by A. W. Gray
“You’re talking about Rusty Benson’s wife,” Annabelle said. She assumed her phony Brooklyn accent, which under some circumstances Bino thought was cute as hell. “Even da
mob reads da paper,” she said, then in her normal Texas voice, “I have to tell you, Dante nearly rolled off the couch laughing when he read you were in jail.”
“I’m glad somebody thought it was funny,” Bino said. He took on a serious look. “Look, babe, I’ll be indebted to you.”
She took the toothpick from her sandwich and popped the olive into her mouth. “I’ll have to think on how to bring it up,” she said. “And you will owe me, buster. Don’t think I won’t collect, either.”
Bino studied her, the ageless face, the eyes that twinkled with a strange sadness and even some desperation. He was going to owe her. So far he’d owed Dodie and Carla as well. If he didn’t get some answers soon, he’d be in debt to everybody in the whole fucking state. He stood and stepped back from the table. “Sure,” he said. “How about if I join the health spa and put you down as the one that referred me? That’ll give you a break on your dues, won’t it?”
20
BINO WAS TEN MINUTES LATE IN GETTING TO JOE MILLER’S BAR. He left the Line in between a Range Rover and a Buick Century, then jogged up to and opened the padded door and stood just inside the entry looking around. He spotted Tommy Clinger all alone in a back booth, quickly skirted the bar—nodding in return to a brief hello from Melinda the bartender—and slid in across from Clinger. “Been here long?” Bino said, and then regretted the question as he noted the half-full drink in front of Tommy, the full one waiting near Tommy’s elbow, Tommy’s vacant look as he lifted the half-full glass to his lips. Guys in Tommy Clinger’s predicament had plenty of time.
“Just awhile,” Clinger said. “Molly dropped me off on the way to the grocery store. I told her I’d call when I was ready.”
“Shouldn’t take too long,” Bino said. He sensed a presence near the booth, Melinda waiting expectantly with one hip thrust slightly out. Bino ordered a Budweiser draft. Clinger held his glass out and nodded. Bino’s gaze dropped as Melinda sashayed off to fill the order, her outline dim in the muted light from behind the bar.
“Operating with one car’s a problem sometimes,” Clinger said. “We have to work it out. When Molly has to go someplace, pick up the kids or whatever, I just stay home. She’s been job-hunting.”
Bino experienced a pang of sympathy. A lot of criminal lawyers told him they’d passed the point, years ago, of feeling sorry for clients, but Bino never had. “You’re still on leave with pay, huh?” Bino said.
“For what it’s worth,” Clinger said, finishing off one drink with a gulp, setting the glass aside, moving the full glass over in front of him. “Never has been worth much. With the additional expenses we’ve got … Molly needs to get used to working. I don’t know how long I’m going to be away.” His chin sagged and the flesh under his eyes was puffy.
“Cool it, Tommy,” Bino said. “Nobody knows for sure that you’re going to be away at all.” Melinda delivered a frosty mug with a thump near Bino’s elbow, set a fresh highball in front of Clinger, and toted Clinger’s empty away.
“I’ve been on the other side of this a long time,” Clinger said, “and I’ve seen these guys. They get out on bond and run around town like nothing’s going to happen to them. Then, boom, one day they’re gone and the wife’s left with nothing on the table. I know the odds. We’re getting ready for it, best we can.”
“I’m working on some things,” Bino said. He took a sip of beer, the liquid cold and bubbly, tickling his throat.
“I see that you are,” Clinger said. “Rusty Benson. Asshole lawyer for an asshole snitch.”
“I was afraid that would bother you.”
One of Clinger’s shaggy eyebrows lifted. “Bother me? Why would it bother me? My wife and I are giving the last nickel we’ve got in this world to this guy, I look in the paper one day and there he is, traveling all the way to Houston fucking Texas to help out Terry Nolby’s lawyer. Why would that bother me?”
“Look, you got a right,” Bino said. “But I was looking after you, too.”
Clinger snorted.
“Hear me out, Tommy,” Bino said. “And it’s none of my business, but all that booze won’t do anything but keep you in a resentful state of mind.”
“Is it the booze?” Clinger said, knocking off a slug. “Or am I finally learning what the assholes I’ve been chasing knew all along, that once you’re gotten, you’re gotten, and all these fucking lawyers are good for is to take your money.”
Bino’s jaw protruded. “Yeah? Well, maybe you’re right, but I’ll tell you one thing. You got more than most, my friend. You got a wife and a couple of fine kids, if you don’t go off the deep end and lose them. If you do, Tommy, it’ll be your fault. Not any lawyer’s. Not any feds. Just yours.”
Suddenly, Clinger broke down. He sobbed aloud, tears streaming down his cheeks. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face and blew his nose.
Bino’s tone gentled. “It’s tough, but I’ve got to get through to you. You’re taking a screwing, Tommy, but let’s don’t pretend you’re lily white. You told me yourself, you knew all this was going on, all these cops with their hands out. Now, if you’ll listen to me, and if you haven’t gotten too drunk sitting here feeling sorry for yourself, I’ll tell you exactly what I’m pretty sure is going on, and what it’s going to take to get your balls off the chopping block.”
Clinger stared vacantly off. “If I just hadn’t taken the job to begin with … ”
“Well, you did,” Bino said, “and that’s that. Okay, first of all, your trial’s put off sixty days, but believe me that it’ll never come to pass. Any day now, you can look for Goldman to dismiss the charges against you, Nolby, and the rest of the cops.”
Clinger looked hopeful.
“But when that happens,” Bino said, “it’s just a lull before the next indictment that’s coming. Now that indictment, that’s the one Goldman’s really going to get his cookies on. It’s going to include you and the same police guys, plus some judges, plus whoever Goldman can think of that’ll give him more press coverage. Rusty Benson is one dirty lawyer, in case you don’t already know.”
“I mind my own business,” Clinger said. “I’ve heard he did a good job for some people.”
“He damn sure did,” Bino said. “He did the best job that a little money spread around in the right places can buy. Rhonda Benson was talking to the feds, which is why Rhonda’s not with us.”
“Now wait a minute,” Clinger said, pointing. “I never had Rusty Benson, never had any business with the guy. And I damn sure know nothing about any judges getting fixed.”
“That won’t matter,” Bino said. “You’ll have to take my word on this, Tommy, but what I’m going to tell you is based on many years of fucking with Goldman. It’ll be a conspiracy beef, likely with a couple of RICO counts thrown in. It’s called tarring everybody with the same brush, and it won’t make any difference if you never even heard of most of the people involved, you’re going to get convicted just by association. The law is crazy as hell, but here’s how it works. Say you’re in on taking the heat off of a whorehouse or two, for street information like you said. Now, say that same whorehouse is doing business with Rusty Benson, who in turn is buying off a couple of vice squad cops and a judge or two. The law says that makes you a part of a conspiracy with the judge, even if you’ve never met the guy.”
Clinger seemed to shrink in size. “I know those laws are broad.”
“Broad as hell, and it gets worse as we go along,” Bino said. “Now, not only does Goldman have Terry Nolby on his team, he’s got Rusty Benson.”
Clinger’s jaw dropped in shock. “I thought Benson was charged with killing his wife.”
“He was, but that didn’t keep Goldman fr
om manufacturing a deal. The state guys in Houston will do whatever Goldman tells them with regard to the murder beef, and Goldman would make a deal with Charles Manson if he thought Charlie could finger a few jurists.”
“That’s tough for some people if Rusty’s going over,” Clinger said. “But he doesn’t know anything about me to tell about.”
“No, but he’s got enough on other people Goldman’s going to indict to make it rub off on you. Unless my plan works.”
“Unless your plan works? Jesus Christ, my house is pledged to secure your legal fee, you’d by God better have a plan.”
Bino looked down, then back up. “Call me when you sober up, Tommy.” He started to rise.
Clinger reached across and put a hand on Bino’s arm. “Don’t go yet,” Clinger said. “I’m listening.”
Bino sat back down. “Not for you am I telling this. For just you, the way you’re acting, you could have your legal fee back and go fuck yourself. I happen to think a lot of your family, which translates that I think you’ll be all right yourself one of these days. But I don’t need the kind of pressure you’re trying to put on. Understand?”
Clinger took a drink. Slowly, he nodded.
“Here’s what I think may work,” Bino said. “The only thing a guy like Goldman will listen to, and don’t get me wrong, the guy’s got power that’d scare God to death. But all we can try to do is know something, and I don’t mean you being an informant. I’ve told you before how I feel about snitches, I won’t represent one. We need to know something that, if it comes out, is going to screw up Goldman’s case. Then let him understand what we know, and understand that if he doesn’t keep the heat off of you, we’ll use it.”
“What the hell could we possibly know,” Clinger said, “that’s going to scare the United States Attorney?”
“That he’s doing business with a guy,” Bino said, “that’s had his own wife killed, and is making the state let this guy off the hook on a murder charge if he’ll testify. Bad publicity is the only thing that’ll scare Goldman.”
“I thought Harris County already knew that.”
“I’m not sure. Know it, maybe, but I don’t think they’ve got evidence. I won’t go into it all, Tommy, but that business down there in Harris County was nothing but a sham to get Rusty into jail where they could play with the guy. I don’t think they’ve got piece of evidence one.”
“Well, if they don’t, what makes you think you do?”
“I’ve got connections even the U.S. Attorney doesn’t,” Bino said. “And Ie already got feelers out. Pretty soon I think I may have something.”
“You’ll excuse me,” Clinger said, “if that doesn’t completely take the load off my mind.”
“Excuse you? Sure I will,” Bino said. “And there’s a lot I can’t answer. Such as, How did Harris County know where to look for Rhonda’s body? Like I said, Tommy, I’m working on it.” He reached across the table and took Clinger’s drink. “In the meantime, you lay off the hooch,” Bino said. He swallowed the liquor in two big gulps. The drink was bourbon, not Bino’s favorite, sour mash to boot. “You go home and tell Molly you love her,” Bino said, exhaling liquor fumes. “Before this is over, I might be doing enough drinking for the both of us.”
21
AFTER CLINGER HAD GONE, BlNO WENT BACK INSIDE JOE Miller’s for one beer, just to be sociable. He ran into a couple of friends and made a night of it, half staggering into the parking lot at fifteen minutes till one and listing over to where the Line was parked. He jabbed at the door lock with his key a couple of times, then finally got the hang of it, unlocked the door, fell inside behind the wheel, fished around in the glove compartment for an Elvis tape, and squealed rubber onto Lemmon Avenue with “Suspicious Minds” vibrating his eardrums. He was feeling no pain.
He drove out to Vapors North, weaving from one side of the road to the other and praying he didn’t run across any squad cars, and crawled through the residents’ lot at five miles an hour. Finally he inched the Line into his numbered slot, proud that he didn’t scrape the blue Mazda which was his next-door neighbor’s pride and joy. He alighted and took two
steps toward the building, then halted. The snitbag he’d hauled to Houston was still in the Line’s trunk. He went back, opened the trunk, and hefted the suitbag. Then he staggered across the parking lot, through the breezeway, and alongside the pool. He listed sideways and nearly fell in the water twice as he made his way to his apartment.
He’d already unlocked and opened his door before it dawned on him that the lights inside his apartment were on. Jesus, had they been on all week? No wonder his fucking electric bill was so high. Visible through the entryway wrere his giant Mitsubishi television screen and his fireplace of uneven white brick. The TV was on; Whoopi Goldberg was interviewing Burt Reynolds. Bino paused, scratching his head. Had the TV been on when he’d left on Tuesday? Jesus, he couldn’t remember. He stepped inside and dropped his suitbag.
He sensed movement on his left. Hands the size of Christmas turkeys gripped his upper arms from behind. A huge dark-haired young guy, wearing a dark suit and tie, rose from the sofa and faced him. Bino was just drunk enough to grin.
“Dirk,” Bino said. “How you doing?”
The last time Bino had seen him, Dirk had been a floor-man/bouncer at one of Dante Tirelli’s gambling joints, a converted tennis club out in far North Dallas. He had a habit of rolling his head around as he flexed his neck muscles, and regarded Bino as though he didn’t think that the white-haired lawyer was very funny. As his partner kept Bino’s arms pinned from behind, Dirk stepped forward and conducted a pat search. He shook down both trouser legs from ankle to crotch, ran his hands underneath Bino’s belt, then moved his open palms up both sides of Bino’s rib cage. Bino giggled and said, “That tickles.” Dirk stepped back and wound up to throw a punch.
From within the kitchen Dante Tirelli said loudly, “I want you to hammer the fucking guy, I’ll say so. I got a carload of punks to choose from, I got to pick the one thinks he’s Sylvester Hambone. You two let our friend Mr. Phillips be.” He bent down and peered through the opening above the bar.
Dirk showed a disappointed leer and retreated to sit once again on the sofa. The hands released their hold on Bino’s arms, and he turned. He’d expected as much. His other old buddy from the gambling joint, about twice Dirk’s age and bald as a billiard ball, with a thick neck and broad shoulders, nodded. Dirk did a lot of prancing around, Bino thought, but the older man was all business and a lot more dangerous. “What’s new, Ralph?” Bino said.
“Ain’t nothing new,” Ralph said. He was chewing a toothpick, which he now shifted from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Good seeing you,” he said, then sat down beside Dirk.
Tirelli had the refrigerator open, rummaging around inside. He wore an orange oversize knit golf shirt and tan form-fitting slacks. His hair was iron gray, his forearms sturdy muscle.
Tirelli said as he poked around, “All you got in here is cold pizza and a bunch of beer. Don’t you keep no orange juice?”
Bino moved nearer the bar. He was sobering up in a hurry. “You look in the freezer?” he said.
Tirelli jammed his hands in his pockets. “Yeah.”
“Then I got no juice.”
Tirelli’s square jaw tilted as he studied the floor. “You don’t live too healthy, Phillips. You got beer and whiskey and pizza. Don’t you ever take no vitamins?”
“My secretary, that’s … Dodie, you don’t know her,” Bino said. “She’s got all these catalogues, says I ought to be taking some beta-carotene. Last week I bought a bunch of carrots.” ‘
“You ought to listen to her.” Tirelli bared his teeth like the wolfman, and Bino thought the burly gangster might charge around the counter and bite him. “You see these?” Tirelli said.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Bino said. “See what?”
Tirelli ran his index finger across even upper teeth. “These. Sixty-two years old, all I got is a coupla fillings.” He clicked his teeth together. “I go to the dentist maybe twice a year is all. Vitamin E, I take a thousand units twice a day. Got the gums of a fifteen-year-old.”
Jesus, Bino thought, his teeth do look pretty good. Bino himself had one tooth, lower right, which was sensitive to cold, and Bino had wondered if he should have the thing pulled.
Tirelli found a large glass in the dishwasher, dropped in ice from the freezer, and filled the glass with tap water. “You want some? One of those fucking beers or something?”
In fact Bino had been thinking of a beer just before he’d entered his apartment. The mood had left him. “Nothing for me,” he said.
Tirelli turned from the sink and raised his glass to his lips. “Oh, hey. I fed your fish. You oughtn’t to go off and leave the fish without any food.” He sipped.
Bino glanced at Cecil’s tank. The Oscar looked contented, floating between waving fins, his eyes at half-mast. “Thanks,” Bino said.
Tirelli reached beneath the counter. “Where you come up with this relic?” He stood holding Bino’s Mauser pistol, the German make that Bino had taken as a fee from a burglar. The burglar was now doing ten years and likely wishing he had the gun back.
“A guy gave it to me. I thought it was in my bedroom.”
“It was,” Tirelli said. He indicated Dirk and Ralph, still seated on the sofa like the Rowdy Twins. “Those guys look around. It’s what I pay ’em for.” Tirelli laid the gun on the counter and came out of the kitchen. He waved come-on, said, “Let’s talk in here,” then led the way back to the living room. He then said, “I can’t stand that fucking phony Burt Reynolds guy,” switched off the television, and sat on the end of the sofa beside Dirk. Bino flopped in an easy chair. He was angry over having his bedroom searched, but realized that it wouldn’t be smart to read the riot act to this trio.