Make Them Cry

by Smith Henderson

  “Not one little bet?”

  “I only play poker,” Childs said.

  “That’s gambling, hon.”

  “No, poker is war. No house, no rigged odds. It’s just you and the enemy. Battle royale.”

  “Semper fi,” she said.

  When the coffee came, Childs stirred in two sugars and sipped it hot, glancing at the landing for Lima. He picked at a stray bit of lint off his sleeve and then slid her a pair of small binoculars.

  “He’s not up there,” he said. “Check the track.”

  She eyed the infield with the glasses. A crew positioned the starting gate on the far side of the grass. The tires didn’t leave deep marks in the green. She watched the men unhitch the starting gate. The horses and jockeys began making their way. The wet turf gleamed.

  “Looks fast today,” she said. “No good for mudders. My dad loved mudders. But today’s gonna be for hot starters, early leads.”

  “You gonna tell me about it?” Childs asked. He meant Oscar.

  The anxious chestnut Islands in the Stream hopped restlessly in the two circles of her vision.

  She set down the binoculars to look straight at him. “He came in out of the cold. Stood in my doorway. Said some shit.” She creamed her coffee and took a sip.

  “Well, don’t go on and on.”

  “And then he shot himself.”

  Childs pinned her with his penetrating, cut-the-shit MP gaze.

  “In the temple,” she said. “I don’t know what else to tell you, partner. It wasn’t pleasant. But at least he did it quick.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “That I’d ruined his life,” she said softly. “Things like that.”

  He sighed, looked off and back at her. “Fuck him,” he said. “Laying that on you and then offing himself?”

  “I did okay, Russ. I was cool.”

  “Of course. But how are you now?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’d have shit my pants and gone to church. I’d be fucked up.” Childs’s eyes narrowed. “How’d he find you?”

  “That’s the scary part. He must’ve been following me.”

  She took up the binoculars again. The sun shone off the white paint of the starting gate. The horses loped and trotted and some threw their heads. All was anticipation.

  “He’s lucky he’s dead, else I might kill him again. I never liked that dude.”

  “He was freaked,” she said. “You know how some CIs get.”

  He took the binoculars from her eyes. “Last time we saw him was ten months ago,” he said, nonchalantly sweeping up and over to get a look at the landing for Lima, then back onto the table.

  “Sounds right.”

  “Dufresne had me look it up. Me and you met him down in San Pedro.”

  She could tell he was waiting for her to say something about that.

  “He fell hard for you,” Childs said.

  “Meth-addict me or the legal eagle one?”

  “I was there.”

  “So was I.”

  “There for him eye-fucking you every time we had a sit. For him hitting you up a dozen times a day. And I was there for him bawling his eyes out the day we brought him in. The little bitch.”

  “They all bawl. You shitheads call me the Midwife, remember?”

  “I never call you that. You know I don’t. And that’s not what I’m saying. Oscar was . . .”

  “Was what?”

  “I’m just saying”—he peered around like someone could be listening—“If it was the other way around, and some fine-ass Juanita was hitting me up all hours—”

  “You’d tap it.”

  He showed her his wedding ring. “I’m married. I could never,” he said, nodding his head enormously as though he were wearing a wire.

  She didn’t quite laugh, but his smile took her partway to it. Talking to him like this felt good, normal.

  “Thanks, but informants from San Pedro aren’t exactly my type,” she said.

  “Don’t get it inside out. I’m saying he had feelings for you. And then he offed himself. Look, I couldn’t give Dufresne a good answer on why we hadn’t talked to Oscar in so long. I had that family shit in San Diego and then got up on this Lima thing. I just kind of mumbled to Dufresne that it hadn’t blipped my radar for a while now.”

  She sipped her coffee. “Same.”

  “So did Oscar, like, ever threaten you? Back then?”

  “No.”

  “Or freak you out?”

  “The case was in the same place last week as it was ten months ago. Nowhere. We were trying to set a meet with Oscar’s peso broker. But Oscar was scared of tipping him off. So we were just holding.”

  The public address blared over them, announcing the first race. The stands had become populated, people at nearby tables. The address ended, but there was a new buzz all around.

  Childs had his phone. A weird look on his face.

  “You get this?”

  She pulled her work cell out of her pocket.

  “No bars.”

  “Dufresne wants you to come in.”

  Childs showed her the message, his face a frankness of concern. The roar from the meager crowd of bettors and track junkies was startling. The day’s first race had begun.

  “Give me a pen.”

  She went through the form quickly, marking the first five races.

  “Bet these,” she said. “Trifectas, boxed.” She stood. “Seriously. These are good picks, Childs. All yours. Gratis.”

  Chapter Four

  The 210

  The 210 West was an unusual shit show, a fiery crash that funneled everyone into Pasadena and had Harbaugh wondering again about her egress out of the metropolis, fireball or earthquake, disaster scenarios that she helplessly entertained in standstill traffic. She peopled the chaos. Imagined getting out of her car, taking her gym bag and her service revolver, and just walking into the Angeles National Forest. She’d have no reason to stay.

  God, your job is all you got.

  So?

  So this is good? You’re good with this?

  Ask a man that question.

  Point taken.

  She ended up making downtown in a personal worst of ninety-three minutes with both her work phone and her personal phone on the seat next to her alternately buzzing. She shoved the latter into her glove box as she answered the call from the downtown office with the other.

  “On my way,” she said.

  “I’m sorry? Is this Agent Harbaugh?”

  “Yes. Tell Dufresne I’ll be there soon.”

  “This is Finn at the duty desk. I have a Mr. Travis on the phone for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Travis.”

  “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

  “Right. I’m sorry, Agent Harbaugh. He said you wouldn’t know him. But he keeps calling, over and over, six times already. From Tampico, that’s where he is. Mexico.”

  “Tampico? Look, I’m about go into the parking garage.” She pulled off the street, flashed her badge at the security guard, and descended into the cool shade. “Can you take a message? I’ll call him back.”

  Her tires squeaked and echoed off the walls. The duty desk cut out. Harbaugh watched the CALL ENDED alert appear on her screen.

  She parked in the open spot, got out of the car, and stopped. Shit. She promptly got back in. She opened the glove box and just looked at her personal phone, wondering if Dufresne would ask for it. If she could give it to him. If this was where things were headed.

  Put it out of your mind.

  But why’d he call you in, then?

  She left it.

  She glanced through the pane on Dufresne’s door. He was on the phone, the only one in Group 11’s section of the tenth floor. Silence in the Federal Building wasn’t exactly rare—one area or another often emptied out, everybody in the field—but the way Dufresne sat behind his desk, hand to temple, listening to the other end of the line, gave the emptiness an uneas
y tenor. A murmurous undertone of trouble.

  He saw her and gestured to come take a seat, mouthing Sorry, as whoever was on the phone—probably Cromer, the ASAC and his immediate boss, judging from his scant Sure things and Monnits—buzzed away in his ear. She sat up in the chair, which had been further deepened over the years by Urlacher, the team fat-ass, who lived to waste time brown-nosing Dufresne with disgusting stories that usually took place on his boat on Lake Arrowhead.

  There was an open manila folder in front of Dufresne, but she couldn’t make out the contents from her seat, which was notoriously low-slung, an obvious power move that everyone teased him about. She looked at the framed newspaper articles of past busts and convictions on the wall. The Israeli who ran the pill mill. The sting that ruined a certain film financier and world-class prick.

  Then this: the picture of Dufresne’s wife and kid, a little towheaded six-year-old who had his mother’s small nose and Dufresne’s brown eyes. Claudia, a sweet thing who inspired nothing in Harbaugh, not shame or sympathy, maybe just the nagging sense that she ought to feel guilty but didn’t, because nothing had happened. Nothing. Not in the coat check that one time, or anywhere else at any other time. Nothing had happened, ever. So if she didn’t feel guilty, why the fuck did she keep thinking about it?

  Because he does, she thought, catching his eye. Because of the things you did for him, the things he did for you—

  Dufresne said, “All right, I gotta go,” which was probably him telling Cromer that she’d arrived and whatever was in that file in front of them would soon be broached. He hung up. Fixed her with a curt preliminary grin.

  “Childs said it was pretty dead today. Where is everybody?”

  “OG-3 needed some more manpower out in Ventura. The ASAC asked for able bodies.” He flipped through some paper on his desk. “I had some more questions about the CI . . .”

  “Oscar.”

  “Oscar. Yeah. You okay with me asking now?”

  “As opposed to?”

  “In this setting.”

  Weird.

  “Dufresne, it’s me. Of course.”

  He slid the folder aside. Opened a drawer, got some kind of file out, thought twice about it, put it back in. “So about how long did you and your CI talk before Bronwyn came in?”

  “A few minutes?”

  “He—Bronwyn—corroborates that, but of course he wasn’t in the room when Oscar came in. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “Yeah, a few minutes. Like five. I mean, time moved kinda slow, so maybe less.”

  “He had the gun out?”

  She nodded.

  “And what did you talk about before Bronwyn came in?”

  “I was startled, so I just said whatever I thought would keep him calm.”

  “Like?”

  “Like I told him that I was going to put my hands on the counter. Announcing myself. Stuff like that. Just trying to get some control of the situation.”

  “And then what?”

  “Let’s see, I asked him or he said something about how cold it was. Not much. He didn’t seem upset until Bronwyn surprised us. But I think he knew Bronwyn was there. There were footprints by the windows outside. He scouted the place.”

  He wrote this down, nodding.

  “About that. How’d he know where to find you?”

  “No idea. None. I’ve racked my brain.”

  Dufresne sighed and pursed his mouth like a teacher asking a pupil to show her work. “You didn’t talk to him before you left?” he prodded.

  “It’d been a while.”

  “I mean, talk at all to him. Before you left town. You might’ve let something slip then.”

  “No.”

  “Because I subpoenaed his phone records.”

  He looked sad saying it. He started tapping on the folder.

  “Okay.”

  “You still don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  He waited. Palms down now. Serious.

  “Is that a question?” she asked.

  “There are messages sent to your number.”

  “So? He was my informant.”

  “Your personal phone.”

  She sat up, was promptly sucked back down. Fucking fat-ass Urlacher.

  “You know how spotty our service is. A lot of my CIs use the other number.”

  Dufresne leaned forward. She could smell his breath. Coffee. Cigarettes. His nerves.

  “Okay,” he said. “I need both phones.”

  “I have personal messages on that phone—”

  “A CI follows one of my team members out of state and then pops himself, I gotta be sure I know why.”

  “You do know why. You said it. He felt trapped.”

  “I need to verify the nature of your relationship.”

  “This is overkill. I’m not gonna let the Agency comb through phone—”

  Dufresne shoved himself away from his desk. “All right, I have to turn this over to the Office of Professional Responsibility. You’re not special, Diane.”

  She gripped his desk, close enough to look into each of his eyes.

  “Dufresne. Dufresne. Look at me. This is ridiculous. This is me.”

  “And this is me. Your boss. Not your mentor, not your primary—”

  She saw him wonder what he was going to say, and then she realized what this was all about.

  “My what.” She said it flat, like she wasn’t asking.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose like he always did when he was furious.

  “Your work crush,” he said. “You need to follow the rules.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said. “When did this kick in?”

  “It’s always been this way—”

  Fuck it.

  “You used to like it when I broke the rules,” she said. She hardly believed the words were coming out of her mouth, but they kept coming. “All those bullshit indictments I filed so you could rattle some cages. The wiretap applications I set up so you didn’t have to go to federal court.”

  “The OPR officer will be in touch,” he said, slapping closed the folder. He was alarmed, trying not to show it, trying to hold a flat affect.

  “And then, when I couldn’t file the Mann indictment, when I said ‘This could get me fired on a Brady disclosure violation,’ what did you say, Brian?”

  She could see that she was right, the kind of bashful look-away he pulled, like all those times it was just the two of them. Him coming by her Sacramento place for a drink and to complain how full of shit the AUSA was for not filing a federal indictment. That office, what a bunch of cowards they were. How much balls she had, and only state DA. If only she was a US attorney. But what a long shot that was. How you practically had to be royalty to get one of those gigs. A dad who was a judge at least—

  He got up suddenly and closed the door. Dropped back into his chair.

  “I asked for your help,” he said. “Whatever you were comfortable with.”

  “That’s right. And I kept exculpatory evidence from defense attorneys so bad men who would’ve gotten off went to prison. I was comfortable with that. You know why?”

  He looked away again and then back at her.

  “Because you said ‘Look, Diane, you really should be at the DEA, Diane.’”

  “There was no deal.”

  “Quid pro fucking quo, and you know it. I helped your career, Brian, and I did it at great risk to mine as an ADA.”

  “You’re saying things you shouldn’t say.”

  It was true. Even she couldn’t believe her mouth right now. But the gates were open. The horses were loose. Her eye alighted on the kid, the wife. He followed her line of sight, knew what was coming.

  “I’m sorry I made shit weird at home. I’m sorry you feel like you can’t trust me. I’m saying things you need to hear—”

  “I know when I’m being threatened. I know exactly what you’re saying. That if I find anything weird between you and your dead CI, you’ve got leverage on me.”

 
Holy shit. That’s not what she meant. Jesus.

  “No, that’s not it at all! I did good work for you! How do you think those indictments made it past my boss? On such flimsy fucking evidence? I put garbage in front of the court for those cases. Why? Because even if it was wrong . . . it was right. What I’m trying to tell you is, you needed someone to do the things I did. Brian, I do the things.”

  Dufresne shoved the manila folder at her, papers spilling everywhere. He stood up and said, very slowly, “That’s why I want your phone. Because you do things.”

  He literally quaked in a rage she’d never seen before.

  Except she had seen it before. Dozens of times. Times they brought in a guy like Oscar. Times they put her in there with him, because of her knack. Times she sat down with the guy, got him to feel a little special and then took away his choices, one by one. She knew this moment. This is what Dufresne looks like when he runs out of choices, she thought. This is what Dufresne looks like scared. He’s calling his lawyer as soon as I leave.

  She pushed herself up so she was at eye level with him, leaning forward over the desk. “I wish you trusted me,” she said. “But you can have my phone when you get another fucking subpoena.”

  Chapter Five

  Lucky

  She could only make it as far as the elevator bank before she began sobbing.

  Fucking fuck. So stupid. So weak. Blowing up like that.

  She paced down the blurry hall to the bathroom, banged into a stall, and sat down.

  You daffy bitch.

  The quiet emptiness of the bathroom, the building, made her bawl the more. She wasn’t threatening him. She fucking wasn’t. She was trying to explain why he could trust her. All her life she just wanted to be where she mattered, where her choices carried weight. And Dufresne was pushing her out now, she could feel it, that deep lonesome, that pit that made her restless to be in the action, to be at the center of something, anything, just use me, make me useful, and the only answer is the quiet and nothing and nothing means nothing—

  “Agent Harbaugh?” came a voice outside the stall, hard off the tile. “Are you in there?” The voice softer now.