vapor.
Dad fired up a filterless Camel whenever he wanted to unnerve a client. In Grandpa's day it was stogies, cheap South American coronas that gave tear gas a run for the money. These days it's e-cigs.
World's gone to hell.
The client is a twinkie of a man, barely five feet tall with pasty skin and a bad case of the dweebs. My first impression? In his forty-some odd years on this planet, this yahoo never committed anything worse than speeding. So why all of a sudden is he desperate to hire a criminal defense attorney? He called this morning, practically cried when my assistant told him we didn't take appointments on Saturdays.
Trixie's got a soft spot for dweebs.
"Arthur Brennan," the dweeb announces, taking a seat without offering his hand.
I stare him down.
"Ummm….my name is—"
"Whadaya want, Artie? Why are you here?"
"Well, quite frankly, I'm in need of an experienced attorney and," he adds this last part with gusto, "I don't care what it costs."
Heard that line a hundred times. And what I've learned the hard way is, when a client says they don't care what it costs, it usually means they have no intention of paying.
"How about this," I tell him. "We skip the part where I rape you with fees and get right to the part where you tell me what the hell is going on."
Brennan flashes angry, then slides back into his humble demeanor. "I hardly know where to begin. There was just so much…blood."
It's a scientific fact. Certain phrases in the English language have the capacity to drop the temperature in a room five degrees. "My husband is pulling into the driveway," for example. "There was just so much blood," is good for ten. Heard it before, but every time it gives me a chill.
"Go on."
"Well, quite frankly, what happened was…"
"Uh huh?"
"The thing is, it all started…"
He's going to be one of those mumble-mouthed twerps that take forever to admit the deed. Lost patience for it years ago. Besides, coaxing a client to open up? Taking the time to establish rapport, slowly winning confidence while extracting the truth like a proctologist removing a delicate tumor?
Not my forte.
"What you have to understand is—"
"Trixie!" I bark into the intercom.
Brennan stiffens, as if some sadist had just yanked on the poker up his ass.
"Relax, Artie. Ms. Valero is my legal assistant and investigator. Talking to her is like talking to me. Completely confidential."
Brennan does a one-eighty when Trixie floats into the room. A short-haired brunette, she's shapely, thin, and flaunting quite the ensemble: a black skirt slit up the thigh and a tight white top under a black bolero jacket. The silk scarf I'd given her for client meetings is wrapped tightly around her neck and dangling in front like a tie.
"Ms. Valero," I say. "Mr. Brennan was just getting ready to explain his problem. Why don't you join us?"
"Certainly, Mr. Skelter. Happy to assist."
Trixie knows the routine. Gliding into the seat next to Brennan, she slips on her librarian glasses, the ones that make her look like Adrian from Rocky. Not the tight-assed frump from the pet shop either, the cute Adrian from Rocky III. Like most of my clients, Brennan takes an instant shine to her.
"You were saying something," I remind him. "About blood?"
"We've been having problems."
"Who's we?" asks Trixie.
"My wife and I, of course," Brennan scoffs.
Whadaya know? The dweeb draws the line at taking guff from women.
"Get it straight, little man." Trixie leans forward, working the slit in her skirt to highlight her muscle-toned thighs. "You want help? You'll answer my fuckin' questions."
Brennan looks at me aghast.
I kick back to enjoy the show.
"My wife!" he blurts, as if grabbed by the balls. "She's been working evenings, sometimes until two in the morning. I got suspicious. Who wouldn't?"
"Go on," Trixie scolds, adjusting her scarf, exposing a plunging v-neck hugging the curves of her breasts and terminating mid-cleavage.
"I lied. Told her I had a conference in Chicago. Called for car service and pretended to leave. After a few hours, I headed back. There was this beat-up clunker in my driveway. I went in the house and there they were on the couch, her and this jerk. They were…they were…"
"We get the picture." Trixie unbuttons the bolero, leaving Brennan awaiting her next move. "Keep going," she orders.
"I screamed. Cursed. Threatened the jerk! He got off the couch and came at me like he was going to—I don't know what. My wife tried to stop him. I picked up a lamp. Oh dear God! The one Mother gave us. She bought it in London when she went to visit Au
nt—"
"Back to it, dammit." She tugs at the bolero, as if ready to peel it off.
"I meant to hit him. I swung and missed. Bashed her across the face. I didn't mean to do it. I just…" Brennan breaks down, sobbing like the dweeb he is.
Another proven fact. The most efficient way to extract the truth from a straight male is to have a sexy yet reserved-looking female fire questions like a drill sergeant. In my amateur opinion, it has something to do with the psychology of contrast. Sex versus reserve. Reserve verses aggression. Someone should commission a study.
"When did this happen?" Trixie demands.
"About two hours ago."
"Is she…"
"Dead?" Brennan asks, the dread in his voice unmistakable. "Well, quite frankly, I suspect she is. The jerk checked her pulse and said she was gone. I ran out of there."
Trixie eases back in her chair and gives me the nod.
"Enough," I say. "What is it, exactly, you want from us?"
"My uncle, James Delgado, told me you once helped him out one time. Said you might be able to help. Can you help me, Mr. Skelter?"
I steal a look at Trixie. James Delgado, aka Jimmy the Pimp, was a case we'd handled a few years back. Delgado owned a gentleman's club in Center-City Philly, a high-class strip joint that dabbled in low-class prostitution. Delgado fancied himself connected to the Mob. When they busted him, he offered to pay me by "taking care of" anyone I wanted. A few names came to mind, but I settled for cash in the end. He paid me in twenties and never brought up the subject again. Looking at Brennan, it's hard to believe he's related to a sleazeball like Delgado.
I give Trixie the signal.
"Our standard retainer agreement." Trixie spreads the papers on the desk. "Twenty-five thousand, up to and including trial. Questions?"
Brennan signs on the dotted line and writes a check without looking at the retainer. "Am I going to jail?"
"Too early to tell." I hold out my hand. "House keys."
"Why do you need—"
"We're going to swing by your place. Check out the crime scene. Don't worry, if it turns out the jerk called the cops, we'll keep rolling."
"Why wouldn't he have called the cops?"
"Might be married," Trixie explains. "Found himself in a compromising position. For all we know, he high-tailed it just like you."
"In the meantime,," I gesture for Trixie to show Brennan out, "keep a low profile. Don't go anywhere near your car. They may be looking for it. There's a coffee shop up the street. Meet you there in two hours."
Brennan follows Trixie to the door, still moping, but eyes glued to her ass the whole way.
Trixie cat-walks back into my office. She unwraps her Adam's apple scarf while doing her celebration jig. Trixie has always been a big help interviewing clients, but ever since her operation (and changing her name from Trevor Jones to Trixie Valero), she's been a real asset.
"So, Trix. Whadaya think?"
"Well, quite frankly," she leans on my desk, fanning herself with the retainer check, "he's everything a girl could want. Rich, submissive…newly single. I kinda like the little fellah."
Trixie kills me.
I figure Brennan has to be set up pretty well since he gave a Center-City address, but the place is a social climber's dream—a three-level townhouse with a circular drive in a black-tie section of Society Hill. There's no sign of police, so we let ourselves in.
The only dead body I've ever seen was at my grandfather's wake. Trixie doesn't seem fazed at all, so I do the gentlemanly thing: close my eyes and let her go first.
I brace for the shock of the scene. A dead woman on the ground. A shattered face. Bones jutting out every which—
"Joe!"
I crack my eyes. The living room rug is stained red with blood. A broken lamp on the floor. Other than that, the room is immaculate.
"Mrs. Brennan?" Trixie takes off through the living room. "Mrs. Brennan! Are you alright, dear?"
We search the house and find no sign of the wife, just cherry wood furnishings, nineteenth-century impressionist prints and a pair of padded handcuffs on the night table. The typical trappings of American well-to-do yuppiedom.
Trixie's cellphone starts singing "It's Raining Men."
Kills me.
"Trixie Valero," she answers. "What? No, Arthur. Stay off the phone. Go back to the office and wait for us there." She beeps off the cell and flashes me her you-ain't-gonna-believe-this face.
"Well?" I ask.
"Brennan got a voicemail from the Jerk."
"Get out."
"He wants Brennan to call him immediately."
"Say why?"
"Just that it would be in his…best interest."
My office is in an old Victorian on Ridge Avenue in the Roxborough section of Northwest Philly where I grew up. Far from chic, but suits me fine. Grandpa practiced law in the neighborhood for thirty years. When he died, Dad moved the practice to neighboring Manayunk to cater to the yuppies renovating the old homes along the Schuylkill River. The high rent forced him out during the real estate boom of the early 2000's and by the time I took over, we were back in the old hood. These days even Roxborough is getting uppity. Coffee houses and yoga studios are slowly replacing the corner bars and cheesesteak shops that were once the neighborhood's claim to fame.
"Scarf," I say to Trixie, as we walk up the steps to the office.
"Jeeze Louise." She tosses it around her neck. "Such a prude."
Brennan is sitting on the couch in the reception area with his face in his hands, but springs to his feet as we walk in. "Why would he call me? Did you go to the house? Were the cops there?"
"Phone." Trixie extends her palm.
Brennan slaps his cell in her hand. "Is my wife—"
"Sit." She points a finger straight down.
Brennan drops, puppy-dog style to the edge of the couch.
We head to my office. Trixie slams the door and we stand there listening to Brennan's last voicemail:
"Artie. I think you know who this is. If you want to stay out of jail, then we've got to talk. Ring me back at this number. Trust me, mate, it's in your best interest."
Trixie hits "return call" and hands me the phone.
"Ello?"
It's the same grating cockney accent as was on the voice message.
"This is Joseph Skelter," I say. "I represent Arthur Brennan. You wanted to speak with him?"
"That's right, mate."
"You can talk to me."
I let the Union Jack-off blather on for a full minute, then say, "Call you back," and hang up.
After filling Trixie in on what the Jerk said, I ask her to fetch our client.
"Good news," I tell Brennan, "is that your wife isn't home. There's a lot of blood, like you said, but no body. Which means—"
"She's not dead! Oh, thank God! Thank you, Mr. Skelter."
Trixie hangs an arm over Brennan's shoulder "Let's not start patting each other's asses just yet."
"Which means," I continue. "That the cops aren't looking for you."
"Not yet," Trixie adds.
"How do you know?"
"Because of the bad news, dear," Trixie says. "Listen."
"According to the Jerk," I tell him. "Your wife is dead and he's on his way to the Pine Barrens in South Jersey to bury the body, but hasn't called the cops and is willing to keep his mouth shut about the whole thing."
"Why would he do that?"
"For five hundred thousand. Cash."
The case is an ethical nightmare. On the one hand, I can't divulge to the cops anything Brennan told me about killing his wife. On the other hand, advising him to pay a witness to dispose of the corpus delicti could make me a defendant. Either way, I have to figure out what the hell is going on. I send Brennan back to the reception area to give the poor dweeb an opportunity to get a handle on his hyperventilating.
Trixie leans, arms folded, against my desk. "I don't buy it. The Jerk is engaged in a little hanky-panky with Brennan's
wife."
"Check."
"Next thing he knows, he's witnessing a murder."
"Check."
"But he has the presence of mind, in the middle of all that, to concoct this body-snatch, extortion scheme?"
"Hmmm."
"This ain't got the right scent, Joe."
"Sure it does. What happened is—"
"Obvious." Trixie goes into figure-it-out mode, pacing back and forth behind the desk. "Brennan catches his wife and the Jerk doing the hunka-chunka on the couch, then he whacks her with the lamp, bam!"
"Hunka-chunka?"
"He starts to make the 911 call, but before he gets through, Mrs. Brennan wakes up. Turns out she wasn't dead, merely knocked out. The Jerk drops the phone and gets this five-hundred-thousand-dollar grin as it occurs to him they can blackmail Brennan."
"Ridiculous," I say. "The wife would never go for it. Brennan is worth at least twice that much. Why not just divorce the twerp, take half and avoid the felony extortion charges?"
"Because…" Trixie holds up a finger, then plops in my chair. "…I dunno, but I still think we need proof of death," she says. "We demand to see the body."
"No way."
"Why not?"
"The Jerk thinks he stands to gain half a million if Brennan believes she's dead. Whadaya think he's gonna do if she's alive and we demand proof of death? It's like asking him to whack her."
"Fine. A picture, then."
"Come on. You don't think he can stage a pic?"
"Let him." She kicks her pumps up on the desk, throws her hands behind her head and flashes me a grin. "Be surprised what you can learn from a pic."
At this point, I figure it can't hurt. I hit the Jerk's number and put it on speaker.
"Ello?"
"Look here, Ringo. We may be able to work something out, but we need proof."
"Kidding me, right? The wanker killed her himself. What the hell more proof do you need?"
"We need proof she's actually dead."
"I'm in the forest right now getting ready to put her in the ground and you want me to drive her stinking corpse back to the city? Forget it, mate. You can take your chances with the cops when I call them."