No One Rides for Free

by Larry Beinhart

  “Both on the Panasonic, kiddo.”

  “Do me a favor?”

  “Sure,” he said, “I’ll erase ’em.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do yourself a favor, kiddo.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Tell the lovebird to be a little more discreet.”

  “Joey D’, how do you know about these things?”

  “I’m a detective, ain’t I?”

  “Joseph, it is time for a serious answer.”

  “I got a call from the girl friend this morning. The live-in, not the lovebird. Apparently your explanations of last evening were not totally satisfactory.”

  “So?”

  “So I covered for you, asshole. Which is more than you deserve. I explained that victims often become fixated on investigating officers. Irrespective of that officer’s conduct. That, in point of fact, the response is so normal that it is covered in the ‘Conduct and Relations with the Public’ course at the academy. Even in the ancient days when I attended and they were not so hip about psycho-evaluation as they are in these modern days.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said, “Tanks, Joey, I feels better for talking to you’!”

  “Tanks, Joey,” I said sincerely.

  Getting out of bed, getting to the bathroom, brushing my teeth, keeping my eyes open to watch my urine for blood were all major productions. So I swallowed a perc and two aspirins, then snorted four lines. Small ones.

  Dear, dear Glenda had left coffee on the stove and it only needed warming, thank you. I sat slumped over it and called Mr. Haven.

  “How soon can you be here to give me an update?” he asked.

  I wanted to say at least a week, but I croaked, “How about tomorrow?”

  “I will be out of town tomorrow,” letting me know in his quietly imperial way that he meant now and was paying for it. I got two hours’ grace.

  I actually searched the apartment before I dared call Christina. Even then, I sat so I could see the door, in case the knob should turn. I told her about Glenda and the tape.

  “There’s no place I can call you,” she said. “I don’t like leaving messages with your partner; he sounds like he resents me. I know I can’t call you at home; now I can’t even leave a message on your machine.”

  I asked her if I could see her after my meeting.

  “I have some things scheduled, but I’ll try. Tony, I don’t like rearranging my life around your … convenience. I’ll try, but I’m not promising anything.” She hung up.

  Something chilly and tight moved through me. Some close kin of fear. The thought of losing her squeezed moisture from the pores on my back, arms and neck.

  I had no more compunction about snorting up in the men’s room of a law office than I did in a police station, so when I saw Choate Haven I didn’t mind the pain too much and was able to give him a coherent rundown of events.

  “Your extraction of what is significant from these events is actually quite adequate,” he said. I wondered if he had learned the manner from John Houseman or if Houseman had learned it from him. “However, your suppositions appear to me to be merely that, suppositions.”

  He leaned back and made himself look both thoughtful and astute before continuing.

  “Your inference that Alexander acted on behalf of this Marcus Wellby, alleged heroin dealer, is not necessarily supported by fact. He did not know the thrust of your investigation. Your associate had previously been employed as a police officer, and it is reasonable to assume that Alexander perceived your approach as, for example, another narcotics investigation. That would explain the facts as well, or better, than your theory.

  “You are obviously aware of the weakness of your other major supposition, that Wellby was a mere conduit. The lack of apparent motivation and the lack of an obvious connection do not mean that both do not exist.

  “In law, as in science, the obvious inference, the clearest and simplest explanation, is to be preferred over the more complex, insofar as they both account for all the facts. The principle is called Occam’s Razor, as I’m sure you are aware.

  “The lack of apparent motivation and connection between Wellby and Wood is a lack common to Wood and to everyone else. It is therefore not a reason to dismiss Wellby as the prime mover. … Unless I’ve missed something.”

  “No, Mr. Haven, in fact I find your analysis very much to the point, clear and lucid. The direction of my continued investigation should and will use your perceptions as a basis.”

  “Excellent,” he said, “what will that be?” ‘ “There are, in a sense, two investigations. One is a physical trail, in D.C.: looking for Alexander’s partner; finding ‘Peanut Butter’ Bernard; trying to get a lead on Alexander’s executioner. Right now, the police are better equipped to handle that than me. If they should, excuse the expression, ‘crap out,’ then I’ll stick my two cents in. The other investigation is the paper chase. If Wood and Wellby had a connection it’ll be in phone records, or a file or his diary.”

  “That makes sense.” But before I could heave a sigh of relief, he went on, “There are, however, inherent problems in the procedure. Any client associated with Wood is protected by the attorney-client privilege. I cannot permit you to root blindly through the papers of Edgar Wood. They contain the affairs of our clients. Unless, of course, you were able to obtain evidence of a quality to show cause, to search for some specific item or items.”

  “If there is any trace at all, it has to be in his papers,” I said. I needed access to them.

  “This may be a frustrating discovery for you, Mr. Cassella, but this is a society of rules and laws. The police find that frustrating. Prosecutors find that frustrating. Even I, at times, am irritated by it. But it is something we must live with if we are to survive as a social organism, and I for one am glad and grateful for that fact.”

  I rose to go.

  “Mr. Cassella,” he said, “bring me due cause, or the equivalent thereof, and I will speak with the other senior partners, and we will make available as much as we can to you.”

  When I left, my stomach was in knots. I expected the worst when I saw her. I expected her to say she couldn’t deal with it anymore. The thought filled me with fear and I forgot that it should have been me saying “this can’t be,” just plain forgot.

  When I came through the door, she was standing in the middle of the room, looking distraught and distracted. When my arms went around her, hers went around me. When my mouth opened on hers, hers opened in welcome. Her softness leaned into me, and my body, battered parts and all, sang with joy. Love, opiate and analgesic.

  Her shirt lifted up and off her, leaving her breasts and belly bare to my mouth. She made sounds in her throat. Her skirt unlatched easily and floated down her long legs. The small bikini pants followed and so did I. Her warm moisture tasted just fine. Her fingers trembled when they touched my head and her knees lost their strength. She slid down so that we knelt face to face and she tasted herself on my lips.

  “Angel, my angel,” she said.

  When the time came to try to get up off the floor, I got dizzy and had to cling to her. Pain thudded through my middle in a double mismatched beat, one for my blood and one for my breath.

  “My angel, you’re hurt. Why didn’t you …”

  “It’s just a disguise,” I said.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I hoped. “Just help me up.”

  She helped me get to bed and helped me undress. The magic pick-me-up was in my pants pocket and I asked for it. The snort woke me up. It felt good, so I did another round and suddenly grew afraid.

  “Do you want some?” I asked.

  She nodded yes. I gave her the bottle. After she snorted I asked if that was enough. She said yes.

  “Then flush what’s left,” I said. “Now. Do it now.”

  I waited. When I heard the water running I yearned for it not be happening; somewhere down in the drains I could snatch it back.


  When she returned, I summarized again. I downplayed the violence, trauma and death, just like John Wayne would have. She reacted perfectly, concern on her face, a tear in one corner of her eye, her cheek laid gently on my wounds. It would have ruined the moment to tell her how perfectly Sandy’s kiss went with Demerol, so I left that out.

  “Don’t go on. I don’t want you hurt. My angel, I don’t want to lose you.” The cynical side, the son of a bitch that hides in back but never leaves, said that her lines were right on cue. But even he loved her for saying them so damn well.

  “This is gonna sound melodramatic,” I said. “A lot of evil things have been said about vendetta. In fact, I’ve never heard anything good about it. And all the bad things are probably true, but there is a deep satisfaction in knowing that any blow against me and mine will be returned. Avenged, if you like.”

  “Are you doing this for me or for you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. All I know is that there is too much pain and shame living with an unavenged wrong. Like rape, it’s the victim that feels dirty.”

  “Yes,” she admitted, “it is.”

  The tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

  “I can’t let you live the rest of your life like that,” I explained.

  Another kind of dam broke; she clung to me, sobbing hard.

  24

  THE MAN HIMSELF

  WHEN CHOATE, WINKLER, HIGGISTON, Hahn & Moore informed Over & East of the charges against Edgar Wood, a whole set of procedures was set in motion. Over & East’s in-house legal department took care of things like seizing Wood’s papers and sealing his office. They informed the banks that Wood was no longer authorized to sign checks or transact business for any part of the vast empire. They instituted the actions required to remove Wood from the board of directors and from the boards of various subsidiaries. Personnel and administration also took part in shifting what had been the domain of Edgar Wood into other hands.

  But certain things Charles Goreman did personally.

  Immediately after the meeting, he went to the basement of the Over & East building and found the head of night maintenance. Together they went to the lobby. The maintenance man opened the glass doors of the building directory. Goreman reached in with his hands and removed the name of Edgar Wood.

  Wood had his name in bronze letters on his solid-mahogany office door. Goreman pointed out to the maintenance man that even if the letters were pried out, the name would remain engraved. Though it was well after business hours, the entire door was removed, and another one, blank, replaced it within 120 minutes. Goreman stayed until it was done.

  Goreman was hounded by the press for comment. The only thing he ever said, publicly or privately, was that Wood’s activities were hardly of a size to do substantial damage to Over & East, and that the interests of the stockholders were, as always, secure.

  I told Christina that I had to talk to Goreman. Yet I had no leverage, no angle, no introduction. I had tried calling. I spoke to the assistant executive secretary, who wanted to know my business, which I didn’t tell her, but I did leave a name and number. The call was not returned.

  “Oh, I’m sure Charlie will see you if I ask. He’ll see us together if you like,” Christina said. I expressed some surprise.

  “I told you … Charlie was always sweet to us, to me. He was a real dear to the family, even after … He’s still cordial to Mother, even though I don’t think he ever really liked her. He still invites her to the sort of social events she dotes on. Are we planning to sneak up on him and pop the questions? How should I arrange this?”

  “Tell him that I want to see him because I’m investigating the murder of your father. … Yeah, tell him that straight up. And I need to talk to all the top people at Over & East and at Choate, Winkler. You can even say it’s because that’s where the dead man’s hand points. But you don’t have to tell him he’s number one on the list; he knows that.”

  “If, if it turns out to be Uncle Charlie, I won’t believe it,” she said, and I looked at her with my questions. She cuddled closer to me, her strong young woman’s body somehow very soft, perhaps with the moment’s contentment. “Right now, it all seems, far away … when you’re here, sometimes when we’re not talking about it, I forget that it happened, and that there are people who kill people. And even when we do talk about it, I don’t feel the anger as much. I feel, safe, I guess.”

  “I’m so in love with you,” I said, feeling so close to making her mine.

  “Don’t love me,” she said so softly I almost didn’t hear, and I didn’t say anything back.

  The weekend after next, Goreman told Christina the next day, would be perfect. The two of us were invited to be his guests from Friday night to Sunday at his house in the Hamptons. When she told me about it she was as happy as a schoolgirl on holiday. She had accepted for both of us.

  Selling the lost weekend at home was not easy. I kept telling Glenda how hard I was maneuvering to see Goreman. Lying and legend creating are tools of my trade, but they’re on the outside, they’re a game. Home is supposed to be, and had been, a refuge from all of that. Bringing them inside was a violation. Two days before the weekend, I announced that Goreman had at last agreed to see me and told her that I would be at his Hamptons’ house for the weekend.

  “I assume Miss Bikini is going with you,” she said.

  “Gimme a break.”

  “Well, is she? A cute little weekend by the shore. It sounds perfect for Miss Bikini.”

  “Look, this isn’t personal. This is my job. As far as I know, she won’t be there. I have to do what I have to do to make a living. If you start fucking around with me about that, I don’t know how to deal with it …” And on and on it went, until I left and spent the night in the office. I didn’t tell Christina because I would have ended up at her place and not been in when Glenda called at 6:15 A.M., not having slept and ready to make up. Which she did and we did.

  Not that the Other Woman was content and pleased with me that week either.

  “How can you love me and not see me?” was one of the things she said. “I’ve talked to my friends and they all tell me the same thing. That I’m crazy to hang around with you. That I’m just a toy for you to play with on the side.”

  “When women talk among women,” I said, “and I’ve taped enough of them to know, no man is ever good enough. … Christina, listen to me. I didn’t want this to happen, neither did you, but it happened. You complicate my life, but I can’t stop, I can’t let go. Something inside me thanks God you exist.”

  “It does not make me feel good about myself. It makes me feel used.”

  “What if I were free?” I said. It was an offer, and I was stupid enough to follow through on it.

  “Don’t do that. You’ll regret it. This—thing—we have. Infatuation, hot sex, is going to wear out. And when you need me, I won’t be there. That’s the way it is. If you leave her, I swear, I will never see you again.”

  Which I didn’t believe either.

  And when we got on the seaplane that Charles Goreman sent for us, it was all different again. Sort of.

  “I’ve been behaving like a neurotic idiot, haven’t I?” she said.

  I agreed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have been wondering, daydreaming, what we would be like if we had more than eight hours together. Do you think it will all fall apart?”

  “We are about to find out.”

  “A whole weekend with you. I am so excited. You have no idea how I’ve been looking forward to it. Do you know what you do? You make love to me the way I make fantasies about it when I do it by myself.”

  “It’s the ‘us’ that makes it happen,” I said with several different parts of me feeling overwhelmed.

  “How can you go home at night then?”

  “Because, I guess, it is home. It would be different if I could say, ‘My wife doesn’t understand me,’ but I can’t. She’s not my wife and she does understand me. And t
here’s Wayne. I’m trying to be honest with you. But there isn’t the magic there that there is here.”

  “I’m sorry. Let’s not talk about it. I promised myself that I wouldn’t ruin the weekend by thinking like that. Our first weekend, and maybe our last.”

  We landed on the calm of Shinnecock Bay and there was a Mercedes waiting for us. The mansion was built in an age that predated income tax and presupposed an affordable servant class, in the style favored by old-line WASPs so that they could call twenty-two rooms a cottage.

  The housekeeper, an elderly but vigorous example of that rare breed, the native Hamptonian, was at the door to meet us. Her mouth was prim, her iron-gray hair was cut in austere battle lines and her name was Agnes. She greeted Christina fondly, calling her Miss Christina, and declined to snub me only because she saw the way Miss Christina looked at me.

  Goreman did not appear at dinner. He sent his apologies from whatever end of the vastness he occupied.

  Obscure signals passed between Agnes and Christina, and after dinner our separate rooms became a single room on a corner of the second floor overlooking the sea. The sound of breakers rolled in and joined our own joyful noises.

  We came down to breakfast in a glow of inexhaustible and wholesome carnality. Agnes even smiled at me. Goreman was there, avuncular when he wasn’t preoccupied with Forbes, Friday’s Journal, the Times and his notes. I was preparing to broach the topics that had ostensibly brought us here when what I guessed was a male secretary came in to announce an overseas call.

  “You will excuse me,” Goreman said, “but sometimes what is supposed to be a vacation cottage becomes just an office over and east of Manhattan.” Everyone, including him, smiled politely at the weak humor, and he disappeared.

  I didn’t give a damn. I had her.

  When we got back from the beach, late in the afternoon, I attempted to find the area he used for an office.

  Agnes intercepted me.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Cassella, but Mr. Goreman is not to be disturbed. Might I suggest you try our tennis courts?”

  “Agnes,” I said, trying to look down the broken ridge of my crooked Roman nose, “I am a Squash Player. I never hit a ball without a wall.”