The Last Dance (20 page)

Maxie Blaine knew instinctively and through bitter experience on his meteoric rise through Georgia's criminal justice system that “Silence Is Golden” was really and truly a terrific rule to follow whenever you were dealing with law enforcement types. He also knew that he had just now popped a cop, and he knew in his secret heart of hearts that a month or so ago he had killed a man the media had later identified as a police informer, so long, Ratso. He suspected the reason the cops had come a-rappin on his door at two in the morning was they needed desperately to know had he really
done
that little rat bastard. Which he wasn't ready to admit since he wasn't pining just yet for a massive dose of Valium.

In an instance such as this, where they already had him on inadvertently plugging a cop in a moment of panic, the damn girl shrieking like a banshee and all, Blaine shrewdly calculated that maybe there was a deal to be made if he played his cards right. So whereas he asked for a lawyer—no experienced felon ever did
not
ask for a lawyer when he was in custody—he nonetheless figured
he'd answer their questions until he saw where they were going. The minute he figured out what they really
had
here—he didn't see how they could possibly tie him to the pizzeria shooting—why that was when he could maybe squirm his way out of this, maybe talk the D.A. into covering everything he'd done including the Guido's thing for a plea that might grant him parole in twenty years, maybe even fifteen. In other words, he thought the way many criminals think: he thought he could outsmart two experienced detectives, a lieutenant who'd seen it all and heard it all, and even his own attorney, a man named Pierce Reynolds, a transplanted good ole boy from Tennessee, who naturally urged silence.

The interrogation started in the lieutenant's office at six o'clock on that morning of December 2, by which time Blaine's attorney had arrived and consulted with him, and Blaine had been read his rights and verified that he understood them. To protect his own ass in any subsequent client-lawyer law suit, Reynolds went on record as having advised Blaine to remain silent and Blaine went on record as having been so advised. All the bullshit out of the way, the questioning proper began at six-fifteen
A.M.
with Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes himself eliciting from Maxwell Corey Blaine his full name, address, and place of employment, which was a pool parlor in Hightown, or so he said, but then again he wasn't under oath.

If Blaine was in reality breaking heads for someone linked to the Colombian cartel, as Betty Young had informed them, he couldn't very well tell the cops this was his occupation. Not if he hoped to outfox them and cut a deal later. There was no official police stenographer here as yet, and no one from the District Attorney's Office. Blaine figured the deck was stacked in his favor. The cops figured they could nail him on shooting Willis whenever the spirit moved them. Getting someone to ride uptown from the D.A.'s Office was a simple matter of making a phone call. But they were angling for bigger fish. They were looking for Murder One.

Byrnes opened with a laser beam straight to the forehead.

“Know anyone named Enrique Ramirez?”

Blaine blinked.

“Nossir,” he said, “I surely do not.”

“I thought you might have done some work for him,” Byrnes said.

“Is that a question?” Reynolds asked.

“Counselor,” Byrnes said, “could we agree on some basic ground rules here?”

“What
basic
rules did you have in mind, Lieutenant? I thought I was familiar with
all
the rules, basic or otherwise, but perhaps I'm mistaken.”

“Mr. Reynolds,” Byrnes said, “we don't need courtroom theatrics here, okay? There's no judge here to rule on objections, there's no jury to play to, your man isn't even under oath. So why not just take it nice and easy, like the song says, okay?”

“Does the song say anything about a cop getting shot tonight?” Reynolds asked. “Which is why my client is here in custody, isn't that so?”

“Well, Counselor,” Byrnes said, “if you'd let him answer my questions, we could maybe find
out
why we're here, okay? Unless you want to call the whole thing off, which is your client's right, as you know.”

“For Chrissake, let him ask his goddamn questions,” Blaine said. “I got nothing to hide here.”

Famous last words, Byrnes thought.

Reynolds was thinking the same thing.

So was Kling.

Brown was wondering if the son of a bitch was going to claim police brutality cause he'd smacked him upside the head back there in his apartment.

Blaine all of a sudden thought he had to be very careful here because somehow they'd learned about his relationship with Enrique Ramirez, and that was a road that led directly to Guido's Pizzeria and a lot of spilled tomato sauce.

Byrnes was thinking he had to walk a very careful line here because they'd promised Betty Young sanctuary, they'd asked her to trust them, and he couldn't now reveal her name or how he'd come into possession of the information she'd given them.

“This pool parlor you work for?” he asked. “Who owns it?”

“I got no idea.”

“You don't know who the
boss
is?”

“Nope. The manager pays me my check every week.”

“What's the manager's name?”

“Joey?”

“Joey what?”

“I haven't the faintest.”

“How'd you get this job?”

“Friend of mine told me about it.”

“What's your friend's name?”

“Alvin Woods. He's gone back home to Georgia.”

Go find him, he was thinking.

Doesn't exist, Byrnes was thinking.

“Know a man named Ozzie Rivera?”

“Nope.”

“Oswaldo Rivera?”

“Never heard of him.”

“How about a man named Joaquim Valdez?”

“Nope.”

“That wouldn't be the Joey who pays you your check every week, would it?”

“I don't know what Joey's last name is.”

“Rivera had both his legs broken last April. Were you living in this city last April?”

“I surely was. But I don't know anything about this Ozzie Rivera or both his broken legs. That sure is a shame, though.”

Like to smack him again, Brown thought.

“What were you doing on the morning of November eighth?” Byrnes asked.

Here we go, Blaine thought.

“November eighth, let me see,” he said.

“Take all the time you need,” Byrnes said.

“Would that have been a Saturday morning? Cause Saturday's my day off. I sleep late Saturdays.”

“No, this would've been a Monday morning.”

“Then I'd've been at the pool hall.”

“Doing what? What do you do at this pool hall, Maxie?”

“I'm a table organizer.”

“What's that, a table organizer?”

“I see to it that there's a flow.”

“A flow, uh-huh. What's that?”

“I see to it that the tables are continuously occupied. So we don't have people waiting for tables or tables not being played. It's an interesting job.”

“I'll bet. Did you ever hear of a man named Danny Nelson?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Danny Gimp is another name he went by.”

“No. Never heard of him.”

“Would you be surprised if I told you he'd stiffed your boss on a minor-league dope deal …”

“My boss? Who's supposed to be my boss?”

“Enrique Ramirez. Who owns the pool hall you work for.”

“I don't know anybody named Enrique Ramirez, I already told you. Nor Danny Gump, neither.”

“Gimp.”

“I thought you said Gump.”

“Gimp. It means a guy who limps.”

“Has all this got to do with some sort of
drug
violation?” Reynolds asked.

“Two keys of cocaine,” Byrnes said, nodding. “Worth forty-two large.”

“You know,” Reynolds said, “I really think you people should either charge my client with a specific crime or else …”

“Ramirez paid a man named Danny Nelson to deliver two keys of coke to a dealer in Majesta,” Byrnes explained genially. “Danny never showed up and neither did the coke. You don't do that to Enrique Ramirez.”

“I don't know anything about any of this,” Blaine said. “I especially don't know this Enrique Ramirez person, who I guess you're saying is somehow involved with dealing dope.”

“
El Jefe?
” Byrnes said. “Ever hear him called that?”

“No. Is that Spanish, what you said?”

“We think
El Jefe
hired you to kill Danny Nelson,” Byrnes said.

“Ooops, that's it, Lieutenant,” Reynolds said.

“No, that's okay,” Blaine said, grinning. “I don't know any of these people he's talking about, so just relax, it's okay. I've got nothing to worry about here. Nice and easy, okay? Like you said, Lieutenant.”

Smack him right in the fuckin eye, Brown thought.

“On the morning of November eighth,” Byrnes said, “did you tell a friend of yours you were going out for some pizza?”

Kling looked at him. So did Brown. The lieutenant had just come dangerously close to revealing Betty Young's identity. If Blaine walked out of here today …

“No,” Blaine said. “What friend?”

“Excuse me, lieutenant …,” Kling said.

“What friend?” Blaine insisted.

“A friend you told you were going out for pizza, on the morning Danny Gimp …”

“Lieutenant …”

“
Did
you tell a friend you were going out for pizza?”

“This is Betty Young, right?” Blaine said.

Oh Jesus, Kling thought. The Loot just gave her up.

“Never mind who it is.
Did
you …?”

“It's that fuckin bitch Betty, ain't it? Who else could it be? What
else
did she tell you?”

“I would suggest …”

“If you don't mind, Counselor …”

“Mr. Blaine …”

“What did you mean when you said you were going out for pizza?” Byrnes asked.

“I meant I was going out for
pizza,
what the fuck's wrong with that? Oh, I get it. She spotted me on the tape, right? She's going for the re …”

“What tape?” Byrnes asked at once.

Blaine suddenly shut up.

“Are we finished here?” Reynolds asked.

“Unless Mr. Blaine has something else he wants to tell us,” Byrnes said.

“We're finished here,” Blaine said.

“You heard him. In which case …”

“Like what?” Blaine said.

“Come on,” Reynolds said. “Let's go.”

“No, like what?” Blaine insisted. “What would I want to tell you?”

“That's up to you,” Byrnes said. “You think it over. Meanwhile, we're gonna hold you here for a few hours while we assemble some witnesses from the pizzeria. Run a little lineup for them, see if they can recognize you a little better in person than on that tape you were just talking about. The law allows us …”

“That was it, am I right? She spotted me on the tape, that fuckin bitch.”

Kling was staring at the lieutenant.

They had asked Betty Young to trust them.

But the lieutenant had given her up.

“You want whose name went in with me?” Blaine asked. “Is that it?”

It was contagious.

The black man who'd been Blaine's partner on the pizzeria shivaree was a dark-skinned Colombian named Hector Milagros. They
arrested him in a diner at nine that morning, having breakfast alone in a corner booth. Milagros knew there was no sense trying to force his way out of a situation where his back was to a plate glass window and he was looking at three nines as compared to his singleton thirty-eight. He asked them could he finish his eggs before they got cold. They told him they'd order more eggs for him up at the station house. Casually, he asked, “Wass thees all abou, anyways, muchachos?”

“We've been talking to an old friend of yours,” Brown said.

“Old shooting buddy of yours,” Kling said.

“Maxie Blaine,” Carella said. “Remember him?”

“Mierda!”
Milagros said, and stabbed his fork into one of the egg yolks. Yellow ran all over his plate.

By the time the network news broke the following day, both Milagros and Blaine had been indicted by a grand jury for the murder of Daniel Nelson. Expecting they would both be held without bail, Betty Young showed little temerity about revealing herself as the person responsible for their arrest. Ever on the prowl for promotional opportunities, Restaurant Affiliates arranged for the presentation of the $50,000 reward check (blown up to gigantic viewing size) on that evening's six-thirty network news. It did not hurt that Betty Young was an attractive woman with a dazzling smile and a blameless bust. Winsomely grinning into the camera, she thanked RA, Inc. for the check she would use to buy nursing care for her bedridden mother in Florida and a new Chevy Geo for herself. She then expressed the fervent wish that those two ruthless killers would receive the maximum penalty—otherwise she'd be looking over her shoulder the rest of her life, she did not say to the television audience. Literary agents all over the city wondered if there was a book and subsequent movie in this. School children all over the United States wept sympathetic tears into their beers and went out to buy a
nicer
pizza, hopeful they'd accidentally stumble into a Guido's killing of their own and glean a fifty-K reward as a
result. Watching the show in bed, eating Chinese food with Sharyn Cooke, Kling wondered aloud if Lieutenant Byrnes had done the right thing.

“Because you know, Shar,” he said, “Pete had
no
idea Blaine would suddenly open up. No idea at all. He just threw her to the lions, was what he did. After she gave us her trust.”