Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “He’s charged with a capital offense. It’s not likely Judge Spencer will agree to bail. That’s just not the way things work. Especially, like you say, with all this press coverage.”

  Rosen said, “Spencer might, if you acceded.”

  “And if Basehart runs away or kills somebody?”

  “He won’t. You don’t think so either. You just said, ‘kills somebody,’ not ‘kills somebody else,’ like most people would’ve said.”

  Wilkes shifted in his chair. “What’s the difference if Basehart is released? Doesn’t seem to be anyone missing him now.”

  “No, quite the contrary. I think someone’s very happy with Basehart behind bars.”

  “The murderer?”

  Rosen smiled. “You’re sounding like a defense attorney again.”

  Wilkes began to rise. “I don’t think we have anything further to talk about.”

  “Wait.” Rosen stayed him with his hand.

  “What have I to do with it! You’re Basehart’s attorney. Make your proposal before Judge Spencer and let him decide whether or not to release your client. You do it. Start earning your fee!” He spoke the last sentence so loudly, the men at the next booth turned their heads toward him.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Rosen said. “I didn’t mean anything by it other than a complement.” Leaning over his folded hands, he continued, “If Basehart didn’t commit the crime, the murderer’s still out there and is likely to feel very uncomfortable with Edison walking around free.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Let Basehart do some of the legwork for us. Pelham’s the key to this. He’s got to be lying if Basehart’s telling the truth. How do you think he’ll feel when he learns Edison’s out and looking for him?”

  “That’s just what I’m afraid of. If I become a party to an act of violence on the part of your client . . .”

  Rosen hit the table with his fist. “Now you’re sounding like a lawyer! Don’t disillusion me. I want to cheat the Great Hangman, you want to do justice, mercy, or whatever. This is the best chance we have.”

  Again the use of the plural “we,” as if Rosen and he were co-counsels. What was he really thinking, this Northern Jewish lawyer who would be here today and far away tomorrow, leaving Wilkes holding the bag in front of a dozen television cameras? So easy to appeal to a sense of justice, but what did it really mean, when Basehart was guilty at least of the bigotry that caused the woman’s death. Even Rosen had said the world would be better off without his client. Wasn’t it better than to let each of them—Rosen, Wilkes, and Basehart—play out his assigned role and allow a free hand to whatever moved the wheel of justice? He was the prosecutor, Wilkes had to keep reminding himself, like a child sent to the store to buy one specific item. Yet wherever he was sent, there was always that weather-worn bust of Jefferson at the end of the street.

  Wilkes said, “It’s getting late. Court is scheduled to reconvene in a half hour.”

  Rosen stood. “I’ll go first. Wouldn’t look proper for us to be walking back to court together.” He put some money on the table. “This should cover my share. I don’t think either of us should treat the other. Years from now when you’re a famous statesman, the waitress might be called before the Senate to tell how I bribed you with beer and pizza. See you in court, Mr. Wilkes.”

  As the other attorney left the restaurant, Wilkes sat looking into his beer glass, playing out the upcoming courtroom scene. Watching Rosen stand and request bail for Basehart. Judge Spencer curling his lower lip disapprovingly before looking Wilkes’s way for comment. And he . . .? The reel spun out, leaving only the click-click of the projector, or was that his knuckles rapping nervously on the table?

  Chapter Twelve – WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

  The telephone was ringing as Rosen opened the door to his hotel room. He grabbed the receiver while loosening his tie. The air-conditioning wasn’t working.

  “Hold on a second,” he said, then hurried to open the window. Glancing down the four stories to the street, he noticed a red Jaguar parked near the corner and thought that Collinsby might have followed him from the courtroom after Judge Spencer’s afternoon adjournment. Collinsby wasn’t in sight, and Rosen remembered the phone.

  “Hello. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “This is Trac.” Her voice was toneless, as if an automated machine.

  “Sorry I missed you. I looked for you after the adjournment—to explain what’s been going on concerning Basehart’s case. I wouldn’t want you to misconstrue what I have to regard as an obligation to my client. Certain things I can’t explain, of course, being privileged information, but I do want to talk to you.” Rosen had rambled, not saying much of anything; not trusting Trac, he couldn’t say anything. Yet he didn’t want her angry—not at him.

  “I couldn’t stay in court, not after what you did.” Her voice so cool, so passionless was worse than anger.

  “You mean about Basehart being released on bail? It’s a duty I owe my client to request . . .”

  “I can’t talk now on the phone, nor do I wish to listen to a list of excuses. I’m sure there are dozens you could give me. We’ll talk tonight. Not in the Paddy. I don’t want my parents to find out. They are already very upset.”

  “Trac, I had no intention of . . .”

  “There’s a quiet bar called Ernie’s on Stuart Street, near your hotel. Can you meet me there tonight at ten o’clock?”

  “Sure, but can’t you tell me what this is all about?” There was no response. “Trac?” He thought he heard a voice at the other end of the line, a voice that wasn’t hers.

  She finally said, “I’ll see you tonight at ten. Good-bye.”

  He kept the receiver to his ear, as if Trac had not really hung up but was about to say more. Rosen knew better but still waited for nearly a minute before putting down the phone. Waiting in silence had always been one of his worst habits, a sign of fear never outgrown, ever since as a boy he had hesitated to answer the rabbi’s question concerning religious law. Answers he knew, yet still was afraid.

  Rosen finished pulling off his tie then lay back in bed, reaching for his daughter’s birthday card on the nightstand. More hesitation. Under the “Dear Sarah” he finally wrote, “I hope this will be your happiest birthday and that . . .” And what . . . that he couldn’t help their being apart? That he was very sorry if she had been hurt? That no matter what had happened between husband and wife, she was still loved by both?

  Looking into the birthday card with eyes first fixed upon the words then closed and turned inward, he thought the answer would come, just as it had when long ago he had studied Torah the same way. But it no longer came for him that way; nothing did anymore. Torah was written on parchment, but Rosen no longer read parchment, hardly even paper. Everything was modern and quick. The speed of light, and it changed. Maybe that was the answer. The computer in his Washington office—if only he put his feelings onto the screen, adding and erasing and rearranging, maybe the machine would help him find the right words. Surely among the million pieces of software, there was a program that could boot up just the right words for any occasion—like what a divorced father should say to his daughter when away on her birthday. Machines held all the answers and, more importantly, didn’t make you feel guilty. He would call his office secretary, transmit the information to her. . . . Leaning back against the headboard, he shook his head. Sometimes he was such an idiot.

  “I hope this will be your happiest birthday and that . . . I could be there spending it with you. It’s unfortunate . . .”

  A knock on the door. Putting the card back on the nightstand, Rosen opened the door to a large black man who looked familiar. He wore a blue pullover that seemed too tight for his shoulders and bulging biceps.

  Despite his size the man spoke softly. “Mr. Rosen . . . uh . . . I come over here to bring you a message. It’s from Top o’ the Evenin’. Y’see, he want me come down here to tell you somethin’ important.”

  �
��You’re the bartender at Top’s nightclub, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, that right. They calls me Big Ben. I saw you when you come in that night with that lady, sister a’ the dead woman. Anyway, Top want me to tell you somethin’.”

  “He could’ve called.”

  Big Ben shook his head. “No sir. Cops got a way a’ listenin’ in on the phone. Then maybe Top be in big trouble. He told you before—don’t wanna be gettin’ in any more trouble with the cops. Maybe they close his place down. You gotta promise, if you talk with the cops, not to tell where this come from. You gotta promise.”

  “I don’t want to cause your boss any trouble. He knows that. Come in.” Rosen closed the door. “Sit down and tell me what this is all about.”

  Big Ben took the only chair in the room, near the open window, while Rosen sat on the edge of the bed. The black man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It be like this, Mr. Rosen. Top don’t want no trouble, but he said for you to know maybe you was right about that Slant woman bein’ killed over drugs. Not that Top had anythin’ to do with the mess. Y’see, sometimes Top buys a little shit. . . .”

  “Drugs.”

  Big Ben nodded. “Cocaine and horse . . . heroin. Not that much. Sometime Top do a favor for a friend or some old customer he can trust. Just part a’ doin’ business, he say.”

  “Where does your boss get his supply?”

  “Different gangs from D.C. They send somebody down with the shit, and Top pays ’em.”

  “Who? What’re the names of the people who bring . . .?”

  “Top don’t know.”

  “The names of the gangs then?”

  Big Ben shook his head. “Top don’t know that either. Don’t want to know. They bad people. Kill for fun. Top just pay for the shit and close his eyes. Best for everyone. Best you not know.”

  “What’s the point of all this?” Rosen asked. “What good does this information do my client?”

  “It be about the dead woman’s brother, Van. ’Bout a month ago, Van told Top not to buy from the gangs in D.C. anymore. Say he gonna be sole supplier for not just the town but the whole country. Van even had his boys cut one a’ the brothers comin’ down here to deal. Cut him and took his shit. Real stupid. Van don’t know who he messin’ with.”

  “What happened?”

  Big Ben shrugged. “You see what happened. No one messes with the brothers. They musta come down here lookin’ for Van ’n killed his sister as a warnin’. Sure as hell worked, cause Van ain’t been seen since. We think he left town. For good if he smart.”

  “You and Top know all this for a fact?”

  “I . . . look, mister, I just be tellin’ you what Top want me to tell you. He doin’ this as a favor, cause he promise you he look into any drug connection. This all the favors he be doin’, so you leave him be. Now I got to get back. Almost time for my shift, and my Mrs. waitin’ dinner on me.”

  Rosen stared at Big Ben, who lowered his eyes. “Thank Top for me. Tell him I appreciate the information, but I’ll need to speak to him personally. I’ll try to get over there later this evening.”

  “But, Top say . . .!”

  “Just tell him what I said. Thanks.”

  Big Ben was about to rise, when the door opened suddenly. In walked Junior Dickerson followed by two other men, each taller and heavier than their leader and wearing, over their beer bellies, T-shirts advertising a local bar. One man’s forearm was tattooed with some faded design resembling a dragon. Folding their arms, the two men blocked the door, while Junior walked to the window.

  “I didn’t hear you knock,” Rosen said. “In fact, I believe the door locks automatically.”

  Junior held up a key on a large ring. “Hotel manager’s a friend of mine. Gave me the passkey, because I wanted to surprise you. Surprise!” The two men by the door grinned like idiots.

  “What do you want?”

  He took out a pack of cigarettes, the local brand Bushnell, and lit up. Looking outside he said, “Nice day. Too nice to be cooped up inside this crackerbox of a hotel room.”

  Rosen replied, “You’re right. I’d hate to keep you and your playmates. Get out.”

  “No, not just yet. I was thinking about this Negro here. You ought to be outside in the sun, boy, getting a nice tan.”

  Now the two idiots were laughing, while Big Ben looked down at his shoes. “Don’t want no trouble.”

  “No trouble? Then why’d you come up to see this troublemaker? What’s he to you?”

  Rosen asked Junior, “Do you know this man?”

  “Well, not that I make it a habit of associating with members of the African race, but I run into this boy now and then. Funny we should come to see you, and just who happens to be here but . . . what’s your name, boy?”

  “Stop it,” Rosen said. “You knew Big Ben was here. That’s your red Jaguar down the street. You followed me here after court adjourned, saw him come into the hotel and figured it was to see me. No need to play more games, is there? I know we’ve played some before . . . you remember, don’t you?”

  “Think I’d forget?” He flashed a smile. “How’s your face getting along? Still looks like a coon that’s been run over on the road a time or two.”

  “It’s getting better. Thanks for asking. While we’re on the subject of health, how’s that little medical problem of yours . . . you know, that social disease you were so worried about?”

  Glancing at one another, the two idiots shifted uncomfortably against the door.

  Junior scowled. “Shut up! You’re like some dumb hound that just don’t learn. Hey, Carleton, remember that hound we used to take hunting. Kept running up to the gun instead of going after the game.”

  “Yeah,” his friend with the tattoo said, “you finally shot its tail off to teach it a lesson.”

  “That what I need to do with you, Rosen . . . shoot your tail off till you learn your lesson?”

  “Did it work for the hound?”

  The smile crept back onto Junior’s face. “No. Finally had to kill it. Wasn’t good for a damn thing. Just wouldn’t learn. Know what I mean?”

  Rosen knew exactly what he meant. As if to make sure, Junior nodded to his friends; each clicked open a switchblade and walked a few steps into the room, after the tattooed one slipped on the door’s chain lock.

  Big Ben clasped his hands. “Look, Mr. Dickerson, I don’t want any trouble. Just let me get outta here. Didn’t hear nothing. Didn’t see nothing. Nothing!”

  “Why’d your boss send you up to see this son-of-a-bitch?”

  “Top don’t want no trouble either. You know that. You know Top. Always mindin’ his own business. That the way he be.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I . . . ah . . . I . . .?” Big Ben clenched and unclenched his fists while, brandishing their knives, the two men moved closer.

  Hands on his knees, Rosen leaned forward on the edge of his bed. He had always lived his life in small spaces, which made him hate being boxed in all the more. All the scars of body and soul were made when he couldn’t maneuver; he needed time to think, to move. Time was running out, and so was space. If this was another game of Junior’s, that was one thing. But with those knives . . . he had no chance of handling the three of them alone. Not even close. He needed the black man, and that meant taking a chance.

  He said to Junior, “Let Big Ben go. He’s got nothing to do with whatever you want.”

  “I’ll let him go, as soon as he tells me what he told you. Otherwise, things might get kind of unpleasant for this nigger. Carleton and Dave here might have to work on him like he was a Thanksgiving turkey. Pretty soon folks’ll be calling him Baby Ben. How would you like that, Baby Ben?”

  “You’re bluffing,” Rosen said. “You won’t do anything to him or me. The hotel manager gave you the key, so he knows you’re in here. If anything happens to either of us, there’s a witness . . .”

  “Old Charlie Hartrey! He can’t rememb
er what day it is, let alone who he gave his passkey to. No, old Charlie won’t care what the hell happens to you two. Never did before, just as long as we dean up all the blood. Why there was a time a few years back, when another nigger, a salesman from . . .”

  “All right, I tell you!” Big Ben shouted, looking up at Junior. “But don’t you be calling me ‘nigger.’ I ain’t no one’s nigger, y’hear. All Top say was for me to tell this man maybe the dead Slant woman she got killed cause a’ her brother. You know how wild that man be . . . crazy with drugs. Lot a’ folks after him. Could be somebody after Van ’n shot his sister. Maybe he went away. That all I tell him. That all Top told me to tell him. I swear. Now can I go?”

  Junior glanced back at his friends. “Maybe he should stay and watch this lesson about what happens when you go snooping where you don’t belong. You niggers are supposed to have more sense. Thought you were taught better than to . . .”

  “Asked you not to call me ‘nigger.’ Ain’t got no call to say that. I told you the truth, and now I’m leavin’.”

  Rosen saw his opening. “Big Ben is right. You shouldn’t be calling him ‘nigger.’ It’s about time you and your friends learned the proper way to address an African-American.”

  Junior snickered.

  “You think it’s funny that Big Ben wants the same respect as any other man?”

  “Shit. You don’t know much about folks around here.” Junior rubbed Big Ben’s hair. “Does he, boy?”

  Big Ben pushed his hand away.

  “Careful, boy,” Junior warned.

  “I’m leavin’.”

  Rosen said, “Junior, don’t you know when you’ve hurt someone’s feelings? Why, the next thing you’ll probably do is insult the man’s family . . . like his mother.”

  “Sure wouldn’t be able to talk about this boy’s father, ’cause I bet Baby Ben don’t know who he is. That right, boy?”

  The black man began to tremble. Standing, he brushed past Junior. “You best leave my family be.”