Mission (31 page)

‘Yes,' I said. ‘But I can explain that.'

‘Good.' Russell pulled a buff envelope from his inside pocket and dropped it into my lap. ‘Start right here.'

I looked at him, then turned the envelope over in my hands.

‘Go ahead, open it,' said Russell. ‘I don't want you to miss your cab.'

I untucked the flap of the envelope. Inside were four colour Polaroids of a naked, rain-washed bearded man. There were two full-length front and back shots of the bruised, lacerated body, a shot of the head and torso with the forearms laid across the chest, and a closeup
of the battered face with its torn scalp and broken nose.

‘Take a good look,' said Russell. ‘And tell me who that guy reminds you of.'

I leafed through the pictures a couple of times then put them back in the envelope and handed it to Russell. ‘It's some guy the police found in an alleyway over on the East Side about a couple of weeks ago. I saw the body at the Manhattan General when I called to pick up Doctor Maxwell. She happened to be down in the morgue with a pathologist called Wallis.'

Russell nodded. ‘Right. He signed the death certificate. But he tells me that Doctor Maxwell completed the examination. The records show that the body was put in drawer eleven. Would it surprise you to learn that drawer eleven is now empty?'

I shrugged. ‘Maybe somebody moved it.'

‘Yes,' said Russell. ‘Maybe somebody did. The trouble is there's no record of it being shipped to the City Morgue. Or anywhere else for that matter. And before you suggest a clerical error, let me tell you that the Manhattan General is very careful about such things. Administration would not like it thought that unwanted bodies were being trucked away by dog-food manufacturers.' Russell lifted the envelope and waggled it in front of my face. ‘So how does a man who is as dead as he is manage to (a) get himself a smart lawyer and, (b) end up in my office ten days later?'

I gave a nervous laugh. ‘Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me you think that corpse is my client?'

Russell looked at Marcello. ‘What d'you think, Frank?'

Marcello gave me a withering glance. ‘He's full of bullshit.'

‘Okay, Resnick,' said Russell. ‘You've got thirty seconds. Just what the hell is going on?'

What could I tell him? Any more lies would just drive me further into the corner. The only thing left was the truth. But that was even more unbelievable. How could I break the news to them that I was acting as the front-man for a time-travelling Messiah? Reading this, you may think it would have been easy. It wasn't. Fear locked the truth in my throat. ‘Lieutenant,' I said. ‘I'm not giving you any bullshit. But the fact is, I can't even begin to tell you what I'm involved in. It's so fantastic you just wouldn't – '

Russell's eyes suddenly popped wide open. He jolted back in his seat and paled visibly. ‘How the fuck – ?'

My stomach turned over too. The Man was sitting in the front seat
next to Marcello; dressed in the familiar brown robe and white headdress. Marcello was flattened against the door with his arms drawn back, his ass a good three inches off the upholstery and his head making a dent in the roof lining.

‘Hi, Frank,' said The Man. ‘Sorry, did I startle you?' He put his arm over the back seat, gripped my hand briefly, then smiled at Russell. ‘Hello, Dan, how's it going?'

‘Jeezuss Christ,' hissed Russell, shrinking back from the proffered hand.

‘That's right,' I said. ‘Now you know what I'm up against.'

Marcello slowly subsided into his seat, his eyes fixed on The Man. ‘Dan,' he croaked, ‘is there a guy on the seat in front of you dressed like an Arab?'

Russell screwed up his eyes, almost as if he hoped it might make The Man disappear. ‘Yeah. It's – it's the guy we saw at the Precinct House. Sheppard …'

Marcello shook his head. ‘I still don't believe it.'

Russell's eyes flickered between me and The Man. ‘Come on, Resnick – what is this? How'd he get in the car?'

‘Why don't you ask him?' I replied. ‘He's the only one that knows the answer.' I knew I was still in deep trouble but it made me feel better to see someone else going through the wringer. ‘Go ahead, shake hands with him. He won't bite.'

Russell inched his hand out gingerly until it touched The Man's fingers. They shook hands but when Russell tried to pull away, The Man didn't let go. ‘Oh, my God, he's real, Frank. Oh, shit – I must be going bananas!'

The Man shook his head. ‘No, Dan. You're not seeing things. This is really happening.'

‘Well there's one way to find out,' said Marcello. ‘If you're real, and we ain't crazy, we got ourselves a space-man.' He reached into his jacket and suddenly, there was this gun in his hand.

‘No!' I bellowed.

The Man raised his hand and motioned me to be calm. ‘Put it away, Frank. If you try and shoot me, all you'll end up with is holes in the door. And how are you going to explain that?'

Marcello stared at The Man for a moment, looked at his gun with a puzzled expression as if he couldn't work out how it had got into his hand, then he slid it back into his shoulder-holster.

‘Give me your hand, Frank,' said The Man. He was still holding on
to Russell. He laid his golden hawk-eyes on each of them in turn. ‘I want both of you to keep quiet about this. Leo and I have work to do. Do you understand?'

Marcello nodded mutely. Russell's eyes glistened with tears. ‘Yes,' he said, through trembling lips.

I was trembling too.
Dear God,
I thought.
Don't ever put me on the spot like this again.

‘Okay, fellas, take it easy.' The Man let go of their hands. ‘I'll call if I need you.'

‘Do that,' said Russell. Both he and Marcello had completely relaxed. Not drugged, or hypnotised, or turned into a couple of robots. They just seemed to accept that it was quite in the natural order of things for The Man to suddenly appear on the front seat of their car.

The Man pointed to the envelope containing the Polaroids. ‘Why don't you let Leo keep those?'

Russell put the envelope into my hands without demur. ‘You'd better get a move on.'

I looked at my watch. ‘You're right.' I got out of my side of the car and nodded goodbye. ‘See you around …' I had no recollection of seeing The Man get out of the car but when I straightened up, he was standing on the path beside me. I gripped his arm as we walked away from the car. ‘Thanks for helping me out. Those guys really had me backed into a corner.' I grinned. ‘In fact, I was about to give up and tell them the truth.'

‘I know,' he said. ‘That's why I thought it would be better coming from me.'

‘Are they going to be able to keep the news to themselves?'

The Man nodded. ‘Yes. The whole incident will seem like a dream that you know you've had but the details of which remain just out of reach.'

I looked at my watch again. ‘Listen, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to run.'

‘Go ahead,' he said. ‘I'll see you there.'

I looked at him uncertainly, then back at Russell's Chevy. It hadn't moved. I broke into a run. When I had gone about fifty yards, I glanced over my shoulder. The Chevy was still there, but The Man had disappeared.

When I let myself into my apartment, I found that he had made himself at home in my favourite armchair. I opened the hall closet, pulled out the suitcase Miriam had used to collect his clothes from
the Mayflower and handed it to him on my way to the bathroom. ‘Do me a favour. Change into those.'

‘Do I have to?' he said.

‘It would help,' I replied. ‘A lady called Mrs Perez, who I believe you know, is probably out this very minute, pounding the sidewalks in the hope of catching sight of you. And there's a reporter from Channel Eight on your trail. A slim, twenty-five-year-old agnostic who cut her milk teeth on rawhide and goes by the name of Gale McDonald. She knows about the treatment you gave Mrs Perez, and she's also very impressed with the statue. If we're not careful, this whole story could end up going nation-wide. Do you get the picture?'

‘I'm beginning to,' he said.

‘Good.' I turned on the shower. ‘If you will now excuse me, I have five minutes in which to shower, shave, get dressed and get downstairs before my cab arrives.'

‘You've got ten,' he said. ‘Polish Henry is off sick. Jake's picking you up this morning, and he's running five minutes late.'

He was right, of course. I pulled my damp hair into some semblance of a parting, pocketed my wallet, keys and loose change and grabbed my Samsonite. ‘Okay, stay here until I call you. There's some wine in the cupboard next to the icebox.' I patted him on the shoulder as I hurried past. ‘Nice to have you back …'

Now you are not going to believe this, but we lost the case. And not only did we lose it, the judge awarded costs to Cleveland Glass. For a minute or so I was completely speechless then, after going into a huddle with the Delaware team, I gave notice of our intention to appeal. As I gathered up my papers I found that, for the second time that day, I was shaking like a leaf. I had been totally convinced that we had everything sewn up. And so, up to that moment, had the legal boys from Delaware. Mel Donaldson, like the
shmuck
he was, immediately did a fast turn around and told me he'd felt all along that I had been overly optimistic about our chances of winning but had deferred to my judgement even though – get this – he had been unhappy from the outset about my tactical handling of the case.

I didn't bleed too much. If we'd won, he'd have been the first to grab the credit. It wasn't the money they were worried about. Delaware was a rich corporation and the costs, though sizeable, would only cause a hiccup in their annual accounts. No, the real problem lay in the fact that Delaware liked to think of its executives as winners and the pressure to live up to that image was relentless. To
have returned triumphant would have totally absolved them from any feelings of guilt they had acquired by screwing around on the company's time in the big city. Losing only served to compound it. Tough. I felt I'd been screwed too.

I called my apartment from outside the courtroom. The Man answered. ‘I suppose you know what's happened,' I said with some bitterness. After all, he could have told me.

‘Yes. Don't take it too badly.'

His casual manner made me explode. ‘How the hell am I supposed to take it?! I know I told you to hold back on the miracles but, godamnit, you're supposed to be on my side!'

‘I am,' he replied. ‘But what has that got to do with it?'

‘Everything,' I said, simmering down a little. ‘Come on, you know what's been happening in the last two weeks. How the hell am I supposed to concentrate on anything with you on my back?'

He gave a quick laugh. ‘Is that the way you see it?'

Now I felt embarrassed at shooting my mouth off. ‘Look, you know what I mean. I'm like a guy with eleven holes in the dyke and only ten fingers. At the very least you could have used a little influence to make sure I won the case. I mean, it's only fair.'

‘
Fair?
Leo, the case isn't important. What you do with your life is. I'll speak to you later.' And with that he hung up on me. Great. That was all I needed. Jesus Christ telling me I was in the wrong job.

Midway through the afternoon, Linda told me that she had seen Donaldson and Hunnacker, his chief side-kick, coming out of Joe Gutzman's office. If they were avoiding me, it could only mean that they had come to lodge a complaint. I worked on, waiting for Joe's summons. It came half-an-hour later.

‘Surprise decision,' said Joe.

I agreed, and we reviewed the case in some detail and speculated on the reasons for the adverse ruling. ‘I'm sure we can get it reversed if we go for the appeal.' And I explained to Joe that I had made the formal application right after the judgement but that, during the funereal lunch I'd had with the Delaware legal team, Donaldson had begun to cool off the idea.

Joe shrugged. ‘Mel seems to think that you didn't give it your best shot.'

‘The man is an asshole,' I replied. As you've probably gathered, I like to win too.

‘I'm inclined to agree,' said Joe. ‘However, he asked me if Dick, or maybe Wilkie could handle the appeal.'

Dick, was Dick Schonfeld, the second senior partner. Corinne Wilkie was his thirty-year-old assistant. She'd been breathing down my neck ever since she joined the firm a couple of years ago.

I reached for a cigarette then remembered that Joe didn't like people smoking in his office. ‘What did you tell him?'

‘I told him that it was not our policy to switch horses in midstream,' said Joe. ‘If they don't want to stick with you …' He completed the sentence with his shoulders.

Delaware's decision to go over my head was no surprise. Joe had handled their business since they'd started with two brick sheds and a sub-contract from the Defence Department at the outbreak of the Korean War. When I begun understudying Joe, I'd been one of four young attorneys vying for the main chance. My work with Delaware had helped me claw my way over the backs of the other three to Joe's right hand and, in the fullness of time, I had inherited them as clients. Joe had maintained his close personal links with the family that controlled the main board, and he held some of their blue chip stock. So I was keenly aware that his decision to back me was a remarkable and touching gesture of solidarity. And it made me feel lousy.

Joe leaned his elbows on the desk and slowly rubbed his hands together. ‘I'm sure it's possible to straighten this one out. Why don't you sit down and draft an analysis of the arguments in this case and how you think we can make them stick if it goes to appeal? If you can let me have that by the weekend, I can go through it then we can put our heads together and …'