Lock’s head began to spin and nausea percolated in his gut.
The second call was more discouraging than the first—as soon as that lawyer heard the facts of situation, he couldn’t hang up fast enough. And the third lawyer gave essentially the same story, but added, “It’s worth a shot, though this could take a year or two to shake out—and I’ll need a $25,000 retainer to get started and see what we can do.”
Lock said he’d think it over and hung up. He stared at the phone. He pictured Augie being driven away in a car seat in Freel’s Lamborghini. He couldn’t breathe.
Again, the thought came to him—Accept the truth, Augie’s not yours.
But how could that be? He knew he wasn’t dreaming, but the texture of his reality felt like any number of nightmares he’d had in recent years. They seemed so real, but he always woke up and the terror quickly abated. A good nightmare would stick with you for a while, he reminded himself, but it would always fade with time. He had to give it time and not do anything rash. Lock fought back at dark ideas—suicide, homicide, absconding with Augie—as they advanced on him. He pushed them away but knew they still lurked, lying in wait for the right time.
Even if he’s not my biological child, no one will keep me from Augie, he thought. No one.
43
After an aggravating shift at the diner—food being sent back left and right, lousy tips, and the lecherous leer of the night manager—Natalie sat fuming in the living room at Freel’s house.
“What’s eating you, Nat?” he asked as he padded across the carpet in his underwear. Natalie exhaled through her nose.
“Maybe you can help me find someone to rough up Witt.’
Freel shook his head and sneered.
“As revenge for backing out of the divorce settlement,” she said. “I’d think you’d be all for that puke to feel some pain, too.”
“And what do you gain by that?” asked Freel as he sat down next to her and used the remote to turn on the Golf Channel.
“Satisfaction, pure and simple,” she said.
“I can think of a better way for you to feel some gratification,” he said. He turned to look at Natalie and smirked.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said.
“I could find someone to help you out in no time, but why should I?”
“You do me a favor and I’ll do you a favor.” Natalie approached Freel and ran her fingers through his curly hair. “How about that punk you get your coke from?” she asked. “He’s pretty much a low-life. He’ll come up with someone who wants to make a few bucks.”
“That’s exactly who I’m going to call.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
“Right after I get my favor.”
“Oh no, you don’t. Whores always get paid up front. You should know that.”
“You’re too much, Nat. That’s why I love you.” Freel grinned.
“You’ll get yours after you seal the deal.”
Freel walked into another room and made a call. Natalie couldn’t make out the words.
“Nat, get me something to write on!” he shouted. She found a pen and scrap of paper in a desk drawer and hurried in and handed it to him. He motioned her out of the room.
A minute later, he returned to the living room and handed her the scrap of paper. On it was the name Marcus and a phone number. She smiled at him and put the paper into her bag.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, but that’s for you to decide. Don’t you think Witt will figure it’s you?”
“With all he’s doing for me? Paying for the condo, taking the girls, offering to fly me first class to California? I’m the last person he’d suspect. Plus, I’m going to tell the guy to make it look like a robbery and kick him, hard, in the face. Then I’ll go visit Witt and be able to enjoy seeing the damage while acting real sympathetic.”
“Oh, man, you’re sick. What do you get out of it again?”
“Knowing that he got beat up will make me feel much better. Speaking of which, what’s this going to cost?”
“I have no idea,” said Freel. “My man said work it out with the guy yourself. You’re street-smart. Don’t accept the first number he says. He’s probably a drug addict and will do anything for peanuts. And for Christ’s sake, don’t mention my name, whatever you do. I’m not involved in this. As your attorney, I’m not recommending this course of action.”
“And as my lover?”
“Bang him up good. The prick cost me three hundred thousand dollars. Now that I think about it, you work out the deal and I’ll pay for it.”
The following afternoon, another overcast and cold November day, Natalie drove into Philadelphia to a creepy part of the city’s Grays Ferry neighborhood. There, she was to wait in front of a plumbing supply warehouse on Vare Avenue. She was surprised at herself for feeling so anxious. Was Witt really that bad? Did he deserve to get beaten? Then she thought about the long and tedious night shift she’d be working later and decided that yes, he really was that bad.
The person she was scheduled to meet turned out to be a skinny man who looked like he smelled. He tapped on her window. She didn’t open it.
“Marcus?” she said through the glass.
“That’s me, alright,” he said. “Let’s talk in my car.”
“Bad idea. Let’s sit in mine,” she said. She leaned across the passenger seat to unlock the door of her old Toyota for him. He shrugged and got in the passenger side.
He put out his hand to shake hers. “They call me H.M.,” he said. “Word is your boyfriend’s a nice guy, and your husband slaps you around pretty good.”
“That’s not the half of it,” Natalie said. “I need him to know what getting hit feels like. If I could do it myself, I would.”
“That’s why they call me H.M.,” the man said. “Stands for Hurt Man. I don’t kill people. I’m not a hit man. I give people a good talking-to, get their attention. My step-father taught me all about that. I can also deliver a personal message for you. No extra charge.”
“No,” Natalie said. “No messages. I don’t want him to know this came from me. Make him think this is a robbery. FYI, he usually has a lot of cash on him. Take his wallet, and whatever’s in it is a bonus for you.”
The man nodded appreciatively.
“I do have one concern, though,” said Natalie. “No offense, but you don’t exactly look like a powerhouse. You’re kind of skinny. My husband’s no weakling.”
“Lady, don’t worry about that. I’ll get the job done. I employ the element of surprise. Works every time.”
Natalie rolled her eyes and regarded him warily. “What’s something like this cost?”
“Oh no,” he said. “You have to make me an offer. Then I’ll turn it down and tell you it’s more. That’s the way it goes.”
“I could get you three hundred.”
He grunted. “For three hundred, I’d give him a kiss. You’ll have to do much better than that.”
“I can give you three hundred right now,” she said, “and another three hundred after. Six hundred. That’s it. That’s all I have.”
“You’re still not even close.” Her max was a thousand, but she wasn’t going to let on about that.
“Come on,” she said, “I’m a waitress. I work for tips.”
“I don’t,” he said. “Eight.”
“Six-fifty or get out of my car.” Natalie glared at him. She wasn’t intimidated in the least. H.M. looked away.
“Holy shit, you’re scary, lady.” He looked her over slowly and then grinned. “I have an idea. How about we trade?”
“Okay,” she said. “You’re done. Get out.”
H.M. put up his hands in mock surrender.
“Okay, tough guy,” he said. “You win. Six-fifty. Up front.”
“Three now and the rest afterwards.
”
His watery eyes widened. “You win again.” He put out his hand.
Natalie reached under the floor mat and retrieved the three hundred in twenties she had counted out earlier, and handed them to him, being careful to make sure she didn’t touch his filthy hand and disgusting fingernails. Then she reached up to the sun visor and found a piece of notepaper.
“He’s usually out of town, but he’ll be back here on business Saturday night,” she said. She handed him the note. “Here’s the address of a bar where he’ll be. My advice would be to hang around in the parking lot and sucker-punch him when he comes out, which should be around ten or eleven. Nothing more than one good sock. No messages, no nothing. Got it?”
H.M. examined the paper.
“Red Cedar Woods? How the fuck am I going to find this place?”
“I don’t know. Go get yourself a GPS. Remember, nothing life-threatening, nothing that would put him in the hospital. Just a good punch and a good scare. Oh, and only if he’s alone. You don’t want any witnesses.”
“Okay,” he said. “I guess.”
“Oh. You’ll need this.” Natalie handed him a photo that had been torn in half. It was a shot of Witt. He wore a tux and was smiling broadly. Whoever had her arm around him couldn’t be seen.
H.M. looked it over and jammed it in his pocket along with the twenties. “I got everything I need.”
“Thank you,” she said, “and don’t forget about his wallet. It could be more than you expect.”
Without either of them saying another word, the man exited her car and she drove off. He stood in the parking lot and watched her leave.
Natalie headed home on I-76, the radio cranked up to drown out doubts about sending someone to attack the man who had been, at least recently, so good to her. She made the music even louder and rolled down the windows. She needed some cold air.
Natalie’s shift flew by that day, her mind occupied with images of Witt being punched and knocked to the ground in the parking lot of the Cavern Tavern. Witt lived in fear of losing his wallet and having to contact all of his credit card companies, get a new driver’s license, and all that. She’d been in a good mood ever since she struck the deal earlier in the day. If this worked out, maybe she’d be able to get H.M. to get back at some other people with whom she had scores to settle. No, she told herself, don’t get carried away. Just sit back and enjoy. She smirked, knowing big-shot Witt would soon feel some of the pain he loved to dish out.
She was about to deliver a check to her last table—three high school boys who had been whispering about her as they watched her walk away to fill their order—when the bell chimed at the front door of the diner.
Natalie had to look twice at a group of people entering the diner to be sure it was who she thought it was. Yes, it was definitely him, H.M., with a woman and two other men. All of them, even H.M.—who now looked clean and professional—were wearing suits. They spoke to the manager, who turned and scanned the dining room. When he spotted Natalie, he pointed to her. The group looked at her.
“Nat! Get over here,” the manager said. Natalie set the check down at the high schoolers’ table and headed to the cashier’s counter. The three men and the woman stood next to the manager, watching her approach.
“You need to see me about something?” she asked Nikos, the manager.
“Natalie Jeanne Mannheim?” the woman said, stepping forward.
Natalie squinted at her. “Yes, I’m Natalie.”
The woman and one of the men each took one of Natalie’s arms.
H.M spoke. He looked at a form. “Natalie Jeanne Mannheim, you are under arrest for criminal conspiracy, solicitation of the commission of a felony, and solicitation to commit aggravated battery. Turn around.”
Natalie did as ordered, and found two uniformed officers behind her. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought everyone could hear it. A nauseating dizziness affected her balance. The two officers at her sides held her tightly as she wobbled.
Then one of the policemen walked behind her and handcuffed her. The dining room fell silent. Everyone in the restaurant turned to take in the scene. Natalie looked down toward the floor. She would have covered her face if she could have.
The detectives’ sedan pulled up to the Brandywine County Municipal Services building and parked illegally at the sidewalk closest to the entrance. Natalie was ushered out of the cart and walked like a zombie, prodded rudely by the woman officer.
They escorted Natalie to an interrogation room.
“Are you certain you don’t want to contact an attorney?” the officer asked as he uncuffed Natalie and pointed the chair she was to occupy. “We’ve read you Miranda twice now. If you want to explain yourself, let’s get going.”
“I didn’t do anything except talk to someone about my ex-husband. Anything else your partner says is hearsay. You said he didn’t tape the conversation.”
“I tried,” H.M. said, grinning. “Not my fault if department-issued recording equipment sucks.” One of the detectives narrowed his eyes at H.M.
“Do you realize how serious this is?” another of the detectives asked. He sat down, removed his glasses, and rubbed his face. A pen lay on top of a yellow-lined notepad. “The D.A. wants to charge you with attempted murder.”
A video camera on a tripod stood on the floor next to the desk where Natalie sat facing the detective.
“Murder?” she asked. “That’s ridiculous. Is that camera on?”
“No,” the detective said. “Not unless you give me the okay to record. And if you have nothing to hide—”
“I only asked the undercover guy to rough him up a bit. I even specified nothing serious, nothing that would put him in the hospital. I said that. Those exact words. Just a good scare. My ex has ruined my life and he thinks there are no consequences.”
“How could you have been certain the man you hired wouldn’t have gotten carried away and killed him? One good punch can kill a man. You know that. That’s attempted murder.”
“Actually,” Natalie said, “I thought your officer was an addict who would just rip me off for the three hundred and never lift a finger and hurt my ex. That’s it,” she said, getting a second wind and feeling better. For the first time that evening, she sat up tall and relaxed. “I never had the slightest intention of any of this coming to pass. It was just some sick game I was playing with myself. To make me feel better.”
The detective picked up the pen, pointed it toward her and started to say something, but then stopped. He dropped the pen on the pad and sat back. He smiled at Natalie.
“Now you’re getting cute because you think we have nothing on you because the recorder screwed up. Well, think again. It would have been helpful to have it, sure, but we can make do very nicely without it. Detective Abramovitz’s testimony will be believed. Your best bet is to call your lawyer so we can get a confession from you that he won’t challenge later. But if you want to play games, fine. We’ll talk more.”
Natalie took a deep breath and tried to stare down the detective, who just relaxed his smile and shook his head.
“Maybe I will call my lawyer,” she said. “Can I think about it?”
“Sure,” the detective said. “You think about it all you want while I call the D.A.’s night desk and see what else we can charge you with.”
“That’s fine,” Natalie said, holding out her wrists, assuming she was about to be handcuffed again and taken to a holding cell.
One of the officers advanced with cuffs in hand. The detective waved him off. “We don’t need to handcuff Mrs. Mannheim. Just give her a seat in the hall. She wants time to think.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate the courtesy.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’m not being courteous. I want you to think about telling the truth and making the inevitable easier on all concerned. You’re on probation, an
d the D.A.’s recommendation to the sentencing judge counts for quite a bit. I’m giving you a chance to think about things and do the right thing. That’s a full confession. I can guarantee you the D.A. will smile kindly on that. He’s a busy man, and your admission will save him time, money, and human resources. That’s your best value. Think about it.”
Natalie sat on a hard bench in the hallway outside of the interrogation room. Her finger traced the lines of graffiti marked on the wall behind the bench. The nausea returned, and she felt so dizzy that she leaned across the bench to lie down, her head painfully up against the wall. She couldn’t get comfortable, and after a few moments more she stood up, walked a few paces to the interrogation room door, and knocked.
The head detective opened the door and motioned for her to come in.
“I’ll give you your statement,” she said, “but first I better talk to my attorney. I’ll make sure he doesn’t talk me out of it. I want to cooperate and get the best deal I can. I’m no fool.”
The detective looked around at the other police in the room and winked.
“Good move, Mrs. Mannheim. I wasn’t playing good cop. You make this easier on us, and we have no motive to make things worse for you.”
“Yeah,” said H.M. “We don’t need to make things worse for you. You’re pretty good at doing that for yourself.”
“Shut up, Abramovitz,” the detective said. “Clock out.”
Abramovitz said nothing and walked out of the room, passing close enough to Natalie to shoot her a malicious grin. She said nothing, but she felt quite ill. She hoped she wouldn’t puke.
Three days later, the county prosecutor told the judge that Natalie had believed that the Hurt Man was a convicted felon and that she knew or should have known that it was a clear violation of her probation to meet with him.
Baby Please Don't Go: A Novel Page 29
