Past Due (39 page)

“Go to hell.”

“There’s a bar, Fadó. On Locust. Do you know it?”

“I know it.”

“Join me there in thirty minutes, why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I? Because you’re an asshole and I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“But I’ve got lots to say to you. Fadó. ’Alf an ’our. You and me, we can chat about life, about long-dead playwrights, and about your partner.”

“Beth?”

“You’ve got another partner we don’t know about?”

“What about Beth?”

“Seen her lately?”

“What about Beth, you bastard?”

“Come alone, Victor, but do come.”

I
COULD BARELY
restrain my anger as I strode down Locust Street. I wanted to wring someone’s neck, to twist my hands around someone’s throat and squeeze until a head popped off. Whose head? It didn’t quite matter, but I had my list and it started with Colfax, that cocky cockney bastard, and it included his very creepy boss, and there was Justice Jackson Straczynski and there was Alura Straczynski and there was Joey Parma for getting himself killed and getting me and Beth into this steaming pile of dung in the first place. They had already messed with my profession, my freedom, my finances, but when they messed with my partner, they had gone so far beyond the pale they were well nigh invisible. Oh yes, I wanted to wring a neck, a peck of necks, but I had to restrain myself. Anger wasn’t what Beth needed. Cool calculation was what Beth needed, which was a problem, wasn’t it, since in our partnership she was the cool calculating one.

I took a deep breath, tried to calm myself, pulled open the door and entered Fadó. A bit of the home sod it was, all carved mahogany and painted ceilings, with corned beef and cabbage on the menu, folk songs from the speakers, Guinness on tap. It was trying too hard, a theme park version of a Dublin pub, when all it really needed to be authentic enough was the Guinness on tap and a villainous Brit at the bar.

“Where is she?” I said in as low a voice as I could maintain.

“What, no pleasantries?” said Colfax, turning from his pint, already three quarters gone, and giving me a superior little sneer. His face was ruddy, his hair short, he was wearing a three-quarter-length black leather coat with its pockets bulging, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. “No ‘How’s it going?’ No ‘Fine day today, isn’t it?’ No ‘Would you like another round, Mr. Colfax?’ None of that, ay? Just right to the bone of it. ‘Where is she?’ ”

“Where the fuck is she, you Euro slime?”

“Now that’s a bit crude, and from a man who so reveres his Willie Shake. Sit down, ’ave a pint. Don’t take it all so personal.”

“But it is,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Good. Because for me it’s just business, and when it’s business versus personal, well, the business always wins out, doesn’t it? She’s fine, Victor. A nice girl, that. Showed a fine respect for Mr. Beretta, and didn’t give us a spot of trouble. Right now, I can assure you, she’s being well cared for.”

“How do I even know you have her?”

“Oh, you know.”

“Prove it.”

“Give her a call and find out. Call her right now, why don’t you? On her cell.”

I took out my phone, glared at him, found Beth on the auto dial, stepped away, and turned my back to Colfax as I waited for the call to go through.

And then I heard the most sickening sound. A phone, ringing, her phone ringing. But not just on my line. Slowly I turned.

Colfax grinned as he sat with the ringing phone in his hand. He opened it with a switch-blade flick of his wrist. “ ’Ello. Fancy ’earing from you. Yes it is a nice day, isn’t it, Victor, you wanker.”

I stared at him for a long moment, trying to figure out what to do, but there wasn’t much choice, was there? If I jumped him, he would pummel me into applesauce. If I canceled the call and immediately called McDeiss, Colfax would leave and there’d be no telling what he and his boss would do. They wanted something and I had a pretty good idea what it was. Even so, I decided to let Colfax tell me. It would make him so happy, and I aimed to please.

“How’s it going?” I said as I climbed onto the stool next to his. “Fine day today, isn’t it? Would you like another round, Mr. Colfax?”

“Now you’ve got it,” he said, closing the phone. “Now you understand the terms of the thing. Don’t mind if I do.”

I waved to the bartender. “Two Guinness,” I said, “and make mine a light.”

That always got a good laugh at an Irish pub.

“Can I ask a question,” I said after the pints came.

“What’s this one about,
Macbeth
?”

“Where do guys like Eddie Dean find guys like you? Do you advertise in the back of golf magazines? Gunsel for hire, not too bright but suitably nasty. Or is there a union shop where an employer comes in, says I need a hatchet boy to shine my wingtips for a couple months, and the guy behind the booth pulls out a card and calls your name.”

“You really want to know?”

“Actually, yes.”

“There’s a pub in Southgate.”

“That’s it? The whole secret? A pub in Southgate?”

“That’s it.”

“What’s it called, the Bloody Swordsman?

“The Prissy Miss.”

“You’re kidding. The Prissy Miss?”

“There you go.”

“Ooh, sounds ferocious, the Prissy Miss.”

“Go in and say that, Victor. The regulars will cut your tongue off and stick it up your nose. You’ll be licking snot the rest of your natural-born life.”

“And Eddie Dean came into the Prissy Miss?”

“Yes, ’e did.”

“And hired you?”

“Yes, ’e did. ’E was looking for specific qualifications and I fit the bill.”

“Murdering scum, was that it?”

“That was just the bonus for him, wasn’t it?”

“He pay you yet.”

“ ’Alf up front. Them’s the terms.”

“And you expect to get the rest with him busted flat?”

“That’s where you come in.”

“I see. Okay, go ahead. What does he want?”

He finished his first pint before he said, “These are the terms. He wants what it is you took up there in Massachusetts.”

“I don’t have everything he thinks I have. There was—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut up already. We’re not a debating society, understand? I’m not ’ere for excuses, just to give the terms. ’E wants all of it. It’s up to you make sure all of it’s there. But that’s not the all of it. ’E also wants the suitcase.”

“I never said I had that.”

“But you know where it is, don’t you?”

I pressed my lips together and said nothing.

“And ’e wants the sot that betrayed ’im twenty years ago. ’E wants the name.”

“I can’t do all this.”

“And ’e wants it tomorrow.”

“He’s crazy.”

“You’ve noticed that too, ’ave you? Well, them’s the terms, Victor. It’s all about terms. And them terms are nonnegotiable.”

“Does he want me to bring it all to the house?”

“No, after your visit last night ’e thought it prudent to move on out. Just bring it to me ’ere. Tomorrow, same time as this. But be certain, no police, no tails, just the materials. Them’s the terms, and the terms is rock solid.”

“I bring what he wants, then what happens?”

“When I get them and get away without any problem,” he said, climbing off his stool, “your partner walks away with nothing but a story to tell ’er kids on long winter nights and we sail off into the sunrise.”

He reached for his second pint, drained it, wiped the foam off his lip with his sleeve.

“Now be a good little servant boy and take care of this tab, won’t you, Victor?”

“You didn’t like that crack, I suppose.”

“Fancy this, Vic, it didn’t bother me none at all. See, I don’t take it personally.”

I didn’t respond. He didn’t care. He put his hands in the bulging pockets of his long black leather jacket, turned around, and headed out of the bar.

By the time I paid for the bill and left the bar, he was nowhere to be seen. I spun around in frustration on the street and as I spun my stomach fell with fear. What the hell did I expect? I went into Eddie Dean’s house, let him know what I knew, let him know I was going to take him down. How could I not have expected the bastard to fight back? If I had talked it over with Beth first, she would have stopped me, she would have applied her cool calculation and found a better path. But now those paths were closed to me. Beth. Beth. What to do about Beth? It was too late to count on Telushkin and his FBI to handle it. Colfax had stated the terms with utter clarity, unless I could come up with a better plan I would have to come through. Somehow I would have to get that bastard what he wanted. And I knew how to start.

I took the yellow sheet out of my pocket, the one Dante’s boy had given me, called the number written there. It rang for a moment, and then came the voice, a woman’s voice, secretarial, the one with the high gray hair.

“Pennsylvania Supreme Court,” she said. “Justice Straczynski’s chambers. How can I help you?”

H
E WALKED UP
the path with a slow, awkward gait, his head swiveling guiltily, his blue suit bunched around his hunched shoulders. It was Rittenhouse Square in the middle of a fine spring afternoon and the park was lousy with pretty girls and slackers and office workers taking in some sun and shoppers with their bags, resting before another bout of rabid acquisition. It was crowded, loud, urban—a perfect place for an anonymous meeting. Across the park, on the southwest corner, stood Eddie Dean’s rented and now-deserted mansion, a touch that gave me a nice ironic jolt even if as yet it meant nothing to the man in the suit cautiously making his way to my bench. When the man spotted me, his head recoiled as if from some stark fulsome scent. I seem to get that a lot, but not often from a Supreme Court justice.

“Well?” he said, standing before me.

He was bent forward, his high forehead glistening with sweat, his thin blond hair disheveled, his fists balled with anxiety. I was leaning back on the bench, my arms spread leisurely on either side.

“Sit,” I said.

“I don’t have much time.”

“Yes, you do,” I said. “You have all day. Sit.”

He sat at my command like a lapdog.

The hardest thing was getting him on the line. When I gave my
name to the secretary she patched me right through to the vigilant and violent Clerk Lobban. No, said Curtis Lobban, the justice was not available. Why don’t you tell me, said Curtis Lobban, the purpose of the call? Of course, said Curtis Lobban, whatever you say I will relay to the justice word for word. No, said Curtis Lobban, it is not possible for you to speak to him right now. There was again an ominous note in his voice that raised the hair on the back of my neck. This was not simply a gatekeeper, this Curtis Lobban, shuffling files and appointments, beating up trespassers, doing the bidding of a sitting jurist, this was something else, something fearsomely protective. I wasn’t getting through, he wasn’t letting me through, and I didn’t quite know what to do until a voice broke into our conversation.

“I will speak to Mr. Carl,” said the justice, harshly.

“Yes, sir,” said Curtis Lobban.

“We need to meet,” I said.

“When,” said the justice.

“Now.”

“That is impossible,” said Curtis Lobban, still on the line. “There are appointments.”

“Hang up the phone, Curtis,” said the justice, “and cancel my appointments.”

And now here he was, Jackson Straczynski, standing before me, fidgeting and wincing as if preparing to be beaten about the head. And now sitting down next to me, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, wringing his long pale hands as if he were auditioning for a role.

“I want to apologize, Mr. Carl,” he said, speaking as if it were a struggle to get the words out. “After your last visit, I made the inquiries I told you I would make. Everything you said turned out to be true, and I am appalled.”

“But of course you knew.”

“No.”

“About my being locked up at Traffic Court? About Rashard Porter.”

“No, I did not.”

“It was your doing. It had to be.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“Then who could—”

I stopped in midsentence and thought it through. The secretive Clerk O’Brien in Traffic Court. The dour Clerk Templeton in Common Pleas Court. The fearsomely protective Clerk Lobban in the justice’s own chambers.

“Son of a bitch.”

“I fear,” said the justice, “that one of my employees might have acted to safeguard my position well beyond his actual authority.”

“A conspiracy of clerks.”

“Clerk Lobban’s loyalties run very deep, deeper than in a normal employee-employer relationship. He knows my wife, in fact it is she who hired him for me. His wife is ill and my wife helps in her care. It is very complicated.”

“I can imagine.”

“No,” he said. “No, you can’t.”

“What kind of car does your clerk drive?”

“Something small, I think. Foreign.”

“Toyota?”

“I suppose.”

“Color?”

“I don’t know. Look, I have spoken to Judge Wellman. He denied any pressure was brought to bear, but I have reason to believe a motion to vacate Mr. Porter’s sentence would be well received.”

“What about Lonnie?”

“I read about Mr. Chambers in the newspaper. Very distressing, and I know what you must think. But I never told Curtis anything about him. Our prior conversation remained absolutely private.”

“And Joey Parma?”

“Who?”

“Joseph Parma. He called you a number of times.”

“No. You must be mistaken. I never heard of Joseph Parma.”

“He was a friend of your brother’s.”

“Benny?”

“Yes. An old friend.”

“Benny did have a friend named Joey when he was younger. They were altar boys together. I think they called him Joey Cheaps.”

“Bingo.”

“But why was he trying to call me?”

“Because Joey was an idiot. And he had done something twenty years ago for your brother. And he thought he could turn what he did twenty years ago into cash today.”

“And that was the client you were referring to, who had his throat slit.”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Carl. Oh God. Mr. Carl. I think I am going to be sick.”