Simple Intent (14 page)

A deep voice interrupted. “What the fuck?” 

“Yeah, Berger’s playing fucking nurse maid to this wacko. But you know what? That guy comes downstairs all cleaned up and grateful that Berger makes a connection. That wack-job was Berger’s top informant for ten years. Without him, we never would’ve got Moreno in ’82. But that’s a whole other fucking story. Right boys?”

Reilly clicked off the recorder. 

Sailor stared at him. “Holy shit. Is there more like that?’ 

Reilly yawned behind his hand. “You want to hear more?’ He slid the recorder to her. “I’ll be right back.”

Sailor listened to more wild tales, cops one-upping each other, trying to impress the women. She wrote down the names she heard: Four Eyes, Junior, White Shoes, Fat Ollie and Tony Cigars. 

When Reilly returned from the bathroom, his eyes were brighter, his pupils enlarged. “So, sounds like you had a pretty interesting night. What about that guy Strom? What did he tell you?”

Sailor kept writing. “That my eyes are like pools of stars.”

Reilly looked at her and wondered how she could fall for crap like that. 

“I think he’s sweet.”

“Sweet?” Reilly went off on an Italian accented comedic riff about donuts and tira misu and the wonderful things a man could do with a jelly filled donut when lonely. 

Sailor laughed. “Stop,” she said. “You’re killing me.” She threw her napkin at him and they both laughed—harder than they should have, for longer than was necessary. They laughed because they had stepped in some deep shit, and the truly funny stuff was going to be far away for a long time.

Berger threw the can opener. “Motherfucking piece of shit!” It bounced off the wall, leaving a black mark and a four-inch dent then skittered across the vinyl tile. “Come on, you cocksucker! I just want a fucking bowl of soup.” He pressed down hard, punctured the tin and twisted the rusty handle. Three tries and two cuts later, the can opened. 

He hadn’t eaten all day and wasn’t sure he could keep this down. But the shakes had finally stopped and he had things to do. Berger looked at the clock. Eight-thirty. While the chicken soup warmed in the microwave, he grabbed a bottle of water and swallowed four different pills. He ate the soup standing up at the counter, with a few beers to wash it down.

By the time he was halfway to the docks, Berger felt better. The drugs were kicking in and the dry heaves had passed. He still felt like he had fur on his tongue and a helmet on his head, but he’d meet Gallo and tell him one more time to go fuck himself. Then he’d drive straight home and sleep like the dead.

SHAZAD had been awake for hours, listening to the sound of Ray sleeping. Out with the bad, in with the good. Out with the bad, in with the good. And after a while, Shazad climbed down from his tray and unrolled his rug on the cool cement floor. 

He was sitting there when Ray woke. Without opening his eyes, Shazad said, “The papers and magazines are for Snap and Crackle. All of the books go to Pop.” Shazad pointed and Ray followed the finger to the yellow bin stamped with the letters, S.C.I. Graterford. When Ray didn’t reply, Shazad opened his eyes and looked at his cellmate. “You are sure you will be all right?” 

“I’ll be fine. Just get your stuff together. They’ll be here any minute.” 

Shazad rolled his worn rug. “I have no use for these things.” He offered it to Ray. “Remember, Ray, they do not own you. Your body is only here for them to count.” 

The cell door clanged open. Deputy Scruggs stood outside. “Said all your good-byes, Shazam?”

Shazad ignored the dig and slipped into his prison shoes for the last time. 

“Come on, they’re ready for you in discharge.”

Ray touched knuckles with Shazad, “On the one, my man.”

“On the one, my friend.”

Before the door slammed shut, Shazad called back, “Everything will be fine, Ray. You will see.”

Deluca paced in his office, tapping a rhythm on the coins in his pocket. He checked his Rolex. Two minutes. He walked to the adjoining bathroom, stood in front of the mirror and raised his hand then dropped it. There was nothing left to adjust. 

The intercom on his desk beeped, then Mimi said, “Mr. Deluca, Miss Beaumont is here.”

Deluca called, “Send her in, Mimi. And see if she’d like coffee or something.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mimi looked up at Sailor. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No. I’m fine. Thank you.” 

“He’ll see you now.” 

Mimi watched the girl close the heavy mahogany door behind her. She hoped Fast Eddie knew what he was doing. Sailor was an intern, but this wasn’t the White House. What the hell was Deluca doing here at seven a.m. on a Monday morning with a beautiful young girl behind closed doors? And why was he wearing his favorite Hugo Boss jacket?

Deluca’s nervousness disappeared the moment he saw her. Something about her presence was soothing. He slipped behind his desk and gave her his best money making smile. “Good morning, Miss Beaumont.”

Sailor sat down across from him and crossed her legs. If this had been the forties she would have tugged up her gloves and asked for light. She was that classy. “It’s back to Miss Beaumont, is it? Eddie, call me Sailor.”

“Sailor.” Seeming pleased with the feel of it, he said it again. “Sailor, perhaps you’re wondering why I called you here.” He kept his eyes on her, still trying to figure out what she had done to him the other night. Or what he might have done to her. 

“It has come to my attention that with your connections and social background, you might do well with more high profile cases. I have suggested to Ted that I intern you here, myself. That would be in addition to your responsibilities with Len, unless that would be too much.” 

“Not at all.” Sailor smiled. She toyed with her pendant necklace, uncrossing her long legs then wrapping them in the other direction. Eddie felt an urge to leap over the desk and throw himself at her feet. He thought for one second that he’d give her anything she asked for and in return he’d be able to touch her and be humbled by her. He felt that just being near her made him a better man. Then he blinked and shook his head. What the fuck? 

Sailor spoke, breaking the trance. “So, you’d want me to start tomorrow, then?”

Deluca nodded. He watched her leave, even heard the door close behind her, but could have sworn that he was miles away, lying naked on a warm sandy beach.

Len Banning backed his Jag out of the garage, humming along to the Top 40 Station. He hardly ever sang anymore. The house was too empty, the stereo system too damn confusing and the shower had crappy acoustics. But all that was going to change. He had the realtor out right now nailing down properties that had “Len Banning” written all over them. One was a Craftsman-style house on three acres with a barn and workshop. Len smiled. I’m going to get three big dogs. Hell, maybe even a cat. 

At the firm, he parked in his assigned spot then headed for his office. They had to leave for the prison soon or they’d miss the morning visitation cut-off. 

As Sailor waited for Reilly, she glanced around his cubicle. No photos, no plants. Just a few black-and-white comics tacked to the upholstered walls—a confused penguin, angry office workers and a fat cat. “Ready?” she said.

“Ready as I’ll ever be. You’re sure they said no phones, no palm devices?’ Reilly emptied his pockets into his briefcase.

“Nothing mechanical.” Sailor said, adjusting her collar. “Unless you have special permission to videotape a deposition. Just paper and pen.”

“Hope I can write fast enough.”

“Hope we can read your writing.”

They met Banning in the foyer. He was finishing a call on his cell phone and writing a message at the reception desk under the watchful eye of Paris. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder indicating the file boxes. Reilly nodded, handed his briefcase to Sailor and carried the boxes onto the elevator. Banning followed, still on the phone. He punched the garage level and they rode down. 

“I don’t care, Theo. I want to sell. All offers will be considered. Yes, all offers.” Banning glanced at the interns, then said, “Listen, just call me later,” and hung up as the elevator opened. 

“Here we are.” Banning motioned to a gleaming ebony and chrome Jaguar XJ12 and popped the trunk.

“Oh, she’s beautiful.” Sailor walked the length of the car, grazed her hand over the hood ornament. 

“You’ll never find another Jaguar, (he pronounced it, jag-u-are), like this. She’s custom-built.” 

Reilly ignored them. It’s a fucking car, people. Hello? He loaded the boxes in the trunk, removed Ray’s file from his briefcase and added it to one of the boxes.

Sailor ran her thumb over her lip, looked like she was about to ask something then bent down, peering under the vehicle. She stood, grinning. “Pininfarina?”

Banning was surprised. “Yes. But how did you...”

Sailor walked the length of the car. Two summers dating Benny the mechanic had taught her something after all. She said, “It’s genius. Borrowing from the lines of the Series II with the larger rectangular air intake beneath the front bumper, but look at this sleek body. Larger windows, great profile, and the curves are gorgeous. She’s a real beauty.” 

The men thought the same thing about the woman in front of them.

Sailor grabbed the passenger door handle and looked at Banning. “We’re still talking fuel-injected v12, OHC, aren’t we?”

“Absolutely. All the way to Graterford.”

Reilly slid into the backseat and opened the morning paper. What did it matter what was under the hood? It was about how you looked behind the wheel. And for this attorney, that meant sports car. Sleek, shiny and convertible. He didn’t care what was under the hood. It could be hamsters on a wheel or rabid squirrels on a treadmill, as long as he had a full tank of gas and a beautiful girl in the passenger seat.

Hiram Berger wore a sweat suit and sneakers with absolutely no intention of exercise. He held the refrigerator door in one hand, the phone in the other, cord stretching across the kitchen. He tried to keep his voice level. “Yes sir. I understand. It’s just that—No, Mr. Frappolli. I still want the security job. Next week would be fine. Thank you, Sir.”

Berger closed the door of the empty fridge and hung up the phone. The long cord twisted around itself like a night crawler on a hook. Fucking Gallo. I had plans. Me and Gina, we had plans. Why do you have to come around and pull my strings? He glanced at the employee handbook on the counter. Safeguards, Inc. Because Security is Never Convenient.

“You got that right pal,” Berger said, twisting the plastic pill sorter to Monday then dumping half the contents in his hand. Frappolli and the night job would wait. He still had his job at the school. Money would be all right for a while. 

He headed for the garage, swallowing pills along the way. Berger had plans. As he backed the big Impala out of the garage and down the driveway, he thought of Gallo and his little wops at the dock. They were on his mind while he made stops at the hardware store and army surplus warehouse. He thought of them while he grabbed a bite to eat at the diner. He thought about them all the way to the library.

Reilly didn’t say much the entire ride. It looked like they had taken a detour into suburbia, like someone had wrongly posted the ugly brown sign, SCI Graterford in the middle of a sleepy little town, until he noticed the uniformed guard on horseback. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and held a shotgun across his lap, reins in one hand. A few feet away, men in prison jumpsuits picked up trash. They dragged bright plastic bags behind them and looked up as the Jag slowed then turned onto the prison road. Sailor and Reilly stared out the open windows.

A large black man ina red headwrap called, “Hey bay-bee. Wanna ride in my car?” 

The other cons joined in the catcalls.

“Ooo, mama. You go girl.”

“See what I tell you, man. It takes a Jag to get a bitch like that.” 

Sailor raised her tinted window as they continued up the road passing lush green fields with buildings and barns in the distance. The road crested and the first tower appeared. Reilly swallowed hard. 

Banning drove through the employee parking lot with its wide, newly painted spaces, then bumped off the pavement onto the visitor’s dirt and gravel lot. Trash littered the ground and the cars were parked haphazardly as if a tornado had dropped them. 

Banning pulled in between a beat-up Chevy and a deep purple, fully accessorized Z-28. He said, “Just another way to remind the con who he is, and who he isn’t. The theory is: Further isolation from society and removal of privileges teaches the inmate to stop taking things for granted and to realize all actions come with consequences—good and bad.” 

“Sounds like law school,” Reilly muttered. He looked at the Z. “Hey, what’s my Mom doing here?”

Sailor laughed. “Cut it out, Ry.” She turned to Banning. “Is it always this crowded?” 

“Only on a Monday,” Banning said. “The beginning of the week holds much promise.”

He popped the trunk and handed a file box to Reilly and took one himself. Sailor rolled a cart with additional files. They made their way through the lot, kicking up a dusty trail. To the left of the prison entrance was a beautifully landscaped brick building with curtains in the windows and flowerpots on the steps: The administration building.