by A. W. Gray
Adriani stood. “I ain’t copping to no capital beef.”
Bino turned. Cole and Strange watched.
Adriani put hands on hips. “No aggravated. A non-aggravated life in Texas, that’s parolable in eight years.”
“You been studying up,” Bino said. He waved a hand in the general direction of Strange and Cole. “What, you got something to say to these guys?”
“We got a deal on the time, you get a steno in here,” Adriani said. “And get me an iron. Jesus Christ, these clothes are bugging me to death.”
26
ON THE MONDAY MORNING AFTER THE WEEKEND IN WHICH HE’D nearly been killed, Bino Phillips got up whistling and put on a suit. He selected a Rusty Benson courtroom special, a robin’s egg blue lightweight cotton, and spiffed up his outfit with a patterned Christian Dior shirt and snow white tie. Just before leaving his apartment, he turned sideways to examine himself in the mirror and winked at his reflection. Easter Parade, Bino thought, here I come.
He continued to whistle a C&W tune which had been running through his head, but whose title he couldn’t recall, as he walked briskly through the patio and did a little hop-skip-step through the breezeway into the parking lot. He felt better than he had in months. Yesterday he’d sat in on Mac and Hardy’s session with Adriani for a little more than two hours, then had gone home, hit the sack around five in the afternoon, and hadn’t come up for air until the sun was shining brightly through his bedroom window.
He got in and started his engine, moved the a/c lever onto the max position, and pointed the Line’s nose downtown in the mercilessly climbing July temperature. The heat wave was likely to continue into late August with no significant rain until fall. Normally his driving temperament followed the weather pattern, but his spirits had soared to the point that he wouldn’t let small things bother him. At the on-ramp to Dallas North Tollway, a woman in a Nissan cut in front of him. He gave her a grand go-ahead wave and grinned from ear to ear.
He parked across the street from the office and crossed at the light, swinging along amid honking horns and city bus exhaust fumes, inhaling deeply and imagining that the horns were music and the exhaust odor expensive perfume. Once across the street he hung a left, leisurely strolling a block and a half to the west and entering One Main Place through revolving doors. He rode an elevator up to the twenty-eighth floor, pausing to allow a voting lady to exit the car in front of him, then continued to whistle softly under his breath as he went down the corridor, entered the offices of Wick, Hamill & Co., and had a seat in the waiting room. He crossed his legs and smiled at the receptionist.
The girl behind the massive oval desk, punching lighted buttons and routing calls, had full cheeks and a pouty-sexy motith along with enormous breasts which touched the switchboard keys when she bent over just the slightest. Her smile showed interest. “Hi, I’m Bobbi. You wanted to see … ?”
“Larry Murphy.” Bino rummaged through the magazines and selected a Golf Digest. On the cover, John Daly completed a massive backswing with the toe of the club practically touching the ground. “If he’s tied up, I’ll wait.” Bino thumbed through the pages, found an article on chipping by Ben Crenshaw, and began to read.
Bobbi touched the tiny mike suspended in front of her mouth. “And you are … ?”
Bino hesitated. Murphy shouldn’t worry about an old college buddy dropping by. “Bino Phillips,” he finally said.
She nodded, pressed a button, announced Bino’s presence, and went on about her business. She had a lit Virginia Slim balanced on an ashtray, and Bino thought that was unusual. Most firms these days prohibited smoking, and Bino decided that this young lady must have some pull in the organization. He wondered why.
In a couple of minutes Larry Murphy entered from a door behind the receptionist’s desk. Christ, Bino thought, everybody I run into these days looks like a halfback. Murphy wore a tapered shirt, navy slacks, and gray lizardskin boots. He thumbed his gray polka-dot tie, then stepped forward and extended his hand. “Dream come true,” Murphy said. “Come in this house, ole podnuh.”
Bino stood and accepted the handshake. Back in the old days, when Murphy had been SAE Fraternity president and had been running for some student body office or the other, pressing flesh with the guy had been something akin to arm wrestling. Things hadn’t changed. Murphy gripped Bino’s knuckles in a real bone crusher, Bino’s grin frozen in place, the white-haired lawyer determined not to let Murphy know he was hurting. Murphy finally released. Bino dropped his throbbing hand to his side and said, “Hi, Larry.”
“Say, you won’t believe … come on, come on back.” Murphy gestured and led the way into the inner offices. Bino followed, taking in rows of desks with new-recruit brokers on phones, squinting at printouts while talking a mile a minute to customers. Hot items, straight off the press. As he walked, Murphy said, “You won’t believe this, but a guy was just asking about you the other day. Got your picture on my wall, in fact. Small world.”
Bino didn’t answer. Murphy ducked through a doorway and sat behind a desk the size of a handball court. Bino sank down in a visitor’s chair, feeling leather-covered cushioning give, looking past Murphy at the haze-surrounded tower on top of the old Mercantile Building. Murphy hadn’t been lying about the picture. Bino would like to forget his lone Byron Nelson Classic Pro-Am appearance, during which he’d lost a half dozen balls in water and woods while Mickey Mantle’s tee shots made the gallery oh and ah and Lee Trevino kept ’em in giggling stitches. He’d forgotten Larry Murphy’s presence in the group.
“You couldn’a picked a better day,” Murphy said, leaning back. “Got something new, specially designed for guys with fluctuating income. It’s a back-in option that—”
“I’ve got nothing to invest, Larry,” Bino said.
“Nobody thinks they do, but hey, just a little every month, you’d be surprised what it’ll amount to.”
Bino placed his elbows on the armrests and touched his fingertips together. ‘Things must be slow, you’re not shooting for the home run. Just a little a month, that’s what you guys are pushing now?”
“It’s no secret, podnuh,” Murphy said. “Damn Ann Richards. We get some good Republican influence, it’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight again. Until then … ” He shrugged, palms up.
“Times being tough,” Bino said, “that why you’re doing business with Pete Kinder?”
Murphy’s confident expression sagged, a fleeting instant of panic replaced at once by the used-car salesman’s grin. “Old Pete? Boy’s had some tough times. He came in here, he was in good shape, a long time before that trouble with the feds. Wick, Hamill doesn’t do business with him any more. They get flaky, we cull ’em out.”
“Well, he ought to be back on the top of your list, then,” Bino said. “They dropped his charges last week.”
“Hey, podnuh, that’s good to hear. Never like to see a man in trouble.”
“Especially as long as it’s not you, huh?”
Murphy scowled. “What’s up, Bino? I don’t see you for years, now you’re in here asking me all this … ”
“I’m representing a cop.”
Murphy waved a hand like he was batting mosquitoes. “Police, schoolteachers, now, that’s a group I don’t mess with. Not enough money in it to … ” He snapped his fingers. “All those cops taking bribes. That what you’re talking about?”
“My guy didn’t take any,” Bino said. “But basically, yeah.”
“Puts a black mark on the whole system,” Murphy said, “those guys putting their hands out.”
“Oh? How ’bout stockbrokers? What’s that do to the system?”
Murphy tried faking it. “We’re into moving money, there’s a lot of temptation. What, you’re wanting to know about some broker mixed up in something? Sure, podnuh, if I know anything I’ll—”
“Well, how about crooked lawyers, then?
” Bino said. “Rusty Benson, that ring a bell?”
“Sure, the guy on television,” Murphy said. “Jailed in Houston, his wife’s dead and they think he—”
“Cut the bullshit, Larry.” Bino checked his watch. “You don’t have much time.”
Murphy’s pointed chin quivered. “How come I don’t?”
The intercom buzzed. His eyes narrowed, his gaze still on Bino, Murphy picked up the receiver. “Yeah?” He listened, then said, “I’m tied up right now, Bobbi. Tell him to wait.” He brushed the back of his hand across his forehead. “He’s going to have to wait, it’s all I can tell you.” He hung up, looking pale.
“I knew I should have gotten here earlier,” Bino said.
Murphy chewed his lower lip.
“I was shooting for nine-thirty,” Bino said. “But I overslept. Court opens at nine, and that’s the soonest he could come up with a warrant. Figuring a few minutes to get down here from the Crowley Courts Building, the ride up on the elevator … ”
“What the hell’s going on here?” Murphy said.
Bino jerked a thumb toward the exit. “The guy in your waiting room. Hardy Cole, right?”
Murphy lowered his gaze and squeezed his hands together.
“Your buddy from Houston had a little trouble night before last, Larry,” Bino said. “Had a wreck with a sweet potato, believe it or not. Talked to a county stenographer for, hell, just hours yesterday afternoon. Need I say more? You’d better hurry it up, Larry. Hardy’s not going to wait, and your receptionist’s boobs won’t slow him down for more than a minute or two.”
The lips turned up, revealing perfect dental work as the centerpiece in a look of complete desperation. “I need a lawyer. Christ.”
“Don’t look at me, I already got a client in all this mess. On top of which I don’t make a practice of representing snitches, which is what you’re going to have to be to get your chestnuts out of the fire.” Bino bent from the waist and leaned closer. “I figure I got less than a minute, Larry, so listen up. For now they’ve got only you, since you’re the only one your hit man had any dealings with. You want to give up the party you were acting for, you can make a helluva deal.
“I know who it is,” Bino said, “since he’s the only one with enough stroke to find a federally protected witness who’s doing a few murders on the side. You’ll have to tie in Kinder and tell them all about the investment laundering for Rusty and his buddies. But it won’t be hard. You sing the right song, you might even make it back to civilization in time for the next financial upswing. Say, maybe, two thousand and five? The way the economy’s going, it might just take that long.”
Murphy choked and reached for a glass of water. At that instant the door burst open and Hardy Cole came in, wearing slacks and a plaid sport coat, and dangling a pair of handcuffs. Cole said, “Mr. Murphy? You’re under … ” He spotted Bino. “Jesus Christ, you’re every fucking where,” Cole said.
Bino stood. “Just doing my civic duty, making your job easier. I think Mr. Murphy knows what to do now, Hardy. Just do me a favor, huh? Don’t go busting into federal court until I get there to watch. I think I deserve a ringside seat, don’t you?” He took a long step toward the door, then paused and turned. Murphy was standing, the tail of his tapered shirt pulling out of his waistband and hanging down. Bino pointed at the wall. “Say, Larry,” he said. “As long as you’re not going to be needing it for a while, I’d like to have that Pro-Am picture, if it’s all the same to you.”
27
THE WALK OVER TO GOLDMAN’S OFFICE IN THE EARLE CABELL Federal Building wasn’t a long one, and Bino covered the distance in a hurry. Perfectly timing his arrival was a must. Tomorrow the grand jury would meet, which meant that Goldman would reserve most of his day for witness rehearsal. That’s what Bino was counting on. In order for him to be effective, he needed an audience.
He exited the elevator on the third floor and walked past the receptionist with his head down. Years of battling Goldman in court had taught him that when visiting old Marv in person, announcing oneself was a mistake. Going through channels in a bureaucracy guaranteed at least a half hour of cooling one’s heels, even when Goldman was anxious to see his visitor. If old Marv didn’t want to talk to whoever had come calling, the wait could string out for hours and hours.
Bino went quickly through the maze of corridors, nodding briskly at passersby as if he was just one of the boys, and arrived outside Goldman’s office without any trouble. There was no name on the door, only a room number on a white pasteboard sign. Bino went in. Goldman’s reception area consisted of a couch, two stuffed chairs, and a secretarial desk minus a secretary. According to Dodie Peterson’s rumor mill, Goldman was such a wild man that he couldn’t keep help on the payroll, and Bino had no doubt that the story was true. He tiptoed to the edge of the secretarial desk and leaned over to peer around the doorjamb into the inner chamber.
A quick glance told him that he’d struck pay dirt. Rusty Benson’s square jawline was visible, as were the ferret profile and sweaty underarms of Detective Captain Terry Nolby. Bino couldn’t see Goldman—a file cabinet was directly in his line of vision—but the U.S. prosecutor was doing all of the talking. Bino inhaled and strode on in, dragging the secretary’s chair behind him. “Hi, guys,” he said, grinning around. “Am I late?”
In addition to Nolby and Rusty Benson, two FBI agents had chairs leaned back, taking notes. Goldman, behind his desk in a short-sleeve white shirt and black tie, was squeezing a hard rubber ball. His forearm muscles knotted under smooth skin. His mouth hung open. He finally said, “This meeting’s private.”
“Rusty,” Bino said, ignoring Goldman. “You forgot to tell me you were checking out of the Harris County Hotel, old buddy. These guys must have picked up your tab. How’s the safe house?”
Rusty wore a formfitting blue golf shirt and white jeans along with blue suede loafers. He studied his knees and didn’t answer.
Goldman pointed. “There’s the door, buddy.”
Bino glanced over his shoulder. “So it is. What, I’m interrupting?”
“You want to see me, make an appointment.” Goldman squeezed the ball until his neck muscles stood out from the effort.
“Oh, this won’t take long,” Bino said. “I thought I’d save you some time.” He gave the back of Terry Nolby’s neck a one-handed affectionate squeeze. “How’s my man Terry?” Bino said. Nolby shook off the hand and faced the front.
“Nobody in here’s going to talk to you,” Goldman said. He frowned. “Save me some time from what?”
“You’re talking to me, Marv,” Bino said. “I thought I’d save you some grand jury time. Your judge is going to be in state custody before you can get him indicted.”
Goldman had his legal pad spread out, and had been taking his own notes. He covered his work with his forearm. “What judge?”
“Hey, Marv, you don’t have to play ’em close to the vest with me,” Bino said. “Old Prayin’ Edgar. You’ll have a tough time prosecuting anything so tame as a bribery case, with Bryson up on capital murder charges.”
Goldman lost his cool, leaning forward. “Who’d he kill?”
Bino looked in turn at Goldman, Rusty, and Nolby, then said to the FBI agent nearest him, “These three guys beat all I’ve ever seen. How ’bout you, agent, you ever seen anything to match ’em?”
The agent, a blond on the rookie side of thirty, looked at his partner, an older man with a graying mustache. Both agents shrugged.
“Really, I can understand the way old Terry Nolby here’s acting,” Bino said. “He’s been getting it under the table for so long, sending a fellow officer down the tube is just another payoff deal to him. But Marv, now, this is a treat. He’s got Rusty Benson ready to testify against a judge in return for getting a state murder charge dropped. The thing is, they couldn’t have convicted Rusty anyhow. Could they, Marv?”
> Goldman scratched his chin. “A conviction’s always a possibility in trial. You know that.”
“Not when the state doesn’t even have any evidence to put on,” Bino said. “And you want to hear the really funny part? This is about the only thing Rusty’s clean on. He didn’t have anything to do with Rhonda’s death, Marv. Fooled you.”
Goldman did a double take in Rusty’s direction. Rusty looked out the window.
Bino stood and jammed his hands into his pants pockets, really beginning to enjoy himself, feeling for all the world like Hercule Poirot. “Now that doesn’t mean Rusty wouldn’t have done it if he could have. He would’ve killed Rhonda in a heartbeat to keep her quiet about what he’d been up to. But he still had ears out for information on Rhonda’s whereabouts while she was sitting down there in that canal. Since he didn’t even know where she was, he couldn’t have killed her.” He slapped Rusty on the back. “Why, old Rusty here’s such a horse’s ass, he’s willing to become a snitch against the judge when he knows damn well he can’t get convicted on the murder. What were you looking at, Rusty, six months in Harris County waiting for bail to get set? That’s all, and you know it. Your testimony comes too cheap, pal, you should have held out for snitch money.”
“What makes you so sure I couldn’t have gotten hung, even if I didn’t do it?” Rusty said. “Because I had such a great lawyer?”
“Hell, Rusty, anybody could have gotten the no-bail order overturned. It didn’t take somebody with my talent. As long as they had you down in Harris County, they could turn you any way they wanted to. Me, too.” He jerked a thumb at Goldman. “You don’t think old Marv died laughing that night they locked me up? Made his year. The problem is, though, Rusty, Rhonda didn’t get herself killed in Houston. The murder happened right here in good old Big D. Now, ain’t that a kick?”