16 Hitman (17 page)

"Sounds like I deserve a bonus."

Richard caught himself in mid-gloat. "Stanley.You know how
these things are. All contingency cases. If I win, I get paid. If I lose,
I don't. I can work on something for eight months and have it get
thrown out of court. You get paid whether I win or not. Hell,
you're probably charging me two hours for these simple photos
that took you ten minutes to take."

"Three hours, Richard."

"Three hours?"

"Travel time, Richard. My last case of the day. Travel time there
and back"

"It's only your last case of the day because you were out getting arrested."

"I wasn't arrested."

"Whatever. The point is, you're getting paid, and I might not."

"I'm glad to see you're so broad-minded"

"Huh?"

I reached in my briefcase, threw another packet of photos on
Richard's desk.

He frowned, picked it up, pulled out the prints. "What are these?"

I smiled.

"Funny you should ask."

MACAULLIF WAS ON THURMAN'S side. That figured. Everything
else was upside down in this stupid case. Why shouldn't he back a
moron?

"I didn't trip," I protested.

"You didn't stay on your feet, either."

"I really don't want to argue, MacAullif."

"Who's arguing? I'm not arguing. I'm just pointing out if
Thurman says you were on the ground, it's because you were on
the ground."

"So I was on the ground. There are many ways of getting there.
He's a sergeant. You're a sergeant. I rest my case."

"Let me be sure I got this straight. Are you saying you tried to
save the guy?"

"I know that's hard to believe."

"Oh, I can imagine you trying. You succeeding is something else."

"You forget I was saved by Sergeant Thurman."

"I don't see why you're busting his balls. He could have let the
hitman shoot you."

"Delgado wasn't trying to shoot me."

"I don't see why not. You're an insufferable pain in the ass.
There's times I'd like to shoot you myself."

"Come on, MacAullif. Frankie Delgado was our only lead. So
numbnuts shoots him dead"

"I admit he will be harder to interrogate."

"How am I going to find out why he killed my client?"

"Ah, that's more like it. Totally at sea, with no idea how to do
your job. That sounds more like you. Tell me, are you mad at
Thurman because you can't question Frankie Delgado, or are you
mad at Thurman because he did your job. To put it another way,
would you be feeling right about this if you shot Frankie Delgado?"

"I haven't got a gun."

"Exactly. So you feel inadequate. So you're pissed off at the guy
who has."

"Jesus Christ, MacAullif. Are you in therapy?"

"No. Why?"

"I'm just wondering where you come up with this amateur
analysis."

"Gimme a break. It's just common sense. The gun is an extension of your penis. If you don't have one, you got no dick.You're
like a neutered dog resenting one with balls."

"Thanks a lot."

"That's for your therapy crack. But there's something to it. If
you were armed, you wouldn't feel powerless."

"If my witness were alive, I wouldn't feel powerless."

"Your witness wasn't going to talk. Your witness was going to
kill people."

"Yeah, well, maybe he had a bad childhood."

"Yeah. Maybe he couldn't get laid in high school and had a
small dick. Anyway, this time around you're not going to get much mileage portraying Sergeant Thurman as the villain in the piece.
He's a hero cop, plain and simple, probably get a citation."

"I know."

"And you think it isn't fair?"

"Do you?"

"Who gives a shit? Maybe it isn't fair, but your problem is you
think it should be fair. You think there should be a giant scale
somewhere, and all the good deeds and bad deeds get weighed, and
then everyone gets what they deserve."

"Are you sure you're a cop?"

?
"Why?"

"The images you come up with"

"Okay, you think it's like a TV show, where by the end the bad
cop gets his comeuppance and the good cop saves the day."

"Are you saying Thurman's a bad cop?"

"I'm not sayin'shit. I'm tying to deal with your dumbass notions."

"Thanks a lot. So what do I do now?"

"Jesus Christ, it always comes down to this. Here you are, in my
office, asking what to do next. Here's what you do next: nothing.
It's got nothing to do with you anymore."

"What about Kessler?"

"What about him? He's still alive, thanks to Sergeant Thurman.
He's in protective custody, thanks to this asshole Thurman shot.
He's not going to school anymore. He's bein' babysat by the cops."

"For how long?"

"Until we find out who's pissed at him."

"With Thurman in charge? That could be a long time."

"Thurman's not in charge."

"Oh? Who is?"

MacAullif raised his eyebrows.

"You!?"

"No, not me, asshole. What have I got to do with it? Detective
Crowley's in charge."

"You're kidding."

"Hey, it's a homicide"

"No, it's not. It's self-defense.

"Not this bozo. What's-his-face. Victor Marsden."

"They got the guy who did it. Didn't the bullets from Delgado's gun match up?"

"That's what I hear"

"So, isn't the case solved?"

"In an unsatisfactory way."

"Thank you. You mean Sergeant Thurman isn't the cat's meow?"

"Sergeant Thurman is Sergeant Thurman. You take the good
with the bad."

"Easy for you to say. He never messed up your case."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far."

"Really? What'd he do to you?"

"He didn't do anything. He's made mistakes, sure, but he's
always meant well."

"He should get points for that?"

"Well, with all these movies about bad cops. Actors just love to
play 'em. The dirtier the better. Didn't Uenzel Washington win an
Oscar for one? There's something to say for a cop who's honest."

"He's a saint. So what do I do now?"

MacAullif grimaced. "That's the third time you've asked me.
Jesus Christ, you're like one of those fucking writers doesn't know
where to go with his story, just sits spinning his wheels. What do
they call that?"

"
"Writer's block."

"Yeah. That's it"

"And do you know how to solve that, MacAullif? 'Cause
there's a lot of writers gonna be pretty damn grateful."

I don't know what they do. But I know what you do"

"What's that?"

"See what happens next"

I WENT OUT ON MY rounds. I didn't know what else to do, and I
needed the money. Not that I really expected Richard to charge
me umpty million dollars for keeping nie out of jail. Keeping me
out of jail was one of Richard's hobbies. A nice break from the
usual negligence shit. Of course, I realized I shouldn't abuse it. As
Richard had pointed out. If you ask me, he was just being cranky.
Obstruction of justice is a serious enough charge. Especially when
it's regarding a murder. Surely Richard could get his rocks off with
that and not bill me up the wazoo.

Anyway, Rodney Walks, in what passed for a house in Bed-Stuy,
Brooklyn, had developed lead poisoning from eating peeling paint.
Probably not the smartest move, but Rodney was only two years
old and not up on the latest surgeon general's warnings. His
mother, however, did know better, and was righteously indignant.
Oddly enough, largely at Rodney himself.

"I tol' him not to eat the paint, and he jus' keeps eatin' it. Jus'
don' listen. Got no sense."

I figured that was probably true. Rodney, a toddler, would be prone to poor career choices and not quick to take direction. I
wondered why the mother, who clearly did know better, hadn't
realized the Socratic method wasn't working and taken the initiative to remove the paint from the child or the child from the paint.
But, hey, it wasn't my problem. I took down the woman's information, didn't comment on her parenting skills.

She was signing the retainer when my beeper went off. I called
in, and it turned out I was wanted in the office.

"At the end of the day?"

"No, now," Wendy/Janet said."Finish your sign-up and come in."

I signed up the paint eater, who'd probably make a small fortune from his horrific diet. Had the mother known that? Was she
actually a very bright woman who sat in the corner feeding him
chips of poison paint?

I beat it back to Manhattan, lucked into a parking meter, took
the elevator up to the offices of Rosenberg and Stone.

Wendy was on the desk. I can tell 'em apart in person. She was
on the phone, but she waved me in.

Richard was at his desk writing on a pad. At least that's how it
would look to a client. I knew him well enough to know he was
doodling.

"What's up, Richard?"

He smiled. "Sit down."

Uh-oh.

I pulled up a chair, waited for the bomb to drop. "What's the
trouble?"

"What makes you think anything's the trouble?"

"You're being entirely too nice."

"I resent that"

"Okay, what's up?"

"The Jerome Robinson case."

"Why and I not surprised?"

"I had a nice talk with the client. Smart man. Reasonable. But
concerned"

"Why is he concerned?"

"The photo assignment. When he pointed out his pothole."

"What about it?"

"Jerome feels he may have been mistaken."

"Does he now?"

"Yes, he does. And he's rather upset about it."

"I'm sorry to hear it. He seemed a nice man."

"He is a nice man. And he's suffered a terrible injury."

"He's making a miraculous recovery."

Richard frowned. "Yes. What's that all about? Anyway, the gentleman now feels that the pothole that tripped him was the jagged
one that was registered but not repaired"

"So what's the problem?"

"He's afraid your memory may not agree with that opinion."

"No, that's the one I thought it was, too," I said innocently.

Richard scowled irritably. "Yes, but he didn't think it was at first."

"He seemed prone to make that mistake," I agreed.

"But now he'd like to correct it"

"What's the problem?"

"He's afraid you'll contradict him. He's afraid you'll take the
stand and say he's lying."

"Is he lying?"

"Of course he's not lying!" Richard controlled himself, smiled
ingratiatingly. "He made an honest mistake."

"Then he has nothing to worry about."

"That's what I told him. But he's not convinced."

"What do you want from me?"

Richard smiled, his most ingratiating smile. "Could you talk to
him? Reassure him? He's at the point where he could go either
way. He needs someone to talk him down"

"I think you switched metaphors on me."

"Can you do this for me?"

"On top of what I already did for you? Taking the pictures of
the pothole the client said had nothing to do with his accident? The one on which you're basing your entire case now? The one
you gloated would be enough to up the jury award, though not to
the point I should get any bonus out of it. So I can pay all your
billable hours for keeping me out of jail"

"Consider it done. I was joking, Stanley. I'm not going to
charge you"

"I know you were joking, Richard. So not charging me isn't a
concession on your part, is it?" I interlaced my fingers, twiddled my
thumbs."It seems that the merits of the cases that you take are rather
flexible. Now, this one, for instance, if you go by the pothole the guy
claimed, has absolutely no merit whatsoever. On the other hand, if
you consider the registered pothole, it's a whole different story."

"You've made your point. What do you want?"

"Medical malpractice, the same thing. From one point of view,
a woman with a dead baby isn't worth anything. From another
point of view, maybe there's something to be done"

Richard's eyes widened. "Son of a bitch!"

"Do we have a deal?"

"I can't believe you're doing this"

I couldn't believe I was, either. But my life was upside down,
and something had to make sense. Or work out. Or seem fair.
Somehow, in the cosmic order of the intergalactic mind-fuck, I
needed something to go my way. Yolanda Smith and her dead
baby was just the ticket.

"Do we have a deal or not?"

"Of course, we have a deal."

"Good. Catch you later."

I got up to go.

"Stop by the front desk and see if Wendy or Janet have any
new sign-ups." Richard didn't care if I did, he just wanted to
reassert his authority.

I wish I could have let him. "Not this afternoon, Richard"

He blinked. "Oh? Why not?"

"I'm going to a funeral."

I GUESS I WAS EXPECTING the Sopranos.

No one at Victor Marsden's funeral looked the least connected.
Just a bunch of ordinary, everyday people, marking the impact of
death upon their lives.