The Shadow Box (45 page)

“What's that he yelled?”

“
Wasn't me.”

“Wasn't him who what?”

“Just keep walkin'.”

“Think he made you for a cop?”

“No.”

“Then why he run?”

“Keep walkin
’”

Marvis smiled. “White men can't
run,
either.”

Officer Ahmad Shabaz didn't know what was worse.
Being white and scared of any black man who's not in
some uniform. Or being black and seeing how scared they
get. Both ways are bad.

Army uniform, cop uniform, hospital whites
...
all
those say we're housebroke. Tuxedo says we're musicians
or waiters. A good business suit will ease their minds as
long as we don't wear shades with it ‘cause then they
think we're Muslims. Found Allah in prison. Hate whitey.
Hate Jews even more.

But wear your sweathoods and high-tops, be out walkin' at night, white folks run into white stores or dive down a subway where they hope there's a cop. But in your own
neighborhood you
have
to wear them or you stand out. Wear anything else and you get dissed by your brothers for dressin' too white.

Every way is bad. No way to win.

One time, upstate, he stopped in this little store. Woman
didn't know whether to scream or hold her breath or ease
over toward the gun she most likely had under the counter.
He had to tell her, “Lady, all I want is some toothpaste.
See here? Here's my money.” Damned if he'd tell her
he's a cop.

That never stops. And it always feels bad even when it
feels good. The good
feel part is why Marvis is smilin'.

Feels good watchin' the white man run.

Lena May field said thank you but no.

The lawyer had called her first thing Thursday morning.
She was dressed in her bathrobe, busy frying up breakfast.

Yes, she remembered the little wavy-haired lawyer, she
appreciated what he'd done for her back then and it was
nice of the Fallon boy to offer. But she just had no time
for such foolishness.

First off, she couldn't hardly afford one sick day, never
mind a whole week with no money coming in. Time was,
she had four part-time jobs but in March she got laid off
from two of them because one lady she cleaned for moved to Florida and the man who owned the video store had to give that job to kin. Second, Mr. Doyle wouldn't tell her
where this vacation-with-all-expenses place is. He said
he'd tell her when she's packed and ready to go. All he'd
say is the place is real pretty.

Heck. Selma, Alabama, was
pretty.

Anyhow, the lawyer sounded just as glad that she
declined.

“Mr. Doyle
...
try her one more time. Tell her I'll—”

“She said no, Michael.”

“How about if I make up any pay she misses?”

“She thanks you for the offer but she can't.”

“Okay, I'll ask her myself.”

“No. Don't do that.”

A beat on Michael's end. “Are you sure that you even
called her?”

“Fuck you for asking.”

“Come on, Mr. Doyle. You're a persuasive guy. Per
suade her.”

A weary breath. “You going to be home?”

“I'm here all day.”

Again, Lena Mayfield said no. But the lawyer sounded
like he meant it this time. He wouldn't let up. He told her
it was Martha's Vineyard. It's where the president goes
on vacation, he said. It's where Jimmy Cagney used to
live. Man was runnin' short on arguments.

In the end,
what made her say yes was not the limou
sine—one of those block-long suckers—which would
come right up her street where everyone could see and the
chauffeur would hold the door open for her. It wasn't
being driven way up to Westchester Airport and then put
on a bitty little plane. And it wasn't Mr. Doyle's whopper
about how it's a mortal sin for Catholics if they don't do
a good deed back.

That boy had looked after her, even busted up like he
was. Lookin' in on him was the least she could do. And
with Memorial Day weekend coming, people going away,
the folks she still cleans for don't need her then anyhow.
She'd go up first thing tomorrow, stay till Monday lunch
if that suits
Michael. But she won't take his money and
he's got to let her pitch in with the chores.

Three days is enough idleness for anyone.

Chapter 27

P
arker too
was sorely tempted to think about a
change of scenery.

For some weeks now, an inner voice had been telling him that it was time to pick up his marbles and vanish.
That voice had never been louder than this morning, sitting
in the old man's suite, watching him eat breakfast—the
man eats cold cuts and yogurt—listening to his rantings
and knowing that meanwhile, that piss-ant Hobbs was get
ting dangerously close to a breakdown.

Twice now, the Baron had postponed going back to
Munich. Twice, he'd ducked board meetings until he could
get this settled. Parker had no idea what the board knew
or didn't know or what set of books he was showing them.
But AdChem's earnings had been taking a bath for more
than a year now and the Baron was under pressure to
show some turnaround. The last thing he needed was
Doyle's new lawsuit. If the von Scharnhorsts are clean,
they'll vote him out in a second. The Baron is family, but
only by marriage. If they're dirty, and if they're smart,
they'll let him take the fall.

“Who is Armin Rasmussen, by the way?” asked Parker.

The Baron's eyes went cold.

“Someone on the board, or what?”

The old man's scar was twitching. “He doesn't concern
you,” he answered distantly. “He's someone who died . . .
a long time ago.”

Sure he did, thought Parker. That's why the name scares the
shit out of you. But screw it. Parker had his own problems.

Turkel might have been the smart one. He's probably
down on Grand Cayman right now stuffing cash in a suit
case. That's unless they have him. And the Baron's afraid that they might. In which case, he says, we'll need a hos
tage of our own.

“Like who? Like Doyle?”

“Who
else
but Doyle? He's the only one we can get
our hands on.”

Oh, boy. “Look . . . let's think about this.”

“And it must be done quickly. I want him before he
can file that lawsuit.”

Parker felt a headache coming on. “Doyle calls Bellows to say he's upping the ante. He says he's naming AdChem
this time and he claims he's got evidence of fraud and
then, one day later, he gets snatched. You think no one
will make the connection?”

“The man is a lawyer. Lawyers have enemies.”
  Oh, Christ, thought Parker. He's talking about killing him.

“That's what you'll tell Bellows when he turns up
dead? It wasn't us? Must have been some divorce case he
handled where he fucked some guy over?”

”A street crime, then. Or a hit-run accident. You might,
for example . . .”

Parker stopped listening. This is where the Baron tells
you how to do your job. He lays out detailed scenarios of
exactly how it should happen. It's like he's never heard
of Murphy's Law.

This is all Bellows needs, thought Parker. He's still in
shock over his goddamned Rolls and he knows they could just as easily have torched the whole town house with him and his family trapped up in their bedrooms. It would take
him about two stiff vodkas before he's on the phone to a
federal prosecutor looking to cut himself a deal.

The Baron's now saying that just the other day a busi
nessman from Cleveland was stabbed to death by a trans
vestite prostitute.  He'd seen it on the news.  Arrange

something like that, he's saying. Something so sordid that
his family will want to keep it quiet.

Parker signaled for time out. He shared his thoughts
about how Bellows might react. The old man didn't want
to hear it but in the end he knew it was right because he'd
been having the same thoughts about Hobbs.

“Is anyone keeping an eye on him, by the way?”

“Hobbs? Where's he going to go?”

“Where do cockroaches go when you turn on the
light?”

“Hobbs couldn't flip us. He's—”

“See to it, Mr. Parker.”

Parker said he'd watch him just to keep the old man happy. But no way. Bellows might flip and then walk
because the most he'd be facing is two years anyway, which, worst case, he'd spend playing tennis at Allen
wood. Hobbs could sing himself hoarse and he'd still do
life without.