Authors: Michael Malone
Nora said, “Maybe we should let him go back to sleep now.”
I could sympathize with Billy's desire. Not Isaac; unless forced up early by a trial, he’d always flipped night and day, claiming to reach the “peak of his powers” between three and five in the
morning. It looked like Nora Howard was going to fit right in; she was rummaging around in all those notes of hers, bright-eyed as a nocturnal raccoon in a trash can.
Yawning, I walked over and shook Gilchrist's bird-boned arm. “Wake up, Billy. Okay, you sold the drugs—let's not discuss whether or not you suspected from those HPD tags that you were selling confiscated evidence that was the property of the police department.” Isaac sighed, and blew a puff of smoke at the ceiling. “Yes, let's don’t discuss it. Billy repents his former life.”
Gilchrist was swaying back and forth, either from exhaustion or the beer or religious ecstasy. “Repented and found salvation in the redemption of my Lord Jesus Christ—”
I said, “Right. Let's
not
discuss it. Sorry I brought, it up. You sold the drugs. What did you do with the sixty-seven thousand dollars?”
He answered with his eyes closed. “I spent some. And I lost some down in Florida.”
“I assume you don’t mean you mislaid it, but lost it gambling?”
“Yeah, mostly dogs and horses, craps, some cards, little jai alai, you know. I guess it was about twenty thousand dollars I lost. I mean,” he opened his eyes to explain, “not all at once. Different trips.”
I said, “Well, that's reassuring. I’d hate to think you were reckless enough to lose twenty thousand dollars on one visit to Florida.”
“I had a kind of a serious drinking problem.” “I know.”
“Yeah well, I kept waking up and finding myself on an airplane headed some place like Vegas or Miami.”
“My my. Must have been pretty nerve-racking.” I watched Nora trying not to smile. She hopped off the couch and went to the kitchen.
Billy popped the lip of the beer bottle out of his mouth. “Blackouts. It's one of the symptoms of alcoholism, Father Paul says.”
“Sounds like an expensive one. Okay, you lost twenty thousand dollars under the influence. Where's the other forty-seven?”
He pulled himself up with what I guess you might have called a radiant smile if his teeth had been in better shape. “I gave it to God. You know, after I got saved. Like a kind of thank-you, see, for
redeeming me.”
Isaac had been waiting for this. He pointed at the look on my face, and started chuckling. “That's right, Slim, all that sinful money has been laundered in the blood of the Lamb.”
I ignored him. “All right, Billy. But I’m assuming you didn’t give it to God
directly
, right? Who was the go-between?”
Billy said, “Huh?”
Isaac said, “Trinity Church. He put it in the collection plate.”
“Not in a lump,” explained Billy quickly. “Hundreds at daily mass, two on Sundays. Father Paul says, you don’t want to be like the Pharisee praying in the marketplace, you know, for the reward of it, sort of. It's gotta be just between you and God, so I kind of tried to spread it out.”
Nora stood by the kitchen counter holding up the offer of a beer in one hand, a Pepsi in the other. I pointed to the Pepsi, as I said to Gilchrist, “Let me just be sure I’ve got this. While sleeping at their soup kitchen, you made daily contributions to Trinity Episcopal Church adding up in the past few years to forty-seven thousand dollars?”
He wriggled sheepishly. “Not exactly. Maybe I’d miss a week here and a few weeks there.” He lifted his chin. “But I’d always try and make it up soon as I got back out of the slammer. Except the thing is, like I been telling Mr. Rosethorn and this lady, giving the money was kind of a way of making up for things, but it didn’t do me no good in my…my…mind.” In his struggle for the right words, he sat up, throwing off the blanket. “After a while, I couldn’t feel easy, okay, about that guy George Hall. The way his trial had gone down so bad, and him never saying nothing bad about those two cops, even when the judge hands him the Big One. ’Cause the way I figured it, Hall knew what they were up to, and they came gunning for him, and it got fucked up. But I say, ‘Billy, stay out of it, you don’t know what was going down, and you don’t stick your neck out ’cause some spade's getting gassed.’ But then Father Paul, you know, he's always talking to me about how Jesus figured things, how He didn’t go for that eye-for-an-eye stuff, how He said we
gotta
stick our necks out for our neighbors, same as if they was us. And I see how Father Paul's always meeting with this bunch of people trying to do
something for George Hall, and a lot of them never even laid eyes on him. And I see Hall's kid brother all over the place, asking questions over at Smoke's, doing these marches, all that. But it's coming down to where it's just a matter of days before Hall's gonna get gassed, and I’m in a sweat ’cause I can’t stop thinking about it, but I’m chicken to go to the cops or even Father Paul. I’m chicken.” Gilchrist gave a deep sigh. “So I take a dive. I get myself good and plastered, and figure time I come to, it’ll be all over. But I wake up,” he looked at me, “with you guys downtown.”
I said, “And that was Friday before Christmas, right? I came in late that night and told you Hall had gotten a four-week stay from the governor, you remember?”
He stared at me, his eyes shiny. “That stay wasn’t from no governor, Captain Mangum. Jesus did it. I know that as sure as anything, and I’ll tell you this too. Jesus talked to me, right then and there in that room.” Gilchrist looked at each of us in turn, waiting for a response. We all gave him a nod, and, satisfied, he went on. “Jesus told me, straight-out, ‘Billy…’ Jesus stood right by the window and He said, ‘Billy, I appreciate that money. But that money don’t mean a fucking thing to me compared to George Hall. Don’t mean diddlyshit to me compared to
you.
And Billy, the best thing you can do for you, is do something for George Hall, okay. So you know what I’d do if I was you, Billy, I’d go cold turkey on the booze, and I’d get out of here and try and help save that spade from the gas chamber. ’Cause I already took that Last Walk, and I know what it feels like.’ That's what Jesus said to me.”
Isaac and Nora nodded as solemnly as if Gilchrist had just quoted them a little Thomas à Kempis. Isaac even came over, slouched on his chair arm, and patted his knee, as he told me, “So that's exactly what Billy did. Early Saturday morning he went to Cooper Hall at the With Liberty and Justice office, talked to him and gave him Pym's wallet. Then he drove with Cooper to Raleigh to the bus station and showed him the locker; the suitcase was still there, with ten thousand dollars in it. Afterwards Cooper drove on to the Governor's Mansion and his picket line, and Billy took the bus back to Hillston and taped the key back under his desk.”
The old lawyer pushed himself to his feet and began pacing around the living room in the style I’d watched a lot of times from the balcony of the municipal building courtroom, when his voice could make you cry. “Saturday afternoon, poor Cooper is killed. Saturday evening, Billy finds out when he goes back to the
With
Liberty and Justice
office. A kid there gives him my address at the
Piedmont because Cooper's told Billy my name. But when he comes out of the office, he sees somebody parked in front, sort of casing the place. It's Winston Russell. And Billy recognizes him, and he panics. He hides all night. Sunday dawn he hitchhikes about ninety miles north of Hillston. Then he gets a call through to me. I borrow a car and drive up to meet him.”
I said, “And you and Billy keep right on going, huh, Isaac? Straight to Delaware, instead of telephoning the police?”
The great lawyer was not to be sidetracked by petty accusations. He dragged his bad leg as he swung into a turn. “Now, what if Winston Russell, released from Dollard only a few days prior to this, had been
in
the Raleigh bus station when Billy took Cooper there to show him the locker? Had followed them there, or simply gone there at the first opportunity to check the locker? At any rate, saw them there together? And where is Russell? Since he's apparently slipped right through your fingers.”
I said, “Maybe he wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t been such a goddamn grandstanding, secret-hogging Lone Ranger you had to do it all yourself.”
Nora looked startled, but my anger shot right by Isaac without ruffling a hair. He said, “Shhh. Poor Billy.”
I glanced over at the armchair. Poor Billy was sound asleep.
On a charitable impulse (or maybe because I’d already caught a whiff of my usurped sheets), I let Gilchrist finish out the night in my bed. Isaac and I took him there. Downstairs in my living room, I stopped Rosethorn from rushing back to Nora's apartment. “Hold up a second. What's bugging me, what's
been
bugging me, is
did
George know what Pym and Russell were up to? Is Billy right, and George was involved with them? And if he was involved, or at least knew something—why didn’t George say so at the trial, or even after the trial, to a lawyer, to
Cooper?
”
Isaac frowned. “George said nothing to Cooper beyond his testimony.”
“Because that's all he knew?”
No answer.
“Why was George so desperate to talk to you?”
No answer. The old lawyer pulled open the door to the hall, but I shoved it closed. “Isaac, you’re pissing me off. Whose side do you think I’m on anyhow?”
The old bathrobe spread open as his chest swelled. “You’re out of line, Slim. I work for a client. I’m bound by a pledge to defend him against the state. You work for the state, directly under a district attorney I don’t respect or trust. I’m not going to provide the prosecution with information it failed to obtain itself, and may even use against my client. I have to decide when I have more to gain by hogging my secrets, and when it's useful to share them.”
I reached around him and flung the door open. “Well, let me know when I’m useful!”
“I will,” he said, and shuffled across to Nora's.
I stretched out on my couch, too sleepy to stay angry long. The next thing I was vaguely aware of was somebody tucking a blanket around me.
And the next thing after that, I opened my eyes and saw two small faces about an inch from my own. A little boy and girl, both with black curly hair, both wearing blue NASA sweatshirts, both fairly rigorously chewing gum, were kneeling beside the couch, solemnly watching me for signs of life. The girl said, “Are you really a policeman?”
I managed to make a fairly human noise. “Yep. Did you get a bicycle for Christmas?” She nodded. “Then I bet you’re Laura Howard.” She thought it over, and nodded again. “Is this your brother Brian?”
“My
little
brother,” she clarified.
Brian scooted forward. “It's time to wake up.” I got both eyes open, and checked out his statement. He was right. It was full sunlight. I’d pretty undeniably fallen asleep in my rented tuxedo, after—as I recall—telling myself I was just resting my eyes. I hadn’t even dreamed about Lee, as I’d intended to. I’d dreamed about George Hall.
Brian propped his elbows on the couch arm. He had the same tilted-up green eyes as his mother. “We slept in a teepee,” he announced, and curled his gum-covered tongue out toward his nose.
“Um hum. I heard. You like it?”
But that was all he had to say, and he ran off, making motor noises, back out the opened door and across the hall. His sister was more conversational, if a little facetious. She asked, “Do you always sleep in a tuxedo?”
“Who him? Captain Mangum? Absolutely.” Another face suddenly leaned into my view. It was Justin Savile's, disgustingly bright. The head of my homicide division was grinning. “Always in a tuxedo, partying day and night. Dapper Dan Mangum we call him at the police station.” (Justin himself looked unusually casual this morning in a three-piece Harris tweed suit from some episode of
Brideshead Revisited.
) He whispered at Laura, “Let's be nice to him.
He's my boss.”
“He is?” Laura looked dubious. I don’t know why children have such trouble believing in my rank. In any case, she changed the subject. “My mom said come have some coffee. Bye.” She whisked away as quickly as her little brother.
Justin grinned as I pulled myself into a seated position. “Cuddy, I always told you Billy Gilchrist was a staggering mine of information.” I glanced up at my stairs. Justin nodded. “Still snoozing. Quite some story Isaac just gave me. Told you Willie Slidell would be the link.”
Now the fact is, I’m used to waking up alone, not to mention in bed in my pajamas. I grumbled, “Just a second, okay? Just hold down the gloating ’til I can cope with it. And make some coffee.”
“Let's go to Mrs. Howard's.”
“Mrs. Howard's?”
“What a smart woman. Beautiful too.”
“I’m not going anywhere ’til I take a shower and drink some caffeine.”
When I returned from my shower (I could hear Gilchrist's snores even with the water running), Justin cheerfully handed me a mug of coffee and picked up where he’d left off. I sat on a stool, staring out at the Shocco while I listened to him.
“So it's got to be this way. Pym and Russell branch out, start smuggling their merchandise out of state. Inventory gets a little low at the police warehouse, you just get thieves like Moonfoot Butler to steal more for you, and shipping clerks like Willie Slidell to provide transportation in Fanshaw trucks. I knew Slidell was the key.”
“I’ll make sure you get your name in the paper, okay?” I poured more coffee. “Just what are you doing over here, Justin?”
“Reassuring myself. Listen, Alice thought you were
dead.
But then she always takes a radical position. You know we got a call from Hiram around midnight that you were ‘missing’? He said you carelessly let someone bash in your skull, and had probably wandered off in a coma. You ever get to that dinner party of yours?”
“Yes. Did you talk to Pym's widow?”
Sliding out the omelette he’d insisted on making, Justin reported that Lana Slidell Pym was prostrate with shock after seeing her brother Willie's body in the morgue. She had trouble believing we’d found him in a car in the Shocco River. She clung to her version of a Willie Slidell who knew nothing of guns or enemies. Her late brother and her late husband Bobby Pym were innocent victims of their violent fates, and no facts could make them otherwise. Justin said he had also phoned Slidell's Kentucky wife again; she said she was sorry to hear that “poor dumb Willie had gotten the shitty end of the stick again, like always.”