by Rick Santini
Sugarman felt a little better. But not much. Nothing a few big clients wouldn’t cure.
***
“Bernice, it’s me, Wally.”
“I know who it is. I know your voice. I slept with you for more than twenty-some years. Some things you just don’t forget. No matter how hard you try.”
Things are not going well.
“What’s this about a phone call on an overdue bill? And wanting to talk to Teddy?”
“You heard what I said on the phone earlier. Do you want me to repeat it?”
Damn, she’s not making this very easy.
“If you don’t mind.”
Bernice repeated the entire conversation with the so-called bill collector. Or as much as she could remember. Wally sat by the kitchen table that was as old as the apartment itself, drinking his coffee, smoking his cigarette, and listening.
So far no one has figured out what happened to Teddy. Everything’s on the internet. It is only a question of time before someone puts two and two together.
Wally began to sweat—again. He had no idea how many cold sweats, how many nightmares; he’d had in the past few months. Ever since he granted that stupid motion.
If I only had the opportunity to rethink it, to do it over again.
For a sitting judge in the middle of a trial, there were no do overs.
“Are you still there, Wally? Are you listening? Are you alone?”
“Of course I’m here, I’m listening, and not that it’s any of your business—yes, I’m alone. I have been alone since the day you walked out on me.”
“Whoa. Let’s not get started on that issue. You had no time for me or the boys. You were too busy kissing the ass of that damn Republican party of yours.”
“You mean the party that got me my job and allowed me to put a roof over our heads and food on the table. That party.”
There was a silence. Each was afraid the other would hang up. Something neither wanted. It had been too long and both needed to vent or at least talk in a civil manner.
It was Wally who finally broke the ice.
“Can we please start over?”
“What exactly does that mean? From when?”
“I mean this conversation. It seems we got sidetracked.”
“Oh. Sure. Why not?”
“When did you get the call? What did he sound like? Was there any accent you could pick up?”
“About a week or so ago. I really wasn’t paying any attention. I was so shocked he called about you. Let me think a minute. It was a guy. He sure wasn’t from around here. I would guess maybe Jersey. Yes, I think he was definitely from New Jersey. He could have been black. Not sure about that. We didn’t talk very long. When he asked about Teddy I just hung up. Figured he may have been a phony. Anything else?”
“Let me think.”
Any thought the Russians were connected went out the window. Wally had no other questions but didn’t want to hang up. He sorta liked talking to Bernice, even if she was busting his balls.
“How’s the weather down there?”
“What?”
“I asked how’s the weather down there.”
“Wally, if you want to know how the weather is, turn on the freakin’ Weather Channel. If you want to talk to me, just say so. I’m not going to bite you.”
“I miss you.”
“Now’s a hell of a time to mention it, Wally.”
***
The insurance company came through, not that they had much of a choice. No one would be brazen enough to make a claim for a Ferrari engine in a year old car. Especially a criminal defense lawyer who claims he was two blocks away when the engine was stolen.
Sugarman told the dealership to replace it, make sure the car was in perfect condition, and then sell it. He was too old, and a few pounds too heavy, to be driving a blood red Ferrari. Besides, he couldn’t afford the constant upkeep.
***
Carmela was worried to death. First she found the big brown bag and what was in it. Then she got a call from Anthony, letting her know he was invited to Manhattan by a college classmate for a few days. His buddy was leaving in a few hours and Anthony didn’t have time to come home to pack a few things. Whatever he needed, jeans, a sweatshirt, underwear, and toiletries, he could pick up once he got there.
Carmela forgot to ask and Anthony never told her who the friend was, where he was staying, and how she could reach him.
Anthony had no plan, not really. He had ten thousand bucks in his pocket and all he knew was he had to get the hell out of Newark—now. He would take a bus to Grand Central Station, find a semi-cheap hotel, and then figure out what he would do the rest of his life—later.
He would call his mama once he was safely in his new city. It occurred to him that he did not have a passport and could not even fly to Toronto or Montreal without one. Maybe he would be happy in Arizona or New Mexico or somewhere in that area.
I could get used to no cold or snow. Maybe I could learn Spanish and how to ride a horse. I could change my name to Antonio. Antonio Ricardi.
Anthony stopped at a Wal-Mart and bought a cheap suitcase, a couple of changes of clothes, and toiletries. The whole thing cost him less than one hundred forty-six dollars. He would grab a pizza and find a place to crash. Suddenly he was very tired.
And very alone.
CHAPTER 17
“We lost him, Boss. We didn’t know he bought two tickets. One to Philly and one to New York City. At the very last minute he got off the bus to Philly and sprinted to the New York bus. We were too late getting off the first bus. By then he was gone. Sorry.”
Alexey had to give it to the kid. He was smarter than he thought. Or looked. Next time, and there would be a next time, he would send someone who fit in better. Not so noticeable. Someone with a neck.
“At least we know he’s in Manhattan. I’ll have someone begin checking second rate hotels near Grand Central. You did say that was where the second bus was going, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. C.”
***
The only black man Judge Kolkolski could think of was the foreman of the jury. Johnson, a tall gangly young man, as he recalled. The man was obviously upset when he made the threats. It made no sense he would have made the call. He had no way of knowing Judge K was divorced and in fact had an ex-wife living in Miami.
Still, it would not hurt to look into the matter. Electronic records were kept of all inquiries to courthouse files. Maybe he would get lucky. Speaking of getting lucky, Bernice agreed it would be all right if Wally called back the next night.
Wally shocked himself when he blurted out, “I miss you.”
What the hell was I thinking?
Wally knew damn well what he was thinking. He was thinking he was getting old. He was thinking he had no girlfriend, no wife, and no grandchildren. He was thinking if he dropped dead the next day, who would miss him? Certainly not his fellow colleagues on the bench. Not the lawyers he screwed over the past fifteen years as a judge. He could think of absolutely no one who would care.
Bernice wasn’t perfect, far from it, but life with her had not been so bad. Life today sucked. With his accumulated sick days and vacation days, it had to come to better than two hundred fifty days, maybe more. He was already vested in his pension and could leave pretty much whenever he wanted to. The only questions was, to where.
Bernice seemed like the best solution. Actually Bernice was his only solution. The question was, could he live with her? Could she live with him? Could either of them forgive and forget? And then there was Teddy. Did he do enough? Could he have made a difference? Had he been punishing Teddy to hurt Bernice?
Judge K knew there would always be more questions than answers. Still, he was looking forward to tonight’s call to Bernice. He was feeling more than a bit anxious.
***
For the time being, there was nothing he could do about Anthony. He would be found; no question about that. Now would be a good time for Alexey to turn his
attention to Judge Kolkolski, that arrogant little prick.
He had been reminded by both Boris and Viktor about the threats made by the outraged jury foreman. He sounded like a man with a long memory and a reasonably short fuse. Alexey had been told the man’s name was William Lincoln Johnson and he worked for IBM. He should not be too difficult to locate.
Let’s see if he was really serious about getting back at the judge. ‘You will rue the day you allowed this to happen.’
Those were the exact words Viktor had written in his report to Alexey. Boris confirmed it.
It was not difficult to obtain Bill Johnson’s email address.
The email was direct and to the point.
May I buy you dinner tomorrow night? It is in our mutual interest. Alexey Cummings, Victoria’s father.
Bill Johnson read the e-mail—twice.
How did he know I was the jury foreman and what is our mutual interest? Obviously Judge Kolkolski, but what can I do for him?
After a few hours of weighing the pros and cons, Bill responded.
Tell me time and place. Will be there. Bill J.
The rest of the day and a good part of the evening, all Bill could think about was why was he having dinner with Alexey Cummings. The newspapers implied he was Russian mafia.
Grill House, Clinton Place, 7 P.M.
Bill knew the place. It was quiet and out of the way. He knew it had good food and they could talk undisturbed. The question was, what could he add to the conversation?
In less than twenty-four hours he would have his answer.
***
Anthony sat in his dingy hotel room on Eighth Avenue and 37th Street. He needed to come up with a plan. He had none. He had close to ten grand in his pockets and had no idea how or where to spend it. He was lying in a dumpy bed watching TV when he saw a commercial for a Southwest Airlines special, $99 to Miami. Flights leaving twice a day. If nothing else, he knew it was warmer in Miami. With a name like Anthony Ricardo or Antonio Ricardi, he would blend right in.
I wonder if the police or anyone else is looking for me? I wonder if I can buy a one way ticket for cash? I wonder if I will get out of New York City alive?
Anthony fell asleep on a bed of broken dreams, all the while clutching a very large wad of bills. He was dreaming of sun and sand and freedom on the shores of Miami Beach.
He had no idea flyers with his photo were being passed out to front desk clerks at more than a few dozen local hotels. There was a quiet thousand dollars in it to whoever made a phone call to Brighton Beach and identified Anthony. Payment would be made only after verification and personal contact.
Miami Beach was still a long ways away.
CHAPTER 18
They obviously had no trouble recognizing each other.
One was a tall black man in his early to mid-twenties. He was wearing pressed tan chinos, a blue, open collar button down shirt and wingtip shoes. He could have had a sign around his neck, IBM, and no one would have been surprised.
The other gentleman wore a two to three thousand dollar, custom-made soft gray silk suit, Italian loafers, black silk shirt, a two hundred dollar hair-cut, manicured nails, and still looked like a hoodlum.
Alexey was big and broad and carried an attitude that would fill a small room. He knew he was in charge wherever he went, and let no one forget it. He was a Russian. He was Russian mafia.
“Good evening, Mr. Johnson. Thank you for accepting my invitation.
Bill Johnson extended his hand. “Mr. Cummings, I presume. May I extend my personal regrets as to how the trial ended. I can tell you not one member of the jury believed the accused. We were all positive your daughter was telling the truth and was raped. On behalf of the entire jury, we wish to apologize to you for the absolute miscarriage of justice. None of us had even heard of a directed verdict before.”
Alexey returned the hand shake. “Thank you for your kind words. The past is the past. Now we must concentrate on the future to make sure this never happens to a poor innocent child again. We must find out why the judge did what he did.”
Alexey extended his arm to the rear of the room. “Please.”
Bill followed his lead and followed him to a quiet corner table.
“May I call you Bill or would you prefer Mr. Johnson?”
“Bill would be fine.”
“Do you drink vodka, Bill?”
“Thanks, but no thanks. A glass of water would be just fine.”
“Do you mind if I do? It helps relax me. A bad habit from the mother country.”
Bill nodded. He wanted to get right to the reason for the invitation. “What can I do for you, Mr. Cummings?”
“Please, call me Alexey.”
“What can I do for you, Alexey? Surely you have far more connections, far more influence in finding out things than I do.”
Alexey liked his direct approach. He liked the fact Johnson was not intimidated and apparently wanted to find out why, for whatever his own reasons were.
“May we order first? The prime rib is excellent. Then we can talk.”
They were now having coffee. Each refused dessert. The dinner was excellent. The prime rib more than lived up to their expectations. The wait staff did not hover but a quick look by Alexey was understood and his glass was refreshed, fresh rolls were brought, and they were left alone to talk. Alexey did most of the talking, really asking questions, and Bill did most of the listening, at times being noncommittal.
By the time the check was presented, and there was no question who invited who, the two of them had a mutual understanding. A mutually beneficial understanding.
“Thank you, Alexey. I thoroughly enjoyed the dinner and conversation. Yes, I have some more work to do, but I promise, I will call you as soon as I have something to report.”
Bill looked down at the business card with the personal cell phone number.
“I will call this number, leave a message, and you can call me back.”
Both parties shook hands. The meeting had been more successful than either had anticipated.
“May I offer you a ride home?”
“No thanks, I have my own car.”
Bill noticed a rather large black town car waiting at the curb. He thought he recognized No Neck One and No Neck Two in the front seats.
“Good night, Bill.”
“Good night, and thanks, Alexey.”
CHAPTER 19
Anthony was becoming totally paranoid, or he had been watching far too many cop shows on TV.
He put on a Mets baseball cap purchased at the drug store, dark sunglasses, checked out of the roach motel, walked to Penn Station, and took Amtrak to Washington, D.C. He decided to spend the day just wandering around. From there he boarded an overnight train to outside of Orlando. Finally he made his way to Greyhound for a three hour ride to Miami. No ID needed. He paid for everything with cash.
There are still ways to beat the system.
Now he needed a place to stay. A hotel was out of the question. He found bungalows for lease listed in the Miami Herald. No reference required, all they wanted was cash. Anthony paid for three months in advance. For the first time in months, he felt safe and sound.
“Ma, it’s me, Anthony. Yes, I’m fine. I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately and need a vacation; a break. I said I was fine. I’ll call you every week to let you know I’m okay. Yes. I love you too. Bye.”
Anthony then decided he needed some new clothes. Warm weather clothes. Shorts, t-shirts, and sandals. He also decided he needed a new look. Just in case. He used his safety razor and twenty minutes later was completely bald. He sorta liked the new look. No one, not even his best friend, not that he ever had one, would recognize him.
After a week of hanging out at the beach for at least three hours a day, Anthony made several discoveries. First, he was getting bored just doing nothing. It wasn’t his style. Second, while he still had more than sixty-five hundred left of his stash, it wouldn’t last forever.
I need a
job. Where can I work where I need no references? What am I qualified to do?
He had no clue.
It occurred to Anthony that although he had never been much of a stud, certainly not a ladies’ man, he had not had sex since the “incident,” the one that got him in all this trouble in the first place.
I need a girlfriend.
Anthony also realized he didn’t have a Florida driver’s license. He couldn’t even get a job as a pizza delivery boy if he wanted to.
Where can I get a job, any job, without proper identification? Social security and all that kinda crap. I’m screwed forever.
Anthony decided he needed a drink. Now.
It was only three in the afternoon.
***
The bar on Collins and 17th was not much to look at. It was not what you would expect in Miami Beach but this was the older section. The much older section. What could be called seedy or rundown or at times downright unfriendly. That was where Anthony ended up. He knew damn well he wouldn’t be proofed. All he had to do was lay a twenty on the bar and he could drink beer all afternoon.
The place was virtually empty except for one older woman sitting at the other end nursing her beer and keeping to herself. Anthony thought she could have been attractive, at least presentable, say twenty-five, thirty years ago. He heard the bartender ask if she needed a refill.
“Another one, hon?”
“Maybe just one more. I’ve got to be home by six. Important phone call. You’ll never guess from whom?”
Anthony never heard the answer as he passed her going to the men’s room. He nodded and smiled as he quickly checked her out. I must be getting really horny, he thought.
