by Gorman, Ed
Digby couldn’t remember the last time he faced violence. He was a peaceable man, as his thoughtful manner and plump frame suggested, and not at all quick on his feet.
Hmmm.
Digby loosened his tie, took out a yellow pad and began to develop a strategy, standing now and then to pace. He sat, scribbled, paced. Stroked his chin. Yes, he thought finally, maybe so. He re movedmoved the pages and transcribed them, his handwriting neat, the flow of logic impeccable.
For safety’s sake, he decided to bypass dinner at a Buchanan Avenue restaurant. Warm buttered popcorn would have to do as Taras Bulba unfolded and until his nap began. There was an all-night diner by the Erie-Lackawanna Terminal that had a fine grilled ham steak, or maybe the Grotto would still be serving its famous zuppa di vongole when the late movie let out. Digby would make do until he could implement his plan.
As he slipped back into his coat, he looked around his apartment, his bachelor’s nest. Shutting the lights, Digby said goodbye to solitude and headed into the chilly Narrows Gate evening.
• • •
“And so what does he do, this Digby? This Michael Francis Digby? This attorney at law? He...”
Rooney paused to order another bullet, and Finnerty limped over with the Four Roses bottle, its spigot reflecting the Shamrock’s dull lighting. The jukebox was silent, the pool table abandoned save for the cue ball and bridge.
As Finnerty lifted a dollar, Rooney raged on.
“Not as a man would. No. Not. Hiding behind the law. Digby, this ... Digby. Trying to — And a working man at that. Me.” Rooney tapped his chest. “I’m earning and he’s ... O’Boyle, what’s the word? He’s ... He’s conspiring. That’s it. Conspiring!”
Staring at the rows of bottles stretched before him, seventy-twoyear-old O’Boyle nodded, though he was hardly listening. His beloved Rat Catcher slept on sawdust under her master’s feet.
Rooney burped. He’d put a sizable dent in the money he’d earned today, the short stack of singles all but flat now. Immediately after leaving the job site, he’d marched through the rain to Digby’s storefront office, which he found empty again, but with its lights aglow. Short of ideas on where to look next, he repaired to the bar, sledgehammer looped in his belt.
“Rooney, it’s none of my business, but I got to say I know Digby since we was in kindergarten at St. Matty’s and I never seen him steal so much as a piece of penny candy,” Finnerty said.
O’Boyle nodded.
“Ah. So I’m a liar, am I?”
Finnerty leaned his hands on the bar. “What I’m saying is maybe you’re mistaken.”
“Mistaken,” Rooney grumbled.
“And Mary Catherine — ”
“Mrs. Rooney to you,” he said, his eyelids bobbing.
“Mary Catherine wouldn’t spit at you and say it’s raining, Rooney. That I know.”
“I see as she’s under his spell,” he replied. “The web he spins with the big words, his education...”
As he wiped his hands on his apron, Finnerty rolled his eyes.
“Digby’s spell,” O’Boyle chuckled.
“That’s enough from you,” Rooney said, jabbing O’Boyle’s bony shoulder with a finger.
Rat Catcher stood, fixing Rooney in her sights, ready to bare her remaining teeth.
“Why don’t you talk to him?” Finnerty said. “Digby don’t lie.”
“I would but for his hiding. As for his lying — ”
“Digby’s not hiding,” O’Boyle said as he reached for the beer nuts. “He’s at the movies.”
Finnerty grimaced.
“The movies...” Rooney said. Draining the last of his bourbon and the foamy Rheingold, he slid carefully off the stool, avoiding Rat Catcher, who sneered at him nonetheless. Bending to peer at the mirror behind the liquor bottles, he matted down his hair, centered the shoulders of his work coat and gathered up his change, leaving a dime for Finnerty. Without a word, he staggered toward the door, red neon reflecting in his pinwheeling eyes.
When Rooney left, Finnerty stared at O’Boyle. “Now why did you do that, putting Digby in his sights? You know full well Digby can’t — ”
O’Boyle slowly raised his fist, which held Rooney’s baby sledgehammer.
• • •
Finnerty called from the bar.
“All right, Thomas,” Mary Catherine groaned. “I thank you. Give my regards to Lucy, and to your mother too.”
Anna’s sharp tongue and sinister logic made her unbearable to her siblings, so Mary Catherine had to drag her along. As they took their seats on the jitney, she turned to her daughter, who was pinned against the sidewall and rain-streak window by her mother’s heft.
“Anna, if you say one word out of turn, I swear I’ll send you to Grandma before the night is through.”
“I don’t mind Grandma McIlwaine,” Anna replied.
“I wasn’t talking about Grandma McIlwaine.”
“Well, Grandma Rooney is dead.”
“Exactly so.” She stared ahead toward the driver.
Twelve blocks later, they hurried through the rain to under the sputtering lights of the Avalon’s marquee, late for the sunset matinee and early for the eight o’clock show. They paid full price — one adult, one child — and took the faded red carpet on the sweeping staircase to the balcony where, as long-time Narrows Gate’s residents knew, Francis Michael Digby napped. As furious Cossacks stormed into battle on screen, horses stampeding in rhythm to the glorious orchestral score, Mary Catherine ducked beneath the flickering projection. Hand above her brow, she located Digby nuzzled against a chipped wall, his chin cupped in his hand.
Dragging Anna behind her, she approached.
“Digby,” she whispered, in order not to disturb the other patrons sprinkled throughout the musty balcony. “Digby.”
The sound of gunfire ricocheted around the theater.
“Whack him,” Anna suggested.
A cannon exploded. But Digby continued to purr.
Mary Catherine hesitated, then jostled his shoulder. “Digby. Francis.” She sat in the seat next to his. “Francis, wake up...”
Suddenly, there was a ruckus down below. Patrons hissed, and then shouted over the picture as it blared. When Mary Catherine looked beyond the tarnished brass rail, she saw her husband climbing onto the stage, his shadow on the screen.
“Digby!” he wailed, as the battle raged behind him. “Digby, I’m here to kill you, I am. Where in God’s name are you?”
“They’re up here, Dad,” Anna screamed. She pointed an accusing finger at her mother and Digby, who now sat side by side.
• • •
Leaky Rooney raced up the stairs, an usher giving chase.
Fists on her hips, Mary Catherine stood before Digby, who was rousting himself from the grip of a deep sleep. She glared at her husband.
“Mary Catherine...” Rooney warned as he skidded to a stop. “So help me God.”
Almost alert, Digby peered over her shoulder. As quickly as he could, he silently recounted the strategy he crafted in his apartment. The balcony patrons gathered above the exit.
“Step aside, Mary Catherine,” Rooney said as he slowly padded toward them. “I have no taste for harming you. But that ... That ... That attorney,” he sputtered. “Death is too good for his likes, believe me.”
“Where’s your hammer, Dad?” Anna said.
Staring at Digby, Rooney patted his empty belt.
Peering over his former classmate’s shoulder, Digby saw his opening. “I love Mary Catherine,” he blurted. “Always have.”
Rooney recoiled. Sweet mother of Jesus, it isn’t only in my head, he thought.
Mary Catherine turned. “Digby...?”
“He’s right, Mary Catherine. Your husband is right. I’ve tried to free you for my own gain...”
“Holy moley,” Anna said.
Digby recited his speech from memory. “Mary Catherine, I remember like it was yesterday the tears in your eyes when Sister Dolore
s told us President Roosevelt had died. Your beautiful face as you led us in prayer. Your hazel eyes ... From that moment on — ”
“That’ll be enough of that, Digby,” Rooney barked. “Step over here so I can kill you proper.”
The exit was now filled with patrons from downstairs, the picture continuing without an audience.
Digby took Mary Catherine’s hands. “You deserve the best, my dear,” he said as sweetly as he could manage.
“That’s it!” Rooney announced, raising an empty fist. “Say your prayers, Digby!” Charging in, he pushed his wife directly into Digby’s embrace.
Stunned, Digby tried to retreat, but he was blocked by a row of seats.
Mary Catherine held tight as she brought her lips to his ear. “Thank you, Francis Michael Digby,” she whispered.
“Dad, look! She’s saying she loves him. She said it!”
Rooney clapped his daughter on the back of the head. But then he said, “Is it so, Mary Catherine?”
In the eternity it took to turn, Mary Catherine had a fleeting vision of what might’ve been. She blinked to shake from its satisfying grip, though not before remembering that, yes, she had been beautiful and once had dreams. “And what if it is?” she said.
Rooney quaked. He could not believe his life was at its end. Mary Catherine, who he loved from the moment he saw her in her cheerleader’s uniform — pleated skirt, dimpled knees, socks drooping over her saddle shoes. Her face shone like a thousand suns and, as God is my witness, it still does.
“I — ” Speechless, Rooney dropped into a padded seat. His sow of a mother was right: he was ending up drunk and alone. Digby gave Mary Catherine a gentle shove. “Go on...” Sighing, she stepped forward and held out her hand.
“Come on,” she said to her hapless husband.
Rooney looked up. “Me?” he said in amazement.
“Yes. You.”
Rooney raised slowly, his head bowed in shame. Then he looked up and stared in his wife’s eyes.
“I’m a dope,” he said.
“Indeed,” replied Mary Catherine.
“Congratulations, Rooney,” Digby said cheerfully. “You’re a lucky man.”
Digby waved as the Rooneys, the usher and the downstairs patrons retreated, leaving much of the balcony empty.
On the screen, the battle had ended. Smoke had begun to clear, the cannons now silent. The remaining horses grazed somewhere far off and unseen.
Digby returned to his seat, wriggling until he reclaimed his warm spot. Contented, he nestled in, ready to resume a life of simple pleasures.
Soon, he was fast asleep.
• • •
JIM FUSILLIis the author of five novels. In 2010, his short story, “Digby, Attorney At Law,” was nominated for an Edgar Award by the Mystery Writers of America. His story “Chellini’s Solution,” appeared in the 2007 edition of The Best American Mystery Stories, and his story “The Guardians” was selected for A Prisoner of Memory, a 2008 anthology of the year’s finest mystery short fiction. Jim is the rock and pop critic of The Wall Street Journal. Pet Sounds, his book on Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys’ album Pet Sounds, was published in 2006 by Continuum and in 2009 by Audible. He lives in New York City.
THE WAY THEY LIMP
By Clark Howard
Angus Doylewas having a late breakfast on the east patio of his gated, guarded estate home, when his attorney, Solomon Silverstein, arrived.
“You eat yet?” Doyle asked by way of greeting.
“No. And I probably won’t all day,” the lawyer snapped. “I’ve lost my appetite. And my ulcer is going crazy. It’ll probably perforate.”
“Oh? What’s bothering your ulcer, Sol?”
Silverstein sat and drew over an extra chair on which to place and open his briefcase. From it he extracted four documents folded in blue legal covering. “These are what’s bothering me,” he said, placing them directly in front of Angus Doyle’s breakfast plate.
“What are they?” Doyle asked, not touching them.
“Subpoenas, Gus. Federal grand jury subpoenas. For Quinn, Foley, Dwyer, and Connor.”
“But not for me?”
“Not yet.”
Doyle grunted quietly. “What’s the grand jury looking at? RICO again?”
RICO. Racketeering Influenced Corrupt Organizations. An all-purpose federal crime designed to bring down organized crime operations.
“No, not RICO. Not this time, Gus.” The lawyer’s expression turned grim. “This time it’s income tax evasion.”
“What!” Doyle was taken aback. “I pay my taxes!” he declared indignantly.
“Of course you do,” Sol said. “On your legitimate businesses. On your up-front operations: the bowling alleys and bars, the laundry and dry cleaning services, the limo and escort services, the convenience store franchises, all the rest. But you don’t pay income tax on the other stuff: the gambling, hijacking, prostitution — ”
“How the hell can I?” Doyle demanded. “Those things are illegal!”
“Exactly. And that’s what they’re now trying to get you for. Income is income, whether it’s legal or illegal. Remember a fellow named Al Capone?” The attorney leaned forward urgently. “Can’t you see what they’re doing? Quinn, Foley, Dwyer, and Connor. Your four top men. Between them, they know everything about your operation. Everything you run, all the front businesses, the payoffs, where the money comes from, where the bodies are buried — ”
“Sol, please. I’m eating,” Doyle said.
“Do you see my point?”
“No.”
“Look, they’re going to bring in each of your men separately to be questioned by department of justice attorneys in front of a secret grand jury. No defense lawyers are allowed, there’s no transcript, no rules of evidence apply because the purpose is not to convict anyone, merely to indict.” Silverstein took a deep breath. “Do you suppose I can get a glass of cold milk?”
Doyle rang a small silver bell on the table. In seconds a white-coated attendant appeared and the milk was ordered. “Sure you wouldn’t like something to eat, Sol? Eggs, bacon, O’Brien potatoes?”
“Good god, no! Do you want to kill me?”
There was a twinkle of mischief in Angus Doyle’s eyes, with just a hint of malice attached to it. Doyle was a stout, almost brutish, ruddy-faced man who could eat anything, and who could, and had, killed enemies with his bare hands. He was Black Irish to the core, and while he valued Solomon Silverstein to a large degree, he had never really been fond of him. In his entire life, Angus Doyle had never really been fond of anyone who was not Irish.
Sol fidgeted with a corner of the starched white cloth of Angus Doyle’s breakfast table. A thin, hyper, dedicated worrier of a man, he was nevertheless a brilliant litigator and appellant attorney who had kept Angus Doyle out of legal harm’s way for two decades, and whom Doyle had made very wealthy in return. When his glass of cold milk arrived, the lawyer gulped it down in several swallows, then rubbed his stomach as if to spread around its soothing effect.
“Tell me in plain language what’s bothering you, Sol,” Doyle said, continuing to devour the O’Brien potatoes laced with onions and green peppers.
“Quinn, Foley, Dwyer, and Connor. They will be questioned individually, in secret, and no one except the justice department attorney and the anonymous grand jury members will ever know what they say. But — everything they say can be used to find evidence against anyone they give testimony about.”
Doyle belched. “So?”
“So, Gus, suppose one of them cuts a deal with the government?”
“One of my men? Sol, please.”
“It could happen, Gus. One of them gives enough information for the government to find cause to indict you, and you’d never know which one did it. Even they wouldn’t know which one did it. You go down. Your entire organization is wiped out. And the government gives immunity to Quinn, Foley, Dwyer, and Connor — so nobody ever knows who the informer was.”
“None of my men would ever do that,” Doyle said confidently.
“What makes you so sure? How do you know how much the government has compiled on each one of them over the years? How do you know how much pressure can be put on one of them? Immunity, Gus, can be an orchid in a field of weeds.”
Doyle stopped eating. His expression grew thoughtful. “All right,” he said quietly, “for the sake of argument, suppose one of them does cut a deal. What happens next?”
“The government indicts you on numerous counts of income tax evasion over the years. They prove that you could not possibly have maintained the life style you’ve established on the legitimate income you claimed on your tax returns.”
“How the hell can they prove something like that?”
“Paper trail, Gus. The cars you’ve bought over the years. The Canali suits and shirts you’ve had made. The Salvatore Ferragamo Python shoes you wear. That Girard
Perregaus wristwatch you’re wearing that cost five hundred thousand dollars. The yacht you’ve got docked in Florida. The homes you own in Vail, Barbados, Costa Rica. Vera’s jewelry. Doreen’s private school in Switzerland — ”
“Okay, okay,” Doyle raised a hand to stop the lawyer’s soliloquy, “I get the picture.” He pushed his plate away in disgust. “A man can’t even buy gifts for his wife and see that his daughter gets a proper education without the goddamned government sticking its nose into it,” he muttered irritably. After a few moments, he sighed wearily and said, “Assuming you’re right, what exactly happens then?”
“A caravan of federal agents will show up at daybreak some morning, put you under arrest, declare this place a crime scene, evict Vera, Doreen, and all the servants — ”
“How can they do that? This is my home, for god’s sake! What right do they have to declare it a crime scene!”
“Your vault, Gus,” the lawyer said quietly. “Whoever blows the whistle on you will tell them about your vault.”
Doyle’s eyes widened to the point of bulging. Beneath his mansion was a lower level that housed an extensive wine cellar, a mammoth gun collection, and a floor-to-ceiling bank-style vault that was one of his most prized possessions.
