Gravewriter (8 page)

“Thank you for taking my call, Pastor Guy,” she said.

“My pleasure. Let me tell you, Jennifer, the people who run this state have been trying for years to marginalize people like you and me—the people who have something to say about the crooked politics around here. You want to make a cockroach run? Shine a light on it. That's what we do on this show every afternoon from noon to four. What's on your mind, my dear?”

She laughed. “Well, I read the papers—”

“Good for you. Most people don't, and that's why they're ignorant.”

“—and it seems to me that what we need is a governor with integrity.”

“Amen to that.”

“And, um, some humility.”

“I hear you,” Pastor Guy said, cheering her on. “Somebody who knows how many commandments there are, right? Somebody who can count to ten! Heh-heh. Somebody who respects the people's money and the people's property, and who respects his family enough to keep his fly zipped in the state house.”

She giggled at the reference to the incumbent governor, E. Charles Rex, the white-haired Republican limping to the end of his first term after the newspaper had exposed his affair with a thirty-year-old lobbyist from the petroleum industry.

“You mean Governor E. REXtion,” she said.

Pastor Guy laughed. “That's what some of my colleagues here on Galaxy AM have taken to calling his Excellency, the governor. Heh-heh. I try not to make politics so personal.”

Adam thought,
Not personal? At least not on the air.
He mumbled aloud, “
You
thought the name up in the lunch room.”

The caller said, “I saw that poll from Brown University.”

“Oh, that little thing,” the pastor said, with a wink to Victor.

“You should run for governor,” the woman urged. “The poll said you could win.”

“To be fair, it said I have better name recognition than the old hacks who everybody expects will go after the nomination. Not that I would necessarily win, because you know how hard it is for an honest man in politics. If you won't compromise your principles to pander to the special interests, what chance do you have of winning? Not much—unless
the people
decide they want you.”

The caller cooed.

Pastor Guy looked to Victor again and then licked his index finger and drew a little line in the air to show that he had scored. Victor acknowledged him with the slightest nod.

“You got my vote,” the caller promised.

Pastor Guy dodged the compliment with a chuckle. Adam jammed the exit music into the console. A stirring gospel chorus filled his headphones.

At the sound of the music, Pastor Guy frowned and checked his clock.

“It seems we're out of time today,” the pastor said. “This is an interesting topic, heh-heh, and I'll have more to say about the governor's race pretty soon, don't you worry, Jennifer.” He paused, expertly, as the choral music grew louder, then switched gears again. “Your early-rush traffic is up next on WGLX, Galaxy AM, and I'll be back tomorrow. Until then, remember that
it's your
government, heh-heh, so stay in tune, stay informed … and get involved.”

Moments later, Pastor Guy emerged from the booth, grinning, on a self-balancing two-wheeled Segway scooter, which he drove everywhere, due to alleged back troubles. He was a sleepy-eyed, red-faced clergyman, whose shape reminded Adam of the letter
D—
straight along the backside, bending out like a bow in the front. Abraham Guy
was a real preacher—or at least he had been before his radio gig—at a nondenominational Christian church in a storefront in Cranston, between a barber and a TV repair shop. He smelled of Cohiba cigars, and sometimes of Beefeater and Angostura bitters, though Adam had never seen him smashed.

The pastor let the scooter balance itself beneath him. He straightened his three-button vest, stuck his thumbs in the elastic waistband of his black preacher's pants, rocked onto his heels, and waited for his daily review.

“Good show, Pastor,” Adam said dutifully.

“Heh-heh.”

Victor entered from the waiting room, looking grim and bored, as if his life was nothing but funerals and study hall.

“Did you hear that last woman?” Pastor Guy cried. “That's not just a voter, my friend; that was a future campaign contributor!”

“Did you get her address?” Victor asked flatly.

Pastor Guy slapped his consultant on the shoulder. “Don't worry, my boy. She'll find us after we announce—” He noticed the stranger from the waiting room, now leaning in the door, and squinted at him. “Who are you?”

“Abraham Guy?” the man asked.

“You heard the show,” the pastor said, sounding annoyed and suspicious. “Who the hell do you think?”

The man handed the pastor the manila envelope. “I'm a process server,” he said. “That's a subpoena.”

“Oh, you cocksucker,” the pastor blurted. He stared at the envelope, which he had accepted in hand, and which, under the rules of process serving, he now owned.

“You're welcome,” the man said. He tipped an invisible cap and left.

Pastor Guy sighed and then tore open the envelope. Inside he found eighteen dollars in travel money, and a command to testify.

“It's the Peter Shadd murder case,” the pastor said. “The defense wants me as a character witness.”

“You know that guy?” Adam asked.

“From my prison ministry,” he explained. “I'll have my lawyer quash this thing tomorrow like the flea on the elephant's ass, as soon as Judge Palumbo slides on his black satin dress.”

“This is Ethan Dillingham's case,” Victor Henshaw said.

The pastor looked up from the paper, blinked hard a few times.

“Isn't he running against you for governor?” Adam asked.

“Nobody has announced yet,” the pastor said.

“If you don't testify,” said Victor, offering political analysis for the first time in Adam's presence, “it's going to look like you're avoiding him because of politics.”

“God forbid,” the pastor said dryly. He frowned and smoothed a bushy eyebrow with his thumb. “Of course, if I get the better of his cross-examination …”

Victor completed the thought: “You announce your candidacy on the courthouse steps.”

B
illy rumbled down the steps to outdoors and then turned to wave to Bo in the window. The kid beamed, waving the nickel Billy had given him for putting his cereal bowl in the sink after breakfast, where it would soak until it was washed and dried by magic elves, or until there were no more cereal bowls in the cupboard and
Billy
had to wash it, whichever came first.

A shadow moved over Billy.

The shadow of a man as big as a bear left Billy light-headed and weak in the legs.

Capricorn: Well, it's finally payday—too bad you're the one writing the check. Empty your pockets and dig deep, dig until it hurts.

“Hey, Billy.”

Billy kept smiling, kept waving to Bo. “Not in front of my kid,” he said.

The bear, all six-seven of him, jerked around. “Well, whadda ya know,” he said. He smiled at Bo in the window. Then he waved—a dainty side-to-side wave, like the royal family's wave, which seemed
odd from a man with wrists as thick as fence posts. “Look at the little feller in the window,” he said, and laughed. “He living with you now?”

“Since Angie died.”

“We can go around the corner, Billy—I know you're not the running type.”

“Thanks, Walt.”

They stood and waved a while longer, big fake plastic smiles on their faces, and then Billy and Walter the collector walked away together, as if two old friends. Joggers circled the park on their right, in front of the giant sandstone armory. Billy looked at the castle and sighed. He imagined a dozen knights on horseback charging from the gates to help him.

They skirted a homeless man in a soiled Miami Dolphins sweatshirt, who had stopped to pick fresh cigarette butts left by mourners at a funeral the night before. The morning was cool, the sky perfect blue but for the expanding white streak of a jet heading north. Billy watched the jet with the irrational hope that it could take him north, too. Where? Bangor would have been far enough. Or New Brunswick. Iceland must have some nice neighborhoods.

Walter the collector hummed a cheerful little melody. For such a huge man, he had a gentle way about him. His size-fourteen shoes landed softly on the concrete. He placed his hand lightly against trees and telephone poles as he came to them, as if to guide his bulk around them without doing any damage. He was polite to people they passed, smiling and nodding.

“Notre Dame fucked me,” Billy said.

“They were giving three points on the road, with a second-string quarterback,” Walter said. He frowned. “Can't see what you were thinking.”

“I thought Anderson was going to play.”

“Not with a broken bone in his hand.”

“Nonthrowing hand,” Billy said in his own defense. It sounded ridiculous when he said it out loud. He kicked a rock down the sidewalk, disgusted with himself. “Yeah, you're right. I don't know what I was thinking.”

The first punch to the belly folded Billy in half. He managed only a tiny squeal as his lungs emptied and felt as though they would collapse. His knees buckled and he started to sink to the ground. The second punch struck higher and rattled Billy's rib cage. He collapsed on his side in the alley, his face a twisted grimace as he strained for air. He saw a rat hole in a brick wall. He wanted to wiggle into it.

Walter lifted Billy's wallet from his back pocket and thumbed through it. “Fifty-eight dollars?” he said. “Christ, Billy, is this it?”

Billy tapped a fist on his chest and writhed meekly on the ground.

Walter lectured like a disappointed father reviewing a bad report card. “You gotta do better than fifty-eight bucks, Billy. Mr. C. told me not to settle for less than the hundred-dollar minimum. What am I supposed to tell him?”

Gasp!
Air leaked back into Billy's lungs. He lay there on his side, hugging himself and trying to breathe normally and calm his frantic heart. Walter was the most decent of the collectors Billy had come to know over the past decade. Once Walt decided you had been properly punished for a late payment, he stopped punishing you; he never hit for fun, unlike the other leg breakers. Two cannonball shots to the gut must have seemed like enough, for Walter grabbed Billy by the lapel of his sports jacket, dragged him as effortlessly as he would Raggedy Andy, and propped Billy against the wall.

Billy flinched at a sharp poke of pain in his side. He rubbed a finger over the spot. Bruised ribs, maybe cracked. It hurt when he inhaled too deeply.

Walter squatted next to him, a hand gently on Billy's shoulder.
“The word's around that you hit a three-team teaser with Michigan State this week,” he said.

Billy nodded, managed a tiny smile.

“Who made book for that bet? Mr. A.?”

Another nod from Billy.

“A man can get in a lot of trouble betting with two bookies,” Walt said. “So where's the money?”

Billy wheezed a deep breath, felt the twinge in his ribs, and explained. “I used it to pay Garafino.”

“The shark? You owe dough to that punk?”

“I borrowed from him a couple months ago to pay an old marker with Mr. A., but I made good on a nice part of that loan this week.”

Walter waved his hands, as if to say,
Too much!
The tale was already getting too complicated. He summed up and reviewed. “You took the winnings from Mr. A. and paid on a loan to Garafino? Okay, Mr. C. is gonna want to know why you didn't pay
him.”

Billy shrugged. “I couldn't decide who to pay, so I flipped a coin.”

Walter's eyes narrowed at the answer; Billy worried that the truth might have sounded flip. Then the big man's face softened, and he threw his head back and laughed. “You gambled over who you should pay?” he said. “That's my Billy Povich!” He clapped Billy on the shoulder. “Mr. C. will get a kick outta that.” He took the money from Billy's wallet and flipped the billfold back to Billy. He stood over him. “We'll consider this an interest payment. You'll pay the principal next week, eh? The whole wad.”

“Can I keep five for lunch?” Billy asked. “I got jury duty.”

“That why you're all dressed up?” He stared at Billy for a moment. Then he held up a fiver and said, “I met this new girl, born the sixth of November. She's hot, but a little tight.… You see what I'm saying? She reads the Madam Vroom horoscope every day. Do you still have pull with that column?”

Billy thought for a second and then dictated a horoscope: “ ‘You've
been cautious long enough, Scorpio. It's time to let loose in matters of romance. Just this once, follow your lust and let your new special someone penetrate, uh, that wall around your heart.' ”

Walter laughed and flicked the five to Billy. “I got a date Saturday night,” he said.

“I'll call my buddy to get the correction into Friday's column.”

“You're okay, Billy,” Walter said as he walked away. “I hope you got Mr. C.'s money next time I see you. I really do.”

S
uch a courtroom could never have been built today, not for what it would cost. Nobody wants to pay for grand public spaces anymore—the white marble Rhode Island State House, the U.S. Capitol, Grand Central Station. The architects of modern public buildings are often commanded by budgets to work with cinder blocks.

The courtroom was a cube, more than two stories high, the walls paneled floor to ceiling in mahogany, the sight lines broken up every few feet with decorative hand-carved columns. The floor was tiled in shiny gray Westerly granite, except for an eight-foot pink inlay below the judge's rostrum, in the shape of the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, including Aquidneck Island, Jamestown, and the larger harbor islands.