Bino's Blues

by A. W. Gray

  Adriani bent over the corpse, satisfied himself that the bonds and gag had left no telltale marks, and that this overworked fifty-one-year-old hotshot fucking business executive was going down in history as a heart attack victim. Adriani took his time, putting the tools carefully away in the box, sliding the ring and pin into a protective padded envelope, adjusting the thermostat to seventy-one degrees, and backing out into the reception area while saying to the silent office and dead man inside, “Sorry to bother ya, but the super says I got to fix that thing today.” The slim receptionist typing away, not even aware that Adriani was standing there. She turned and smiled impersonally as Adriani said, “That’ll take care of him, now I got to check the other one,” then hurried into Whitley Morris’s office before it could dawn on her that maybe this blue-collar air-conditioning asshole shouldn’t be barging in unannounced.

  Morris was seated behind his desk, signing checks, and looked up with a startled gasp. “I didn’t know you were going to—”

  “Won’t take a minute,” Adriani said, going in his toolbox for a screwdriver, moving to the thermostat, leaning over a mahogany credenza stacked with computer printouts to make an adjustment. “Now if it gets too hot in here, Whitley, you just turn this screw back to the left,” Adriani said. He turned, grinning. “You gimme five minutes’ head start, then you go in and find the guy. He’s got a bad heart, what can you say? Job’s finished.” He went to the door. “Oh, and Whitley, send me one of them pictures of your new old lady. The one of her on the wing with her skirt blowing up around her ass, okay? Hey, I like the looks of that broad.”

  The overalls wound up tight and stuffed inside a big leather business satchel, the balance of the abericinine, vial and all, flushed into the City of Los Angeles sewer system, Mancil Adriani stepped out of the water closet in the men’s room and washed his hands. He wore a blue-black Armani suit, thirteen hundred bucks off the rack at Houston’s Galleria Mall and an extra three bills for the tailor, Mr. Rich-but-Conservative washing his hands in the eighteenth-floor men’s room.

  He left the building at the Wilshire Boulevard exit and carried his satchel a leisurely two blocks oceanward to Rodeo Drive. There he watched the women in knock-’em-dead dresses going in and out of the shops, banging hell out of the credit cards. It was an hour before Adriani hailed a cab, and he left then only because the smog was burning his eyes. Stinkhole that it was, L.A. sure did have the broads, that was one thing he’d have to say for the town.

  One hour and fifteen minutes later Adriani stepped into a phone booth at LAX inside the Delta terminal. He punched in the zero before the area code and number, needing operator assistance in order to call collect, gazing out the plate-glass window at the airport traffic, yellow Hertz and red Avis buses. The elevated revolving restaurant stood on four legs like an attack bug from Star Wars. Adriani liked his own reflection in the glass, thinking he should dress in a suit more often, go to some nice places with a classy piece of ass on his arm.

  After the party had accepted the call, Adriani said, “I got your message off my machine. Why am I not surprised?”

  He listened, a smile on his face for the benefit of passersby, nothing in his expression to indicate how ticked off he was. Then he said, “Why should I be surprised? I already found out you didn’t tell me the fucking guy was a lawyer. Always problems when you get one of those guys mixed up in … ”

  The voice droned in his ear as Adriani directed his smile to a uniformed Delta flight attendant, who stopped nearby waiting for the phone. Behind her she pulled luggage on wheels, tugging the suitcase along by a leather strap. Adriani said, “fust a minute,” then smiled at the flight attendant once more and indicated a man down the way who’d just hung up and who was moving quickly toward the security gate. She nodded and hauled her luggage to the now-vacant booth.

  Adriani bent his head and said into the mouthpiece, “If I got to I got to. Funny thing you got two broads to do, you only told me about one.” He listened some more, rolling his eyes, then said, “Look. Tomorrow, same place.” His expression changed to a scowl, replaced immediately by the public-image grin. “Hey, I give a fuck tomorrow’s Saturday. Same place, I said. Up to you how you get there, but I’ll tell you something. You forget me, somebody’s liable to wind up hunting you. See you tomorrow.” He bent his free hand and shoved his wrist against his side. “That’s what I said. We get in shit over this, pal, you better hope they don’t put us in the same cell together. You’re in a world of hurt if they do.”

  Within five minutes Adriani stood at the ticket counter, trading his one-way to Houston for an open-ended L.A.-to-Dallas-to-Houston, nodding his thanks as the agent explained about savings if he’d make a twenty-one-day advance purchase and stay over Saturday night. Then he poked his new ticket into his inside breast pocket, hefted his satchel, and walked quickly toward the metal detectors. The security gate reminded him that he’d dropped one helluva good Llama .380 into a dimpster dumpster just outside the terminal. He hated to lose the pretty little piece but had no way to transport the gun to Texas with him. It nettled him as well that, in addition to the extra expense of the Dallas stopover, he was faced with the prospect of doing one more murder without compensation. When you’re fucking with lawyers, Adriani thought, there’s always loose ends.

  23

  FROM SEEMINGLY MILES AWAY HALF-A-POINT HARRISON SAID, “Gin.” Bino rolled over and sat up. Foul body oder assaulted his nostrils.

  Seated on top of the covers, Half showed Bino a crooked grin. A deck of cards was split in two piles, one facedown, the discards up. Half’s hand of cards was fanned out showing gin. Wimpy Madrick sat across from Half and was scowling. He turned his cards around so that Half could see them. “Thirty-nine,” he said, his wizened head cocking to one side. “Thirty-fucking-nine” Bino closed his nostrils against the smell, which, strong as it was, was lighter than usual. When he was doing time in county jail, Wimpy really tended to ripen.

  Wimpy started to drop the spent cards on top of the deck. Half reached out to stop him. “Hoh-old it,” Half said. “I count forty-three.”

  Wimpy looked puzzled. “Lessee, then.” He began to peel the cards out of his hand one at a time. “Three. Thirteen. Twenty-three … ” Flop. Flop. Flop. Flop. He neared the end of the stack. “Thirty-nine. And four makes forty-three. Like I said, forty-three.”

  “You said thirty-nine,” Half said. He picked up a pad and pencil. “That’s out in the first two games.” He marked the scores down, then tossed the pad aside. “Funny you made that error. Thirty-nine only puts me out in Game One.” He squinted suspiciously.

  Bino leaned bare shoulders back against the headboard. “You guys know there’s a table out in the kitchen? Also maybe a table or two over at your own homes?” The air-conditioning whispered and blew a cool draft. Bino sneezed.

  Half paused with the deck split in two parts, ready to shuffle up. “They got tables a lot of places. Those other places don’t got you.”

  “Jesus, I need to sleep,” Bino said.

  Half shuffled the two stacks and pushed them together. “Jesus, you need to listen.”

  “Listen to what?”

  “To Wimpy.”

  Bino opened his nasal passages. The odor was sickening. He closed his nostrils and breathed through his mouth. “I listen to Wimpy all the time.” He sounded like a man with a cold.

  Both men turned to look at him. Finally Half said, “Usually you listen to Wimpy telling how he’s going to pay your fee soon as he makes a score, or how he can’t pay you ’cause his last try for a score landed his ass in jail. Now he’s got something to say.”

  “Yeah,” Wimpy said. “I’m saying if these cards don’t turn around I’ll have to go to stealing to pay off.”

  “You’d be stealing anyhow,” Half said. “This gives you another excuse.” He threw a sidelong glance at Bino, then split the deck to shuffle again. “Wimpy’s got something about
Rusty Benson.”

  Bino pushed the covers aside and swung long legs over the edge of the bed, and stood. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I just did,” Half said.

  Wimpy looked up. “Going to cost you.”

  “So what else is new?” Bino said.

  “I don’t mean deducting from my legal bill,” Wimpy said. “I got to have cash.”

  Bino picked up his pants from a chair and fished in his pocket. “I’m a little short there.” He snapped his fingers. “Half, you got a little cash you can let me have?”

  Half’s mouth tugged to one side. “Wimpy owes me already, from this gin.”

  “You’ll be loaning it to me, not him. I’m guaranteeing your money.” Bino grinned.

  “Trouble is,” Half said, “you owe me, too. From the last time you and I played.”

  “I’m good for it,” Bino said. “You know that.”

  “I guess I can stand it,” Half grumped. “But carrying every burglar and lawyer in town can get heavy.”

  Bino went over and entered the bathroom. In seconds he returned carrying a big fluffy towel, which he tossed in Wimpy’s lap. Wimpy looked up, regarding Bino with one eye skeptically closed. “Take a shower, Wimp,” Bino said. “If we’re going to be visiting awhile, we need to be in the same room.”

  Bino couldn’t say that Wimpy Madrick cleaned up pretty well, but at least the odor was gone. Wimpy came into the kitchen wearing overalls with suspenders, and no shirt. Dark patches sprouted from his underarms and naked chest. The hair on his head was soaked, combed straight back on the top and both sides, and Bino made a mental note to dispose of his comb and buy another the first time he passed a drugstore. Wimpy had a thin wrinkled face and a long skinny nose, and his bare arms looked like thin sticks. Bino’s towel was draped around his neck. He flopped morosely down in a kitchen chair. “Your soap stinks,” Wimpy said.

  Bino was tilted back with his ankles crossed on the table. He wore running shorts and a T-shirt with coin try 96.3 emblazoned across the chest, and blue Nikes with no socks. The printout from federal court was spread out across his lap, and he’d been going over Rusty Benson’s cases. He’d earlier trekked out to the parking lot to retrieve his briefcase from the Line, and had dumped his traveling clothes from his suit-bag into one corner of the hall closet. He’d taken two Nuprin, but his sinuses still throbbed from his night on the town. “It’s scented Irish Spring,” Bino said. “Smells real nice.”

  “It stinks,” Wimpy said.

  Bino raised his voice. “Half, Wimpy thinks my soap stinks.”

  Half-a-Point Harrison was on the living room sofa, visible through the opening over the counter. He hunkered over the phone with his betting sheets spread out on the coffee table. It was a quarter to twelve; major-league baseball action would begin in fifteen minutes on the East Coast. The phone rang insistently. Half peered over his shoulder. “Hell, Wimpy stinks,” Half said. “How’s he going to know if the soap stinks?”

  Bino said to Wimpy, “What kind you usually use? When you bathe.”

  Wimpy shrugged. “Some stuff I picked up down at the county. Last thirty days I done, I made off with five bars. Last week.”

  “The county furnishes Lava,” Bino said. “Peel your skin off.”

  “At least it don’t stink,” Wimpy said.

  Bino glanced at the printout. He’d already made check marks beside two cases, both handled by Rusty in Edgar Bryson’s court, and he was less than halfway through the list. One was a cocaine possession charge, third offense. The guy had pled out and Bryson had sentenced him to ninety days in the federal section of Mansfield Jail. The federal guidelines for a third-time coke beef were anywhere from thirty to fifty months, depending on the amount of coke involved. A federal judge was required to state the reasons on the record anytime the sentence was less than federal guidelines, and Bino had made a note to look up the file jacket and see what Bryson had had to say. Bino dropped the printout on the table, lowered his feet to the floor, sat forward, and leaned on his elbows. “You look in pain, Wimpy,” Bino said. Wimpy always looked as though he was in agony, and liked for people to inquire.

  “Rotten tooth,” Wimpy said, pointing at his jaw. “Need to see the dentist.”

  Bino pictured Dante Tirelli. “You ever take vitamin E?”

  Wimpy gingerly laid his palm on his cheek. “Huh?”

  “Vitamin … never mind. Let’s hear your story.”

  “Oh, that. I done time with a guy.”

  “There’s more guys you’ve done time with than that you haven’t,” Bino said. “What guy?” In the other room, the phone jangled once before Half picked up the receiver.

  “Time before last,” Wimpy said. “Maybe the time before that, I ain’t sure. Three, four months ago. This was a boiler room guy.”

  “Oil?”

  “Some oil, yeah. Stocks, anything where you can hustle the mooch over the phone, this guy did. Twenty, thirty salesmen on those 800 lines. Guy used to brag he done a half million a month sometimes, but most of those guys are fulla shit. Young guy, fast talker. I think it was the state securities people busted him.”

  Bino knew the type. The man would have been college educated, more than likely, with the salesman’s easy manner about him. Bino pictured such a character bunking down in the same cell with Wimpy Madrick. County jail made for strange bedfellows. Bino interlocked his fingers behind his head. “High-rolling Harry,” he said.

  “You’re getting the picture.”

  Bino glanced toward the kitchen counter. “You want coffee?”

  “Black.”

  Bino stood, dug a clean cup from the dishwasher, picked up the glass pot from the Mr. Coffee burner, and poured steaming liquid. “So you were doing time with the guy,” he said.

  “Ninety days, you remember the beef. Burglary you got reduced to misdemeanor trespass. This guy was in jail waiting for somebody to post bond. Which none of his buddies on the outside were in any hurry to do, it looked like to me. Every day the guy was saying he’d be out tomorrow. Two, three weeks this went on.”

  Bino set the coffee in front of Wimpy, picked up his own cup and poured a refill, adding powdered cream. “Let me guess. He borrowed commissary money from you.”

  Wimpy straightened. “How’d you know?”

  Bino carried his coffee around and sat. “I know you. You’re always a soft touch for these guys.”

  “So I am,” Wimpy said, sipping, making a face. “These guys’re laying around, got no smokes, ice cream. Kind of pitiful, you know?” He patted the front of his overalls, which had no pockets. “Speaking of which, you got a smoke?”

  Bino thought for a second, then reached in a drawer for his lone remaining pack of Camel filters. He tossed the cigarettes to Wimpy, then furnished a disposable lighter and an ashtray swiped from Joe Miller’s Bar. Wimpy lit, inhaled, and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Hundred bucks he got,” Wimpy said.

  “That’s a lot of ice cream.”

  “He smoked, too.”

  “Rusty Benson his lawyer?”

  “Right on.”

  “So what have you got,” Bino said, “that I’m interested in hearing?”

  “Well, you damn near lost me as a client,” Wimpy said, “when I seen how much good Rusty Benson does for this guy.”

  “Jesus, would that be a blow,” Bino said. “You’d be in trouble having Rusty. I hear he makes his clients pay up.”

  Wimpy held his coffee in both hands, like a man accustomed to guarding his belongings. “This guy had a lot of heat. The D.A. was hollering for his scalp. It’s tough when one of these pisswilly prosecutors gets a hard-on for a guy.”

  “You’re telling me,” Bino said.

  “But first thing you know, the guy’s over in federal court. Don’t ask me, the state drops the charges and all of a sudden, boom, he’s being indicte
d on a federal beef. Same thing, same case, only now the feds are charging the guy with mail fraud.”

  “That’s done every day,” Bino said. “His lawyer makes a deal with the feds to take the guy, the state always agrees to drop the charges once the feds step in. They got enough folks in their penitentiaries as it is. Federal jails got boo-coo room.”

  “I’m hip to that,” Wimpy said. “So the next day he’s shipped out to federal custody over to Mansfield. Last we see of him down at the county.”

  “Jesus, that’s all you know?” Bino grabbed the federal case printout and ran a pencil down the list. “What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Never forget it,” Wimpy said. “Stanfield T. Morton. Always used the ‘T,’ like he’s some kind of fucking big shot.”

  The name was on the list, all right, with the notation that the case had been transferred from state to federal court. To Judge Edgar Bryson, of course. According to the printout, the case hadn’t been disposed of as yet. There was a notation, however, that Morton was currently free on his own personal recognizance. With a judge’s cooperation the case could be set off practically forever. Bino looked up. “You know anything about this guy you haven’t told me?”

  Wimpy set his coffee down and sucked on his cigarette. The air was getting hazy. “Plenty,” Wimpy said.

  “Such as?”

  “You forgot about the hundred simoleons this guy owes me. Softhearted I might be, but I don’t forget these things. About a month after I’m back on the street, I’m out in North Dallas, close to Preston and Royal Lane. Minding my own business.”