Past Due (10 page)

I
WAS FEELING
chipper about things when next I visited my father. I had actual leads in the Joey Parma investigation, I had a paying client in Jacopo Financing, and, for the first time in weeks, there was money in my bank account. Not enough, yet, to get the cable back on, but it was close. I could barely suppress my excitement.

Let me tell you something true: There’s not much in this life that can’t be cured by the cable guy.

And then to top it off, I had engineered another run-in with Dr. Mayonnaise, the chance meeting in the hospital halls that was not chance at all. But I did it subtly, oh so subtly.

“What are you doing on this floor, Mr. Carl. You’re father’s on four.”

“This isn’t the fourth floor?”

So we had gotten to talking and, since she was new in town, we had gotten to talking about restaurants.

“You know a good Chinese place?” she had asked.

“Sang Kee Duck House,” I said. “In Chinatown.”

“Do they serve anything besides duck?”

“I think so. You want to, maybe, I don’t know, maybe, try it sometime?”

“With you?”

“That would be, sort of, the point.”

“I suppose.”

Is that a ringing affirmative, or what? So I was feeling pretty damn chipper when I sat down beside my father in his hospital room.

“You look like crap,” I said.

“It’s not getting better,” said my father.

“What did the doctor say?”

“She’s going to try a different antibiotic.”

“I’m sure that will work.”

My father just grunted. He was sure it wouldn’t, his natural pessimism demanded nothing less than despair, and, as was often the case with my father, maybe it was warranted. His oxygen absorption level had dropped to ninety-one percent and his breaths were coming faster now, even with the plastic tube feeding oxygen into his nose.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m going out with that doctor.”

“It won’t go nowhere.”

“Why not?”

“She ain’t your type.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“First, she’s a doctor, so she’s too damn good for you. Second, she’s from Ohio.”

“Nice,” I said, though, as usual, I worried that he was right.

“Did I tell you how I found her?” said my father.

“Who? The doctor?”

“The girl. The pleated skirt. Did I?”

“No, Dad,” I said, settling in, resigned to hearing more. “You didn’t.”

“It was the car,” he said. The long burgundy car. My father roams all over the city, looking for it. He has a motorcycle, my father, he had seen Marlon Brando in
The Wild One
and he liked the look, so out of the army he took what pay he had saved and bought a motorcycle. It was a used 1951 Indian Roadmaster Chief, I knew, because it had been a part of my childhood, the motorcycle, sitting amongst the weeds in the backyard, a rusting relic of a faded past collapsing in on itself. But then, in my father’s youth, it is bright blue
and killer loud and perfect. Sitting on its wide black-leather seat, hands gripping the handlebars, he tears through the city, street by street, canvassing the possibilities, searching for a car.

He doesn’t spy it parked outside at the curb like any common family sedan, no. But he gets lucky one evening, sees it out and about, the long burgundy car with the high metal grill. A Bentley Mark VI, impeccably maintained. He follows it back to its lair on a small fashionable street not far from Rittenhouse Square, a spacious garage attached to a double-wide town house with a big red door.

“And once I knew where he lived, it wasn’t nothing to ask around.” The old man is well known in that part of the city, with his fancy Bentley and his colored chauffeur and his secretary. The old man’s money is inherited, his great interest is in collecting collectibles, little things with much value, stamps, coins, rare manuscripts, and, so they say with their snide smiles, pretty secretaries that are maybe more than secretaries.

“But I didn’t believe that none,” my father said. “I seen her eyes, her angel eyes.”

So he waits for her. He gets off work early, cleans himself up nice and sharp, Brylcreems his hair back, takes the bike down to that fancy street, parks smack in front of the house, and waits. And waits. He sees a curtain twitch, someone knows he’s there, good, he figures. And he waits, waits until darkness falls and the streetlights start to glowing and night covers the city like a blanket. It is midnight when he leaves, but the next evening he is back, parked in the same spot, waiting. Waiting.

“And then I saw her.”

The big red door opens, she steps out, closes the door carefully behind her. She is dressed again all in white, but there is none of the brash confidence in her face now. She is nervous, worried. She walks toward him, glancing back once and then again at the house. A curtain is pulled slightly aside. The old man is watching, my father knows, and my father doesn’t care.

You can’t be here, she tells him, her gaze down at her feet.

I came for you.

You have to go.

Come out with me.

I can’t. I have to go back.

Tomorrow night, then, he says.

No.

I won’t go until you agree.

She raises her face. Her eyes are red, and there is a darkness on the ridge of one cheek. A bruise? he wonders.

I can’t, she says.

Tomorrow night.

Not here, she says.

I’ll park around the corner. Tomorrow night.

She doesn’t say anything, she stares at him for a moment and then moves her head slightly, an almost imperceptible nod. Before he can respond, she turns back to the house, runs back across the street, up the steps, through the big red door. Gone.

But the next night, as he promised, he is waiting around the corner, waiting for her, and as she promised, she comes. She doesn’t say a word, she simply climbs onto the seat behind him, grabs him around the stomach, leans her chin on his shoulder. Together at last, they roar off into the night.

“And that’s how it started,” said my father, lying on his bed in the hospital, his eyes closed, either from the pain of his condition or the sweetness of his past.

“Did you see her a lot?” I said.

“It went fast. I knew places to dance, to drink. She liked to drink.”

“And when your dates were over?”

“I took her back.”

“To the house. To the old man?”

“Yes. Back. By ten. Every night.” And every night he shudders as he watches her walk along that same narrow street, up those same stone stairs, through the same red door, into the blackness of the old man’s house. Whenever he asks about the old man, she won’t answer. She is his secretary, is all she says. The bruise? She was clumsy. The reason she only would meet him around the corner? She likes to maintain her privacy. He begs her to quit, to get a new job, to do something else, someplace else, so they can be together alone, without her fear. She only shakes her head sadly,
shakes her head and says it is time for him to take her back. Back to the house. By ten. Back to the darkness. The old man. Every night. Until one night.

“I did it on purpose,” said my father.

They are drinking, dancing. She is holding him close. He can feel her body pressed against his, her breasts, her knees. Her flesh and bone seem to melt, to mold into his so that nothing can fit in between. She leans her head on his shoulder. Her eyes are closed, her breath is warm on his neck. There is a clock on the wall. He knows it is time to leave, they have to leave now to make her curfew, but he doesn’t tell her. They continue dancing, song after song as the minute hand spins its way slowly on and the hour slips past ten.

When she notices, finally, he expects her to be scared, distraught, angry. But she simply blinks and swallows and asks for another drink. And it is that easy, like stepping over a line painted on the road, crossing the line and not looking back. That night he doesn’t take her to the old man’s house. He takes her to his apartment, a small walk-up hovel in a failing North Philadelphia neighborhood. The place is just off Broad Street, not six blocks from the very hospital where now he lay, fighting for his life.

He closed his eyes in the hospital bed and remembered, the feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth, the way her tongue brushes his, gently at first and then more roughly, more urgently. This he didn’t tell me, this he didn’t have to, its reality lived in the very pain scrawled across his face. She unbuttons her shirt, steps out of her white pleated skirt, unhooks her garter. Even as he lay there, struggling for breath, his emotions leaving him unable to speak, it was not so hard to see. The first time with a true love is different in every way from what my father had experienced in those brothels in Germany, or the quick blow jobs from local girls between the trash cans in North Philly alleys.

He let out a soft gasp. “Perfect” is all he said. “Perfect.”

And it was, it always is, in the remembering. And in the quiet after, as her head rests on his chest and she murmurs in her sleep, he knows this is what he wants, my father, the feel of his angel’s hair on his chest, the feel of her body leaning upon his, rising and falling with each delicate breath she takes, the taste of her tongue still intoxicating
his brain. This is what he wants, all he wants, for the rest of his life, forever.

“Oh God,” he said, remembering, perhaps, his prayer as he lies awake through the night with her, staying awake to savor it all, desperate not to lose a second. He had never been a religious man, my father, he always claimed he left the mumbo jumbo to his own pious father, a cobbler who spent his life pounding on the last or praying at the neighborhood shul, but here, now, in this room, this bed, with his true love sleeping on his chest, he prays. My father prays that this night, this perfect night of true and unyielding love, will never end. My father prays that he and this girl, this angel asleep on his chest, will be together, forever.

“Oh God.”

My father lay on his hospital bed, alone except for the son who never forgave him for being what he had become, lay with his eyes closed remembering, I was certain, remembering his prayer and the night God failed him for the final time.

W
HEN
I
WAS
a kid, we used to head out to the creek by the railroad tracks, catch crawfish, stick them in a cup, prod and poke them for no better reason than to satisfy our sad, sadistic impulses. That’s sort of the idea behind a legal deposition.

“I understand, Mr. Manley,” I said, “that you own a partial interest in a strip club on Columbus Boulevard called the Eager Beaver.”

Derek Manley sucked his teeth. “Just a small piece.”

Derek Manley was quite a big man to own only a small piece. Tall and thick and looking like he had swallowed a basketball, he leaned heavily onto the oaken table of our shabby little conference room, his meaty hands rubbing one against the other. He had the air about him of a guy who had secrets, who had connections, who lived life hard. And to say his bulbous nose was mottled was to say Hoffa was hard to reach. His nose was a Jackson Pollack painting.

Manley sat beside his lawyer, a small bespectacled man named John Sebastian, who looked like a scared lion tamer sitting next to his big cat, unsure what unspeakable piece of horror his pet would unleash next. Beth and I sat across from them, perfect prodding position. Between us was a pitcher of water and a fetid plate of Danish. At the head of the table, taking down every word, was our court reporter, a nice old lady with blue hair and fast hands.

“How small a piece of the club do you own?” I said.

“Just enough sos I can tell the girls I’m an owner,” said Manley.

“Be specific, Mr. Manley. How much stock?”

“Who knows from numbers. Ike said I would get a third of everything, but that’s been a third of nothing. And that was before the IRS started chewing on his butt.”

“Is the club liquid?”

“We got ourselves a liquor license, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“If you requested Mr. Rothstein to buy you out, could he accommodate you immediately?”

“Nah, the club ain’t got no cash flow. Truth be told, a club like that is worse than a boat. I thought the only thing swallowed more money than a vagina was a boat until I got involved with Rothstein and his club. But I never done it for the money, I only done it for the girls.”

“And how did that part work out for you, Mr. Manley?”

“Don’t answer that,” said John Sebastian.

“Not so good,” said Manley, ignoring his lawyer, as clients are wont to do. “A couple of hand jobs is all.”

“Keep quiet, Derek,” said Sebastian. “I object to the question. The purpose of this deposition is to search for assets, nothing more.”

“On advice of counsel,” said Manley, “I ain’t gonna say nothing more about the hand jobs. But is that what yous looking for, Victor? Would that make yous happy? He leaned forward, raised an eyebrow. “Ever see that Esmerelda down at the club? They call her the Brazilian Firecracker. That I can maybe set up, but the money, forget about it. By the way, I got regards from a mutual friend. Earl? Earl Dante? He said I wouldn’t have no trouble here. Sos I don’t understand why yous coming down so hard.”

“That was off the record,” said Sebastian.

“Like hell it was,” I said.

“Let’s go off the record and talk this through,” said Sebastian.

“Absolutely not. Keep typing, Mrs. Mumford. Your client just mentioned his connection to an alleged organized crime figure. I take his mentioning that connection as an implied threat and believe any such implied threat should be on the record.”

“Well, ain’t you the blue-nosed son of a bitch,” said Manley. “I was just passing on a hello.”

“And thank you for that,” I said. “Now, there’s a Cadillac registered in your name. Where is that located?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I lost it.”

“A black 2002 Eldorado? You misplaced it?”

“One day it’s there and then I can’t find it no more. The day before I lost my keys. The next day I lost my reading glasses. Funny, ain’t it?”

“I’m sure the judge will find it hysterical too. But you do own the Lincoln you drove up in today.”

“Well, that one, you can check the papers, it don’t belong to me. It belongs to my girlfriend.”

“What about the luxury apartment you live in on the waterfront?”

“My girlfriend’s.”

“And the time share in Florida?”

“Same.”

“This is the girlfriend who works as your secretary?”

“Office manager.”

“You must pay a hell of a wage.”

“Actually, the wage ain’t so much, really, but the benefits…” He waved his thumb at me.

“What about Penza Trucking?” I said. “You own that, don’t you?”

“Not really no more. It’s the bank what owns it now, with the thing mortgaged like it is up the wazoo. First Pennsylvania gave me this loan yous got without any security. Things was a little more flush then. They decided I was good for it. Too bad for them, huh?”

“Is there anything more?” said Sebastian. “It’s been four hours already. I think we’ve covered everything.”

Beth leaned toward the lawyer, opened her eyes wide, and said, “Are you sure you’re not the singer John Sebastian?”

“Positive,” he said.

“Woodstock?” she said. “The Lovin’ Spoonful? ‘Summer in the City’? Ring a bell?”

“Stop it now,” said John Sebastian.

I looked around. It was time. Manley was hot, his lawyer was bothered. The whole deposition had been leading to this moment. Sometimes you get right to the point, sometimes you dance around a bit, get everyone hot and bothered before you spring, with an innocent tone of voice, the crucial question. By then the guard is lowered, by then sometimes, against all odds and counter to all intentions, the truth slips out.

“All right, Mr. Manley,” I said. “Just one more topic. You started with Penza Trucking when?

“Geez, I was just a kid. Seventy-eight, seventy-nine.”

“And what was your position?”

“I drove. Penza, what owned the place, always hired young kids ’cause he could pay ’em squat.”

“So what was your pay?”

“I think the most it went up to was like six an hour.”

“And when did you become the owner?”

“A few years later. Penza was getting old, his daughter wanted nothing to do with the business. He was looking to get out.”

“And so you got in?”

“Yeah, imagine that. Like Horace the Algerian, it was.”

“Horatio Alger?”

“Who?”

“How much did you pay for the business?”

“Not much, really. It wasn’t worth much, the trucks was old, the accounts was small. He almost gave it away.”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“What?”

“Mr. Penza is living in Boca. He said he sold the company to you for fifty thousand dollars. Ten thousand down, the rest on a note.”

“How is the old guy?”

“Tanned.”

John Sebastian piped up, “Is this relevant?”

“Are you instructing him not to answer?” I said, my voice exploding in finely aged indignation. Sebastian’s head snapped back with such force that I wondered if it was my breath. “Because if you are, I’ll call the judge right now. I’ll get on the phone right now. I’m entitled to ask this.”

“You don’t have to go ballistic on me.”

“I’m entitled to ask this.”

“ ‘Do You Believe in Magic?’ ” said Beth.

“Excuse me?” said Sebastian.

“So the question I have, Mr. Manley,” I said, having set Manley’s lawyer back on his heels, “the question you need to answer here, is where did you get hold of the ten-thousand-dollar down payment you paid Mr. Penza?”

“I don’t know. I saved up.”

“On six dollars an hour?”

“Time and a half for overtime. And I was living at home.”

“But you weren’t a monk?”

“I had some times, sure.”

“And some girls?”

“What, are you kidding me?”

“I heard that your girlfriend at the time, who later became your first wife, was expensive. She liked nice clothes, jewelry.”

“Who told you that?”

“She did. I assume the bulk of the six an hour went to her.”

“Whatever you assume, you ain’t assuming the half of it.”

“So from where did the ten thousand come?”

“I don’t know. I did a guy a favor, maybe.”

“Who?”

“Just a guy what I knew.”

“Give me a name.”

“I don’t remember his name right off.”

“What kind of favor did you do for this friend?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. Let’s forget about it.”

“Where was this favor done?”

“I told you to forget about it.”

“I want to show you a picture. Let’s mark this as plaintiff’s nine for identification. It’s a photograph of three young boys, altar boys. Do you recognize the boy in the middle?”

“Is that me?”

“How old were you there?”

“Truth be told, I can’t ever remember being that young.”

“Who’s the boy on the left?”

“It was a long time ago.”

“It’s Joey Parma, Joey Cheaps, isn’t it?”

“Where’d you get this?”

“And it was Joey Parma with you that night at the waterfront?”

“What night?”

“The night with the moon shining overhead. The night where the two of you waited in the shadows to do that favor for your friend.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Who was the friend who asked for the favor?”

“I told you I don’t remember.” He lifted the pitcher, poured a shaky stream of water into a plastic cup, took a sip. “Is it getting hot in here?”

“You and Joey Cheaps, with a baseball bat, waiting in the shadows.”

“Never happened.”

“For the guy with the suitcase.”

Manley’s head tilted down, his eyes turned hard beneath his brow, his voice lowered into a growl. “Watch yourself, Victor.”

“The baseball bat and the guy with the suitcase who was hit in the face and then the splash. Do you remember the splash?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Manley stood, threw his plastic water cup at my face. Lucky me, the water landed mostly on my tie. Isn’t polyester a wonderful thing?

“This deposition is over,” said John Sebastian.

“That’s what you and Joey discussed on the phone the morning before he died, isn’t it?” I said. “What you did together that night at the waterfront?”

“Are you deaf,” said John Sebastian, standing himself now. “It’s over.”

“What did you do with the suitcase, Derek?” I said. “What happened to the money in the suitcase?”

Derek Manley, his face crimson, his nose fluorescent with rage, leaned over and jabbed his finger at my face. “You don’t know shit about what happened.”

“And what did you do twenty years later to Joseph Parma?”

“Yo,” he shouted. “I didn’t have nothing to do with whacking Joey. He was my friend.”

Sebastian put his hand on Manley’s shoulder as if to comfort. “Don’t say anything more, Derek.”

“On the advice of counsel I’m shutting up for good. But let me give you some advice, Victor. You like your bowels? You find it convenient having them sitting there between your mouth and your asshole?”

“Let’s go, Derek,” said his lawyer, the hand on the shoulder now pushing him out.

“You shut up about what it is yous asking about or I’m gonna reach down your throat, pull out them bowels, toss them against the wall so they stick, you understand, you little pissant? You don’t watch out you’ll be shitting out your ear. Don’t think I won’t.”

“This was totally inappropriate,” said Sebastian after Manley had stormed out of the room. “The judge will hear about this and so will the Bar Association.”

“Don’t leave, John,” I said, as he made his exit too. “There are still Danish left.”

“They seemed to have marched off in a huff,” said Beth.

“What does that mean anyway, ‘in a huff’? A huff. It sounds like one of those short fur jackets.”

“Is that what you wanted?” she asked.

“Close enough,” I said. And it was. Manley had as good as admitted to being there that night with Joey Cheaps when the bat had slammed into Tommy Greeley’s face. And he had as good as admitted that he had been there on the behest of a friend. It was the friend’s name I needed; all I’d have to do was squeeze a bit to get it. It wouldn’t be so hard. I was a lawyer, my entire professional training was in the art of the squeeze.

And it wouldn’t end with Manley. I fully expected word would get out about what I was looking for; I fully expected someone other than Manley would start to feel the pressure. I just didn’t expect it to happen so fast.