Sleight of Hand

by Robin Hathaway

  “Nope. One was from Brooklyn, the other from Queens.”

  He shook his head.

  By the time I had brought him up-to-date, we had consumed a six-pack between us and I was starving. “What have you got to eat?” I asked.

  He grinned. “I must have known you were coming. I have potato salad and cold venison.”

  I made a face, but I was too hungry to object.

  He prepared our platters and broke out a bottle of wine. We took our plates back to the porch, and for the millionth time, we watched the sun set.

  “This is probably the last time we’ll be able to do this until spring,” Tom said.

  “We can sit inside and watch the fire instead,” I said.

  “Always the optimist.” He kissed me lightly on the forehead.

  CHAPTER 56

  One night as I was getting ready for bed, the phone rang. Oh god, who could that be?

  “Dr. Banks?” Peck.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like you to come to the office tomorrow morning. Something important has come up.”

  “Regarding Max?” I asked warily.

  “No … regarding you.”

  My heart beat faster.

  “Be at my office at nine o’clock.” He hung up.

  Now what? I thought wearily. But I was so tired, I fell right back to sleep.

  I was at Peck’s office before nine. He waved me in.

  “Thanks for coming, Doctor …”

  As if I had a choice.

  “I hope I didn’t upset your patient schedule.”

  I shrugged, anxious for him to get to the point.

  “Have a seat.”

  I slid into the chair opposite him.

  He opened a manila folder and picked out a sheet of paper with a pair of special tongs, the kind used to preserve fingerprints, and placed it on the desk in front of me. I stared at the familiar imprint of the black hand.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked cautiously.

  With the same pair of tongs he laid an envelope on the desk addressed to me in the familiar childlike block letters. A chill ran down my spine, but I said stiffly, “I thought it was a federal offense to open people’s mail.”

  Ignoring me, he asked, “Have you received many of these?”

  Omertà. The word roared in my ears.

  “If you have, we want to offer you protection. These warnings are no joke.” Peck was dead serious. All vestiges of sarcasm were gone. Could he actually be concerned about me?

  “What kind of protection?”

  “We’d send you to another state for a period of time. Provide you with a false identity and some form of surveillance until we felt sure you were safe.”

  “No way,” I said without pause. “I appreciate the offer, but I have my work … and other responsibilities.” I was thinking of Max and Lolly.

  He looked at me steadily for what seemed a very long time. “Is that your final word?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “In that case, there’s nothing more to say.” He picked up the two paper exhibits with the tongs and returned them to the folder.

  I rose, anxious to get away.

  “Doctor …”

  I turned.

  “Can we count on you to testify to receiving these notes when we catch the bastards? You’ll be in no danger then.”

  I looked at him sharply. “If I received them,” I said.

  “Of course.” I spied the glimmer of a smile as he went back to his paperwork.

  Before mounting my Honda, I glanced around the parking lot for lurking mafiosi. Nothing but state police cars and state police. And the latter were striding around in plain sight. No lurking for them, unless they were covering a speed trap. An unlikely place for mobsters to hang out. Not a bad place to camp out for the night until the Bossman and Fatty were caught, I thought. But I dismissed the idea as impractical. It was well into November and the nights were getting cold. I turned up the throttle.

  As I rode to the hospital, the wind blew most of my fears away. After all, I was no worse off than before. Peck had intercepted a Mafia note to me. So what? I had received them before. It was just a warning, like all the others, reminding me of omertà. To keep the silence. And I had. As long as I kept my mouth shut, I should have nothing to fear.

  CHAPTER 57

  Thanksgiving was coming up, and Dad would be coming down the following week. But the big event in Bayfield that night was the junior high school talent show. I was primping in front of my mirror. I had even put on a skirt for the occasion—an old black wool rag, but a skirt nonetheless. I tried to dress it up with a green silk blouse and my mother’s gold swan pin, which Dad had given me on my sixteenth birthday.

  I’d never seen Becca and Bobby so excited. I prayed they would pull off their act and be the hit of the show. I’d done my part by rounding up as many warm bodies as I could think of. I was dragging Maggie and Paul, Tom, of course, and Barry and Carol. I had even asked Carl. Luckily, he had other plans, or at least he’d said he did. But I’d drawn the line at Peck. I liked his dog, though. I would have asked Jake, but as I’d told Lolly when she asked if she could bring Sapphire, animals weren’t allowed in the auditorium.

  Max agreed to come, but only if I promised to have a glass of wine with him after the show at Harry’s. He had begun his hand therapy and was making progress, but it was slow and painful. Meanwhile, he was enjoying his new freedom—going out, meeting people, relearning how to interact with other human beings and have a good time. Tom and I were helping him. It turned out the two men liked each other, which, after thinking about it, wasn’t too strange. They were both independent cusses. Max told Tom he’d like to learn archery and go deer hunting someday. Tom thought that was a great idea. He told Max his last pupil hadn’t worked out too well. I sent him a look.

  I managed to squeeze myself and all my friends into the front row. The auditorium was crowded and noisy with parents and kids greeting friends and relatives. But as soon as the lights dimmed, a hush fell. A pudgy eighth grader slipped through the slit in the curtain and announced the first act. I didn’t have to check my program, because I had printed them and knew the contents by heart. Becca and Bobby’s act was number three. My hands were already clammy with anticipation.

  But my fears were groundless. My friends’ presentation was flawless—proof that practice does make perfect. Becca and Bobby stole the show.

  During intermission, the two performers came out to sit with us and receive our congratulations. Before the curtain went up for the second half, I heard Bobby ask Max, “Do you think you’ll take up magic again, Mr. Rawlings?”

  He looked at the boy. “No, son,” he said slowly. “Those days are over for me. Besides, this town is too small for more than one magician.”

  I assumed he was referring to Becca, but why, then, was he staring at me?

  CHAPTER 58

  Bayfield was agog over the coming trial of Max Rawlings. The grapevine had been buzzing for days after the exhumation of his wife’s body, and Max had to retreat once more into his house to avoid the curious and often accusing stares of his neighbors. On the day of the exhumation, I took Lolly on an excursion to Philadelphia. We visited Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell (I had never seen it, either), and Ben Franklin’s house, but not his grave. Graves were taboo that day.

  Fortunately, Lolly was oblivious to the uproar. She went about her daily tasks and errands, sometimes singing to herself, as always. But I sank into a deep state of anxiety. The only difference between this state of anxiety and my previous state of anxiety was that this time I could share my anxieties with my friends Tom, Maggie, and Paul. They offered me their ready sympathy and support.

  It had all seemed so easy in the beginning. Once I knew the truth—that Max was innocent—and had found a witness to substantiate his story, I thought it would be smooth sailing. But as that Bayfield guru and weed exporter, Mr. Shoemaker, had said, “Lawyers twist things.” No truer words were ever sp
oken.

  Max wouldn’t tell me when he was going to the police to make his full confession. And I didn’t prod him. I had faith that he would go; the exact time was up to him. The way I heard that he had gone was through a call from Hiram Peck.

  “Say, Doc …” He paused.

  “Yes?” I asked cautiously.

  “I’m calling for that friend of yours—Max Rawlings …”

  I held my breath.

  “He’s here at headquarters. He used up his one phone call to talk to his lawyer, so he asked me to call you and tell you to bring a few things down for him. Toothbrush, razor, stuff like that.”

  “Of course! I’ll be right down.”

  “No rush. He’ll be here for a while.”

  My heart took a nosedive.

  When I arrived at headquarters, Peck was at his desk, eating an apple. I asked if I could see Max.

  He shrugged. “He’s in the holding cell. We won’t be transporting him until tomorrow.”

  “Transporting him?”

  “To state prison.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Trenton.”

  “Oh no.” My first thought was of Lolly.

  “What did you expect? The Hotel Dupont? Homicide suspects aren’t allowed bail. And we can’t keep him here until the trial. That might be weeks.”

  For the first time since this all began, I felt a strong urge to weep—for Max, for Lolly, for myself. Somehow, the cold realities of what lay ahead for all of us hadn’t registered with me until this moment. I controlled myself and tried to concentrate on the practical aspects. Who would stay with Lolly? I couldn’t bear to leave her with a stranger while her father was incarcerated. I would stay with her, I decided. Next question. What was I going to say to Max? I was completely unprepared for this face-to-face encounter. As I followed Peck down the gloomy corridor to the holding cell, my stomach churned like an electric mixer.

  “Hi, Jo.” Max greeted me with a big smile.

  I was stunned. For the first time since I’d known Max, he looked cheerful and relaxed. “Hi,” I said.

  “I’ll leave you two,” Peck said with an insinuating smile. “Ten minutes is all I can give you,” he warned.

  I stood holding on to the bars for support and peered in at the man I thought I knew.

  “Cheer up, Jo,” he said. “Everything’s going to be all right. I feel the way Atlas would have felt if the world had suddenly rolled off his back.” He was still smiling.

  “I don’t like seeing you in here.” I shook the bars. They rattled.

  “Don’t worry. It’s only temporary. But I do need your help with Lolly. Can you get one of those Social Service employees to stay with her? I’m afraid I didn’t think ahead—past the confession, I mean.”

  “I’ll stay with her.”

  “But … it may be weeks before …”

  “I’ll stay with Lolly.”

  He gave me a long look, then nodded.

  CHAPTER 59

  I moved my few belongings into the farmhouse and told Lolly that her father would be out of town for a while but that he would write to her and I would help her write to him. I didn’t see any point in telling her the truth. She would probably forget it in a few days, so why upset her?

  The following weeks moved with the speed of an arthritic turtle. I took care of my practice and Lolly took care of the house and the cats. I must admit it was nice to have dinner prepared for me every night, although each meal was loaded with calories and cholesterol. After the first few meals, I began giving Lolly a list of healthier foods to buy. I told her to show the list to the clerks who helped her at the supermarket. But she always managed to slip in some high-fat ice cream or cupcakes.

  Sometimes Tom would join us for dinner. He took an instant liking to Lolly, and she adored him. I even felt a twinge of jealousy. When Tom was there, I felt like a stick of furniture.

  “Tom, Tom, let me show you what I found today!” Lolly would pull out some treasure she had discovered on her daily walk—a spray of milkweed pods, a late thistle, or an especially pretty stone. Tom would be properly surprised and pleased, and tell her how milkweed pollinates, how thistles managed to survive so late, and how many kinds of rocks and minerals there were. Unnoticed and unneeded, I would trudge off to the den and watch television.

  One day I was riding past state police headquarters. On an impulse I made a U-turn and pulled into the parking lot.

  “Dr. Banks? To what do I owe this pleasure?” Peck’s sarcasm was back in place.

  I came right to the point. “I was wondering how that Mafia case was coming along. Any progress?”

  “Oh, that.” He laughed merrily. “We closed that case.”

  I stared.

  “It was a straight gang murder. Nobody in the neighborhood was involved.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.” It was my turn for sarcasm.

  He looked surprised. “Why? What’s it to you?” he asked, feigning innocence.

  “Just curious,” I said, damping down my indignation with an effort. “How come they picked Bayfield for their dumping ground?” I asked.

  “Oh, that’s the funny part.” He chuckled. “Seems they were headed for the Pine Barrens and made a wrong turn. You know how easy it is to get lost in south Jersey.”

  I knew.

  “Actually”—he dropped the banter abruptly—“I was going to contact you regarding your promise to testify about those warning notes, but there’s so much evidence against this duo for more heinous crimes—assault and murder—it turns out we don’t need you.”

  “How lucky for you.” I turned to leave.

  “Doctor …”

  I paused.

  “I was pulling your leg. The truth is, we just caught up with these guys last night. I was about to call you when you walked in the door.”

  “A likely story,” I threw over my shoulder.

  Did I believe him? I don’t know. But what did it matter. I did believe that Bossman and Fatty were under lock and key. Peck wouldn’t lie about that. I breathed a sigh of relief and walked out.

  It was December before the trial date was set. December 20, to be exact. An early Christmas present. During the weeks of waiting, I had fallen into a numb routine, going about my business like a robot. But once the trial date was known, all my supressed feelings shot to the surface, demanding attention. A single thought dominated my mind: What if they find Max guilty? It was hard to concentrate on my work. One nice old lady, a regular patient, had to remind me to take her blood pressure. And a guest at one of the motels on my route, who had broken her arm, claimed I had never told her to keep the cast dry—and she had taken a shower.

  I wanted to attend the trial, but my patient load was too heavy. The flu season had begun, and I was busy giving shots and taking care of those who had forgotten to get one. The trial was top news, of course, and the local papers were full of it. For once, I was glad Lolly couldn’t read. She knew nothing about it. She assumed her father was still away. But one evening, the third day of the trial, I received a phone call from Ellis Goodwyn, Max’s lawyer. He wanted me to take Lolly to court the next day.

  “Why?” I asked, horrified.

  “Well, it would help Max if the jury could see the extent of his problem and that the reason he covered up his wife’s death was to protect his daughter.”

  “I see.” But I was still hesitant. I couldn’t stand the thought of twelve people staring at Lolly as if she was a freak.

  “I know how you feel, Doctor.” Obviously, Ellis had read my thoughts. “But we have to look at this as a means to an end. We want the jury to sympathize with Max.”

  “Okay, okay. What time?”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “She won’t have to testify or anything?”

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that. I just want the jurors to see her.”

  “How will they know who she is?”

  “Let me take care of that,” he said.

  I don’t know why
I was surprised to find the courtroom packed. I had been thinking only of the jurors, not the spectators. Every Bayfield resident who could walk and find a seat was there that morning. I recognized many people: Lucy, the postmistress; Hank, the guy who managed the Sunoco station; Adam, the clerk from the hardware store; and Maggie. I shot her a look, and she ducked her head.

  All the seats were filled except for two in the front row, near the jury box. The bailiff led us to them. The blood rushed to my face as I felt the gaze of the crowd and the jury on Lolly and me, but mostly on Lolly. Lolly, however, was oblivious and seemed quite at ease. She looked around curiously. When we were seated, she leaned toward me and asked in a stage whisper, “Why are they all here?”

  I had thought it better not to explain too much to her, assuming she would probably forget most of it before we arrived anyway. I had told her that her dad might be here, and she was very excited. “But,” I had added, “we can’t talk to him.”

  “Why not?” she had asked, mystified.

  “Because he’ll be working and can’t be disturbed.”

  “Printing?”

  “No. A different kind of work,” I’d said lamely.

  She hadn’t pursued the subject, so I’d let it drop.

  In answer to her question, “Why are they all here?” I said weakly, “You’ll see.”

  I forgot about the spectators as soon as the first witness was called. I almost didn’t recognize him. He approached the witness box in a cringing manner, as if he were expecting a jack-in-the box to jump out at him. He had shaved and gotten a haircut, and he was wearing a jacket and tie, but nothing could disguise Shoemaker’s smarmy expression. Once seated in the box, he shifted and fidgeted, and his eyes darted around the room like those of a trapped animal. Oh my god, I thought. What have I done? No one is going to believe a word he says! I looked away, and for the first time I saw Max. He was seated to our left at a long table, next to Ellis Goodwyn, his lawyer. He looked calm and relaxed. It was evident he expected everything to turn out all right. I wished I felt as confident.