Pardon the Ravens

by Alan Hruska

  “Just. I’m on with Harvey.”

  He goes back to the phone in the bedroom. Harvey is saying, “You got a car?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll be over there in twenty minutes,” says Harvey. “You’d better take mine.”

  Alec hangs up, and the phone immediately rings again. Sancerre.

  “Got some bad news, Alec,” says Ray.

  “I just heard.”

  “So you understand then.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Or maybe you consider it good news. No criminal trial, no witness protection.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Alec says.

  “Sorry.”

  “And you’re giving that animal three weeks to come after us?”

  “He wouldn’t be that stupid. It’s to put his shit together. And he wanted five. Three was a good deal. Plus seven years and twenty mil, which is a first for an individual. If we’d tried the bastard, what with delays and appeals, he couldda been out on bail for more than a year.”

  “But you’ll put him under surveillance,” Alec says.

  “Waste of time. All we care about is keeping him in the country. The airports are covered. For him and fifty others. Not a chance he’ll get out.”

  “I don’t believe this, Ray.”

  “Look, don’t worry. We’re giving you and Carrie FBI protection.”

  “For how long?” Alec asks. “And how many men?”

  There’s a long pause before Sancerre answers.

  Carrie’s glued to the TV when Alec returns to the living room. Without averting her eyes from the screen, she says, “Phil gets three weeks to put his affairs in order? Can you believe this? His affairs! They’re putting him in prison because of his goddamn affairs! But first they’re giving the bastard three weeks to make sure he can run them from his cell? I mean, for crying out loud!” She finally turns to Alec. “Where the hell are we? Bedlam?”

  “It’s worse than you know. Ray just told me. You don’t qualify for the witness protection program after all because the government doesn’t need you to testify now. In other words, you gave the testimony in my case that scared Phil’s lawyers into making the deal that Ray wanted from the outset. So we’ve been used. Phil pays twenty million bucks—biggest fine in the history of that office—plus goes up for seven years. Ray gets the credit. You get the equivalent of nothing. One FBI guy for three weeks.”

  Carrie looks dazed. “They just told me to go home.”

  “This is my fault,” Alec says. “I didn’t see it coming.”

  Grimly, Alec pulls a suitcase out of the hall closet.

  “Where we going?” she asks.

  “Into our own witness protection program.”

  “Meaning what?” she says.

  “What it sounds like,” says Alec, tossing the suitcase onto the bed and opening a dresser drawer. “Middle America someplace.”

  Carrie, not liking it, says at the doorway, “What about Sarah?”

  “When Phil goes to prison—”

  “I’m not doing this,” she snaps, already agitated. “I’m going to Maine.”

  Alec puts down a shirt. “Phil knows where that house is. By now he knows.”

  “Right,” she says. “That’s the point.”

  “You’re gonna what? Sit there and wait for him with your rifle? That’s absolutely crazy.”

  “Crazy!” she says, jutting her small jaw right under his nose. “Six years with Phil, I got plenty of crazy. Now it’s my turn. I’m giving it back.”

  “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

  “I’m already dead! You think being tortured by that asshole and humiliated at his whim is living? You think running is living? Being deprived of my child? Your wonderful system doesn’t protect me, Alec. There’s nothing to protect me. Face it! Understand it! It’s that fucking primitive!”

  He resumes packing. “I certainly don’t want you out there alone.”

  “Then come with me.”

  He throws some more clothes in the suitcase, then stops to think.

  He’s staring at the suitcase, she’s staring at him.

  “You don’t touch a gun, okay?”

  “Whatta you mean?” she says.

  “You stay out of harm’s way.”

  “And what’ll you do?”

  “You’ll see. Trust me.”

  Sam and Abigail get the news of Phil’s plea bargain on the car radio, heading toward a job. They’re on Sunrise Highway. Sam, who is driving, pulls off the road into the parking lot of a hamburger joint.

  “Let me see if I can reach Alec,” Sam says. “There’s a phone in there.”

  He’s back in five minutes.

  “No answer,” he says. “Home or office.”

  “You left word?”

  “At the office, yes.”

  “So whatta we do?”

  “I’ve got to find him,” Sam says.

  They cancel their appointment, go back to Abby’s house where Sam is now spending most of his time. He calls Alec’s office again, gets the receptionist. “I should have asked,” he says. “When do you expect him?”

  “Hold on, please.”

  She takes forever, in Sam’s estimation.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Mr. Brno is on vacation, at the moment, with no indication as to when he’ll return.”

  “This is his father. Do you have a number where he can be reached?”

  “Sorry, sir, we don’t.”

  “An address?”

  “No, sir. I mean, we couldn’t give it out if we did, but… we don’t actually know where he is.”

  EIGHTY-ONE

  Reefer’s Harbor, as the season approaches, attracts the overflow from more popular Maine resort towns. Day-trippers like the harbor street, which is authentically scenic; the beaches, which are rarely crowded; and the T-shirts sporting the town name. While the cottagers resent and look down on all interlopers, the tourists, simply happy to be there, smile benignly at everyone they meet.

  For Alec and Carrie there is no joy to be found in the place or its people, whether residents or those who drive by to gawk. And the latter cause fear. Any car on their street, anyone even strolling past, sends Alec to a window and Carrie poised at the phone.

  Twice they drive into Portland. In the basement of the local gun shop, the proprietor operates a shooting range and gives lessons. It turns out that Alec, once he learns how to prevent Carrie’s rifle from dislocating his weakened shoulder, has reasonably good aim.

  They also buy a rope ladder from a naval outfitter and hardware store outside of town. The guy who runs that place tells them he’s sold bushels of rope ladders to the big summer hotels that still dot the coastline of Maine. Most of them were built eighty years ago without fire escapes.

  Larry Stahl is the agent given the job of protecting them from sunset to sunrise—others take various shifts during the day. Larry is a scrawny man with nappy blond hair and moist red lips who roams the property once an hour, but otherwise sits silently at the edge of the marsh on an aluminum-framed chair without visible form of entertainment.

  “What would you say to a thermos of coffee, Larry?” Carrie asks every night. To which Larry responds, “That would be real nice, ma’am.” Which is the extent of the intimacy they attain with the man responsible for their lives.

  Sleep is erratic, fitful when it comes, disturbed by nightmares that color each day darkly and deepen its horrors. There is a surreal feeling to living like this, with the certitude of retaliation from Phil pitted against the likelihood of ineptitude from Larry.

  And every day they have the same argument. Alec insists that Carrie’s agreement to stay out of harm’s way means that she’d agreed to go elsewhere, such as the outlying motel at which he’d reserved and already paid for a room. She rejects this interpretation and refuses to move. “ ‘Out of harm’s way’ means only that, if there’s a line of fire, I’m not in it. And I won’t be. Besides. You’re the lawyer. You want
precision? Don’t use vague terms.”

  “Phil won’t come here only to kill,” Alec says. “You saw what he did to Raffon.”

  “You’re telling me about Phil? You think there’s some crazed rotten thing about him I don’t know?”

  They’re in their bedroom. It’s close to midnight. There’s nothing more useful to be said on the subject. But they say it again and again, until they’re too tired to say anything. Then they imagine the worst in fitful dreams.

  Sam’s made no progress tracking Alec. Neither lawyers nor secretaries at Alec’s firm have any idea of his whereabouts. Madge Harlan thinks Ben Braddock might, but he’s in Scotland, making himself inaccessible. None of the travel agents the firm uses lists Alec or Carrie on client lists. And several of the doormen in Alec’s building have refused to let Sam upstairs.

  He says to Abigail, “The horror here is, Anwar probably knows where they are.”

  She says nothing; they’ve both realized this possibility for days.

  “Maybe I can catch the doorman who saw us together, slip him a twenty, something. Maybe even sneak in the back way, get upstairs, and jimmy the bolt on the front door.”

  “Okay,” she says dully.

  “In the meantime, there’s something you can do.”

  “Okay.”

  “Listen in on Phil’s line.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “I’m current on the recordings, except for this morning. So catch up, and then go live. I’ll call you as soon as I get to the city.”

  Phil Anwar loves judging talent, spotting the keen ones early. And he’s been watching young Joey Forcaccio. In Morristown, Joey was cool, probably shot twice as many as anyone else, and without any show of emotion. He performed well, by report, in the Aaron Weinfeld matter, and, under Phil’s personal observation in the dispatching of Carl Raffon. Also, Joey is smart. On his own initiative, though with blessing from Phil, he’s already set up a profitable prostitution service and a gambling house. But there are two problems with Joey. He’s too short, a shade under five-foot-five. It’s tough to command respect when everyone else is looking down on you. Moreover, Joey enjoys hurting women—a subject on which Phil feels qualified to render advice.

  So Phil decides, before taking care of other business and going up to Fed Med, he’ll give Joe a talking-to on the matter, sugarcoated with a drink in his basement bar.

  Phil is playing bartender and talking while mixing the drinks. Vito, as always, stands by.

  “So this is the thing,” Phil says. “The object is obedience. What you need to do is instill fear. Make them not only understand in the head, but feel—feel viscerally, in the gut—that crossing you will have consequences they’re not going to be able to take. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Sure, Phil,” says Joey. He bounces his stocky frame on his toes like a boxer awaiting the bell and sweeps a hand through his curly black hair. “But to do that—”

  “Requires smarts,” Anwar says. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m not saying you don’t lift a hand—but be smart about it. In the first place, take all your own pleasure out of it. With some of these women, beating the shit out of ’em feels good, maybe too good. Especially when they deserve it. But if you get to like it too much, that’s not cool. You go past what’s needed for obedience. Then you bring in the medics, the cops, trouble, you hear me?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “In the second place, since basically what you want is to scare the shit out of ’em, you’ve got to leave room for them to imagine how it could get even worse. You see? If you go the limit right off—” Phil stops. He’s gazing at the far wall. “What’s that?” he says.

  “What?” Vito says. “Where?”

  Phil circles around the bar to go to the wall in question. “This,” he says, pointing to a square section of board near the ceiling that’s come a bit loose.

  “Boy, you got good eyes,” Vito says. “What’s his name, the guy who works for Syosset Security, was here… when? When you were in Europe, I think. Obviously the screws came loose on that board.”

  “Was here to do what, Vito?”

  “I dunno. Fix something. I think… what? I think he said one of the wires got frayed or something.”

  Phil pulls the board off the wall, exposing the FM transmitter. “What the fuck’s this?”

  “A splice?”

  “Vito, I love you, you know that.”

  “I do something bad, boss?”

  “Sometimes—and it gives me no joy to say this—you’re a fucking idiot!”

  EIGHTY-TWO

  Sam? Thank God you called.”

  “I’m upstairs. Alec’s apartment. If the address is here, I’ll find it.”

  “I’ve already got it,” Abigail says. “Twenty minutes ago. Vito gave it on the phone to some guy named Dominick.”

  “Just like that,” Sam says.

  “Yeah. Fell into our laps.”

  “Where are they?”

  “A place in Maine called Reefer’s Harbor. Sounds like a drug port.”

  “Street address?”

  “Two Deer Cove Road.”

  “I can remember that.”

  “Yeah, but Sam?”

  “What?”

  “Come home first,” she says.

  “Why?”

  Silence.

  “Abby, I’m not taking you with me.”

  “Come home. Let’s talk about it.”

  “I don’t have the time. I want to get up there.”

  “You got a gun?”

  “I’ll get something up there.”

  “I’ve got a handgun. A good one. Also a rifle. And lots of ammo. Faster than shopping up there, even assuming they’re selling.”

  “How come you have guns?”

  “Gus bought them.”

  Sam thinks for a moment. It’s fitting together. “All right. I run in, you hand me a gun and ammo, I take off, no arguing.”

  Silence.

  “Abby?”

  “You bargaining with me, Sam?”

  “No, that’s exactly what I’m not doing.”

  “Just come home, will you! Please!”

  She doesn’t tell him that the line, Phil’s line, went dead. Could mean anything. Why frighten Sam right now? She would drive off, but Sam has the truck. She could run to a neighbor’s, but that might implicate an innocent person. Besides, Phil would likely go to Sam’s place, not hers, if he suspects a tap. So getting Sam to her house is a good thing, she reasons. Besides, she doesn’t want him in Maine alone.

  Phil, Joey, and Vito pop Abby’s kitchen door as she’s taking dishes out of the dishwasher. She drops a porcelain platter, which smashes on the tile floor. She reaches for the countertop to brace herself only to launch a full bowl of soup, which somehow ricochets off the toaster onto her capri pants. Launching herself into the small den where she keeps the guns, she realizes belatedly, is a bad mistake. On a side table sit the recorder and earphones.

  Phil looks at the equipment and laughs. He says, “Get in the bathroom, Abby.”

  “What?” she cries, her voice rising in panic.

  “Upstairs,” Phil says. “Master bathroom.”

  Abby shakes her head with disbelief. Joey whacks her across the shoulders so hard she crashes into the table.

  “Up the fucking stairs,” Joey says.

  She starts screaming. Joey grabs her and tapes her mouth. Vito and Joey then each grab an arm, hoist her out of the den, and drag her up the staircase and into the one large bathroom in the house. She’s made to stand with her back to the tub. Phil sits on the toilet-seat cover. Joey sits on the edge of the sink. Vito bars the door.

  “So this is what’s happening,” Phil says. “And Abby, look at me! I need your attention. We’re setting it up so it’ll look like a suicide. You run water for a bath. Then you take all your clothes off and get in. Then—” Phil notices a small trash basket under the sink and bends down to retrieve it. “Whatta you know,” he says, fishing out
a straight razor. “What is this, Gus’? Perfect touch. Grieving widow uses late husband’s razor to cut her wrists. Like found art. You know that concept?”

  Abby bolts for the door, but Joe is too quick for her. He lassoes her in with one strong arm, and with his other hand grasps her right breast. She slumps down on the bath rug.

  “Okay, Abby,” says Phil. “Here it is. The boys can hold you down and strip you, or you can strip yourself. The advantage of doing it yourself is that you won’t have this brute of a man feeling you up. Oh, and Abby. You know why this is happening. So let’s get the show started.”

  Abby rips the tape off her mouth and screams, “Fuck you!”

  She scrambles up again, and Joey slams her down.

  “Guys?” Phil says, inviting them to begin. “We don’t have all day. I want the clothes off, but not torn. Then put in the hamper. When you get her in the tub, use her own hands to make the razor cuts. Gets the angle right. I’m going downstairs.”

  “You don’t want to see this?” Joey says, pulling Abby’s top over her head and unhooking her bra.

  “I’ve seen it,” says Phil. “It’s not that exciting.”

  Sam parks the car in the driveway and heads toward the back of the house. Smack in his eyes: the smashed-in kitchen door, the shattered platter, the spilt soup. Like a large cat in panic, he bounds through the rooms, looking for Abby, shouting her name.

  He finds her upstairs. In the bathtub, sitting, trying to wrench herself up, her breasts bare, her pants tangled around her knees, a nasty bruise on her upper right arm. She can scarcely move—her hands are tied behind her back with her bra—or make anything but muffled sounds—her mouth is taped.

  He yanks off the tape, frees her hands, lifts her from the tub. “This was Phil,” he says, “and my fault.”

  He carries her into the bedroom, lays her on the bed, and draws some covers over her. She’s breathing in gasps.

  “You’re in shock,” Sam says, wrapping the blanket around her. “I’ll get an ambulance here. No! Bring you to the ER myself.”