Kings of Midnight

by Wallace Stroby

  “Can I get you something while you’re waiting?” Monique said. “Coffee, tea, water?”

  “Some water maybe.”

  There was a tray with pitcher and glasses on a sideboard. Monique brought it over to the table.

  “Thanks,” Crissa said. She set the shoulder bag on the table, hung her leather car coat on a chair.

  “He shouldn’t be long,” Monique said. “He’s with another client, but they’re finishing up.”

  When she left, Crissa knelt, looked up under the table for wires, microphones. Nothing. She turned the phone over, checked the screws on the bottom for fresh marks. They were clear.

  At the window, she parted the blinds, looked down at the traffic. She didn’t like being up this high, not having an easy escape route.

  She was still at the window when Rathka came in.

  “Ms. Hendryx. So good to see you again. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  He was thinner than the last time she’d seen him. Late fifties but looking older. More lines around the eyes. Dark three-piece, white shirt, red club tie.

  “Walt,” she said.

  “Come on, let’s sit down.” He set a yellow legal pad on the table. “Monique’s making the call. She’ll buzz us when they’re ready.”

  He poured water into a glass, ice cubes clinking in the pitcher.

  “You look good,” he said. “I was worried.”

  “Sorry for that complication.”

  They sat across from each other. He put the glass in front of her on a paper napkin.

  “Any more fallout?” she said.

  He shook his head, poured for himself. “A shot in the dark, as I said over the phone. They had nothing. I answered their questions politely, and sent them packing.”

  “Any feds?”

  “Just locals. NYPD and Connecticut staties. Felt like there was some friction between them too. The lieutenant from Connecticut seemed to be the driving force. Very focused. But I think the city boys were looking at it as a waste of their time.”

  “This lieutenant, you get a name?”

  He nodded, took a business card from a vest pocket, handed it over. It was blue and white, with the Connecticut state police icon in the upper right-hand corner. In embossed type, it read LT. VINCENT GAITANO, MAJOR CRIMES UNIT. There was an address, phone and fax numbers, e-mail.

  “I’ll keep this, if it’s okay,” she said.

  “Be my guest. I never heard from him again, so I’m not overly concerned.”

  He looked at the shoulder bag, raised an eyebrow. She slid it toward him.

  “I’m not sure I want to look in there,” he said. “What condition is it in?”

  “As found.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “Couldn’t be helped. Someone down there was supposed to take care of it for me. He ran into trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “As bad as it gets.”

  “That makes me even more reluctant to look.”

  “It’s clean, as far as it goes. Can’t be traced.”

  “You hope.”

  “If you don’t want to deal with it, I understand. But I need to turn some of it around, to live on.”

  “I see, but…”

  “There’s more I’ve put away,” she said. “I can get at it if I have to. But I need this as working capital, so I want to make sure it’s clean. I’ve got nothing up here anymore.”

  “I understand. But maybe this isn’t the best place for starting over.”

  “I don’t plan to stick around. But there’s no one else I can trust anymore with this. Except you.”

  He looked at the shoulder bag.

  “A year ago, you wouldn’t have thought twice about taking that money,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. A year ago, things were different.”

  The phone began to buzz. A green light blinked.

  “Here we go,” he said.

  He picked up the receiver, listened.

  “That’s right,” he said. “For Wayne Boudreaux. This is his attorney, Walter Rathka.” A pause. “Certainly. Yes, It’s cleared with all of them. Check your computer. I’ll wait.”

  He looked at her, raised his eyebrows in a gesture of exasperation.

  “Yes,” he said into the phone. “I’m still here. Thank you.”

  Another wait. Then he said, “Wayne? This is Walt Rathka in New York. Yes, we’re secure here. Are things okay on your end?”

  He listened, nodded, said, “Hold on,” and passed the receiver to her.

  She met his eyes, took the phone, raised it to her ear.

  Silence at first, then, through the phone, “Hey, darlin’.”

  She closed her eyes. “Hey, babe.”

  “I’ve been worried about you.” His voice weaker, older.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “There was some trouble, but it’s over.”

  “And you’re okay?”

  “Yes. I’ve wanted to get down to see you, but I couldn’t.”

  “I know. Rathka told me. Don’t worry about it, Red. It’s better this way.”

  “No, it’s not.” She looked at the tattoo on the inside of her left wrist, the Chinese character for “perseverance.” Wayne had the same on his own wrist.

  “Remember what I told you the last time you were here,” he said. “About moving on.”

  “No chance of that. We’re going to get you out of there. Soon. You’re short for the door.”

  When he didn’t respond, she said, “Wayne? Are you all right?”

  He coughed. “I’m fine, girl. Fine as can be. For an old man.”

  “Don’t start that again. You’re not old.”

  “In here I am. And older every day.”

  “You don’t sound well.”

  “I’ve been under the weather a little, but I’m good.”

  “I’m not convinced.”

  “Forget about me. You get down to see that little girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Everything okay there?”

  “Yes,” she said. “She’s good.”

  She had an image of Maddie, her daughter, the last time she’d seen her. At a Texas playground, laughing and running, then leaping into the arms of Crissa’s cousin Leah, the woman she knew as her mother. The memory hurt.

  “You need to work that out,” he said. “Get her back.”

  “I will, someday.”

  He began to cough again, deep and wet.

  “You’re sick,” she said. “Have you seen a doctor there?”

  “Depends how you define doctor. Ones here barely qualify.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “When you get out, I’ll have doctors ready. The best there is. A place to live, too, for both of us.”

  “That sounds good.” His voice flat.

  “Talk to me, babe. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I’m glad you could call,” he said. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “You’ll be seeing me soon.”

  “Maybe. But if not, I want you to know I love you. Always did. Always will.”

  She blinked, felt water come to her eyes. Rathka got up, stood at the window, looking out.

  “Soon you can tell me that in person,” she said.

  “Just in case things don’t work out that way, you should know there’s not a minute in here I can’t close my eyes, see your face.”

  “I’m going down there for the hearing. I want to be around when it happens.”

  “No need for that.”

  “I want to be there.”

  “Worry about yourself. That’s what matters now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have to go,” he said. It was the way he always did it. Ending things on his own time. Not letting someone else do it, take something away from him.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Look after yourself, Red. That’s what I want.”

  Clicks on the l
ine. A dial tone sounded in her ear.

  She held the receiver out. Rathka took it, replaced it in the cradle.

  “Something’s going on down there,” she said. “Something he’s not telling me.”

  Rathka sat again, didn’t meet her eyes.

  “I need to know,” she said.

  He sat back. “All the indicators I’m getting are positive. There are already three letters of recommendation on file. Your money’s being put to good use. Don’t doubt that.”

  “It better be.”

  “I’m confident they’ll do everything possible. But I’m afraid there are some situations where we have to accept our powerlessness after a certain point. This is one of them.”

  “What are you leaving out?”

  “I had my colleague down there talk to one of the guards, off the record,” he said. “The guard said Wayne’s been having issues with another inmate. You’ll remember there was a fight last year.”

  “Who’s the inmate?”

  “Does it matter? Wayne’s older than most of them in there right now. Some probably see him as an easy target. And you know Wayne, he doesn’t know when to back down.”

  “Why should he? Is this a gang thing?”

  “Isn’t everything in prison?”

  “Whites or Mexicans?”

  “White. Aryans.”

  “Wayne never had much use for them. How come he hasn’t been moved to another unit?”

  “They offered protective custody, but he refused. That guard’s keeping an eye on him, though. He’ll keep us informed, try to watch out for him if he gets in another jam.”

  “How much is that costing?”

  “It came up while you were away, so I went ahead. Not much. Ten grand so far. Just enough to keep the pump primed, give us some eyes and ears down there. I thought it was worth it.”

  “It was. I owe you.”

  “I used what I had on hand of yours. It’ll all balance out in the end.”

  She nodded at the shoulder bag. “What about that?”

  He exhaled. “I don’t know. I could put it in a safe here, keep it for you.”

  She shook her head. “I need it liquid. With a fast turnover. I’ll be living off it.”

  “Normally, I’d take it, make an investment in one of our construction projects. Like the deal we had in Alabama with the strip mall. But I don’t know if that’s a good idea right now. To be honest, having those cops poking around this office, making noises about ethics committees … It put the fear of God into me.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Maybe you know somebody who knows somebody,” she said. “Even if you can’t vouch for them.”

  “This isn’t good,” he said. “This is no way to do business.”

  “I need your help.”

  He sighed, looked at her. Horns sounded in the street below.

  “This is where I get nervous,” he said. “I have one or two clients like yourself, with special needs. But there are other attorneys who build practices around that, if you know what I mean.”

  “And you know some of these others?”

  “Know, but don’t associate with. Don’t need to, generally, and don’t want to. Occasionally our paths cross, but I try to avoid them as much as possible. Way I look at it, they’re begging to be disbarred or worse.”

  “I don’t have any contacts up here anymore, besides you. Otherwise, I’d work it out myself. But with Hector gone…”

  He chewed a lip. “I still think you should lie low, stash that for a while.”

  “I can’t. I need to move it.”

  He took a pen from an inside pocket, tapped it on the table, then pulled the legal pad closer. He wrote on it quickly, tore a half page off.

  “Here’s a name,” he said. “He’s in Manhattan. I’m not sure of the number.” He slid the paper across to her.

  “I’ll find it.” She took the sheet. “He know you?”

  “Maybe. But don’t use my name. I don’t want anything to do with that guy. He may want credentials, contacts of people you’ve dealt with. I don’t know what to tell you about that.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “But I want you to know, I’m not comfortable with this.”

  “Understood.”

  “You have a place to stay?”

  “I will.”

  “In the city?”

  “No. Close by, though.”

  “Keep out of Connecticut.”

  He stood, put out his hand. She took it.

  “I’ll call you if I hear anything else,” he said. “You should put that somewhere safe in the meantime.”

  “Having second thoughts? That’s a lot of money.”

  He smiled, shook his head.

  “And that,” he said, “is exactly what I’m worried about.”

  SIX

  Outside Harrisburg, Benny found a pay phone at a gas station, got change from the clerk inside. He’d never owned a cell phone, was always worried someone could use it to track him down, though he didn’t even know if that was possible.

  He pumped quarters into the phone, looked across the lot to where the Hyundai was parked. Marta brushing her hair in the rearview. It was noon, and she’d slept most of the way, curled against him. His shoulder was still warm. As he dialed, she turned her head, caught him watching her, gave him a smile.

  On the fifth ring, a man answered. “Galaxy.”

  “Can I speak with Leo?”

  “Leo? There’s no Leo here.”

  “I’m trying to reach Leo Bloomgold, the manager there.”

  “I think you got the wrong place.”

  “This the Galaxy Lounge in Ozone Park?” He’d gotten the number from information, but was worried now it was the wrong one, a different bar with the same name.

  “Yeah,” the man said, “but I don’t know no Leo.”

  “This the Galaxy on Lefferts Boulevard, near the airport?”

  “Last time I looked, yeah.”

  “Who’s the manager there now? Who’s running the joint?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  Benny sighed. This would be harder than he thought. Realizing again how long he’d been away.

  “So you don’t know Leo Bloomgold?”

  “Do I stutter?”

  “He used to run the Golddigger out in Forest Hills, too. You know the place?”

  “Never heard of it. Who is this again?”

  Benny thumbed the hook switch, listened to coins drop. He looked at his watch. Maybe three more hours before they crossed into Jersey. They’d find someplace to eat around here, then he’d make more calls.

  He looked at the traffic rushing by, thought about Rick, probably calling the house right now, wondering where he was. Would he call the police at some point? And Taliferro and the others, where were they now? Had they taken Dominic to a hospital, or left a dead man in his house?

  He felt a sudden anger, wanted to smash the receiver against the phone. More than thirty years later, and Joey Dio was still fucking him, only this time from beyond the grave.

  He hung up the receiver, forced a smile as he walked back toward the car. Marta leaned over and opened the door for him. She’d tied her hair back in a blue bow. By the time he reached the car, his smile was real.

  Look at this, he thought. Sixty-two years old, married and divorced, almost dead more times than he could count, and in love again after all this time. What a world.

  * * *

  It was dark by the time they reached Staten Island. Benny pulled into the first motel they saw, checked in as Leonard Spiegel, the name on his Indiana driver’s license and Visa card.

  When they were settled in the room, he went out and used the pay phone by the office, a finger in his ear to block out the clank and hum of the vending machines. He used up the rest of his change making calls.

  When he returned to the room, Marta was stretched out on the bed, watching TV. She looked at him, p
icked up the remote, muted the sound.

  “Well?” she said.

  He slumped down beside her, looked at the screen. “What’s this?”

  “It’s that show I like, where people send in their videos.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  He felt it all catching up with him then—the stress, the hours of driving. His back was stiff, his neck sore.

  “We should go get some dinner,” he said. “Before I fall asleep.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Get a good night’s rest, then tomorrow we’ll go out, buy whatever things you need. Later on, I have to see someone.”

  “Who?”

  “My brother-in-law.”

  “I didn’t know you had one.”

  “Technically, I don’t. Not anymore.”

  Where is he?”

  “Bay Ridge.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Brooklyn. It’s not far from here. Just over the bridge.”

  “Is it safe to go there?”

  He shrugged. “I guess I’m going to find out.”

  * * *

  “Now this,” Hersh said, “I don’t believe.”

  They were in the back room of the dry cleaning shop, the door closed, the place reeking of chemicals and mothballs. Benny had to move a pile of plastic hangers from a chair before he could sit.

  Hersh sat behind his desk. He wore a crisp white shirt with no tie, suspenders, a thin black and gray sweater, unbuttoned. The desktop was covered with papers, pink receipt slips, a brown-bag lunch spread out over the blotter. Benny could smell tuna fish.

  “That was a phone call I never thought I’d get,” Hersh said.

  “It’s good to see you, too.” There was a chime as someone came into the front part of the store, where Lily, Hersh’s Korean clerk, was behind the counter. “How are you feeling, Hersh?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Your health. How are you doing?”

  “You mean the diabetes? I’ll probably be blind in two years, but what do you care? And what’s with you? You look like shit.”

  “I’ve had a rough couple days.”

  “So?”

  “Give me a break, Hersh. This isn’t easy for me. I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t need your help. You know that.”

  “And I should help you why? You show up here out of nowhere, no one’s heard from you in, what, twenty-five years? You waltz in here like nothing’s changed?”