Fatal Odds

by John F. Dobbyn

  “Mr. Coyne, I have that delivery for you. Can you meet us at the back door, preferably with the help I mentioned? The fewer eyes that see any of us the better.”

  We waited in the car until the door opened. Mr. Coyne appeared with two plainclothes police officers. Marty kept his gun in the ribs of the prisoner while he took back his handcuffs. At Mr. Coyne’s order, the officers took custody of the prisoner and escorted him into the building and up the stairs.

  “What have we here, Michael? I’m assuming to keep it legal you made a citizen’s arrest.”

  I nodded. “The charge is attempted murder. Mine. Can you get him to an interrogation room? Alone.”

  “That’s where he’s headed.”

  Before I followed them into the building, I turned around to thank Marty. I barely caught sight of the BMW rounding the corner out of sight.

  Mr. Coyne and I stopped first at his office. “You want to fill me in, Michael?”

  I had apparently fully graduated to the “Michael” status. Somehow it made the move I had in mind easier. I gave him the background.

  “What I need, Mr. Coyne, is five minutes in the interrogation room with the prisoner. You’re welcome to watch. In fact, it might go better if you’re there. But I may need to say things that wouldn’t go well coming from you.”

  He looked at me as if I’d just dropped back to the “kid” stage.

  “Just words, Mr. Coyne. No rough stuff. You can call it off any time you think I overstep.”

  It took him a few seconds. “On that condition.”

  “Agreed. Only before you step in, please remember what’s at stake.”

  I got a look that was intended to remind me who was the deputy district attorney, and who was not. I dutifully nodded, and we walked to the interrogation room.

  There was a tall, stringy man in his thirties, sitting at the table, hands folded in front of him. I’d never seen him before, but my first impression was that he looked like a soldier with either the Nyetas or the insectos.

  I took the chair across the table. I could feel Mr. Coyne’s presence behind me, standing in silence, giving me first crack at the suspect.

  My first choice would have been to do it in Spanish, but that would have cut Mr. Coyne out of the loop, and I needed his approval of where I intended to go.

  “What’s your name, amigo?”

  Silence.

  Just in case it was a language barrier, I tried “Cómo te llamas?”

  Still silence. Back to English.

  “You don’t like that question? Try this one. Because this is the only other question I’m going to ask you. Who sent you to kill me?”

  He pushed the chair back with his long legs. I could see a grin start to creep across his face. The attitude was setting in fast. I knew there was nothing we could do to him within the law that would shake loose his pride in soldiering up in silence.

  “Okay, amigo. That’s it. That’s everything. You’re free to go.”

  I don’t know if that caught him or Mr. Coyne more off balance. The grin froze, and I could feel Mr. Coyne stiffening up behind me. Thank God, he let me roll on.

  I stood up. “What’s the matter, amigo? You don’t hear too well? I said you’re free to go. There’s the door.”

  The grin turned to a glare. He mumbled it in Spanish, “De qué hablas?”

  To keep Mr. Coyne on frequency, I translated. “What am I talking about? I’m talking about you walking out that door. No one’s going to stop you. Only before you go, you want to make a little bet? I’ll put my money on, I don’t know, maybe an hour. Perhaps less.”

  “An hour for what?”

  I leaned over the table toward him. “An hour before your brother insectos pick you up. I see the tattoo under your shirt collar. On second thought, probably less than an hour.”

  “What the hell you talkin’ about?” Now it was in English.

  “What I’m talking about is this. Someone in that gang of yours sent you to put a bullet through me at the pond. You took a shot, but you missed. That’s attempted murder. You killed that homeless man back there. That’s murder. You were taken to the district attorney’s office. Right here. Ten minutes later, you’re turned loose. The police are on their way now to arrest the man who sent you. Yeah, I can guess who it was.”

  As I talked I strolled to a spot behind him. I leaned down and whispered a name in his ear. The grin was gone.

  “By the time you hit the street, I’ll see that the word is out about how grateful the police are for your cooperation. You were obviously released because you gave up the name of the man who gave you the order. Then my guess is that the target will be on your back instead of mine. Only it won’t be a couple of quick shots to the head, will it? I’ve heard stories when I was a kid about what they do to snitches. I figure your brother insectos will have you where you don’t want to be. My guess is less than an hour.”

  I could hear Billy shuffling his feet behind me. I knew I was probably over the line, but in the context of what was happening, I prayed that he had redrawn the line to give me two more minutes. I needed time to play on the look of near panic that was freezing the face in front of me.

  “You look like you’ve been around, amigo.” I used my finger to trace the line of scar on his face that ran from his forehead to his jaw. He never moved.

  “You know what your brothers do to an insecto who spills it to the cops. I’ve heard the stories, but I bet you’ve seen it.”

  The silence continued. He was a hard shell to crack.

  “Is there anywhere you can run that they won’t be able to get you? I don’t think so. But maybe you want to risk it.”

  The quiver in his hands and feet said it was time to go for broke. I figured I was also at the end of my leash with Mr. Coyne.

  “On the other hand, amigo, maybe there’s a way out. Maybe you get to live another day.”

  He looked me in the eye for the first time.

  “Here’s the deal. You do two things. You plead guilty to the murder and attempted murder. Then you give us the details. You name the man who sent you and anyone else involved. You make a full statement and sign it.”

  He shook his head with a sarcastic laugh. “I go to prison, I wouldn’t be alive for ten minutes.”

  “I know. That’s why you get protective custody. You’ll be kept out of the prison population. You’ll be pleading to a federal charge of racketeering. That way you can be transferred to a prison somewhere in the country beyond the reach of the insectos. A new name. No one in that gang will know where you are. You’ll get a reduced sentence because you cooperated. When you get out, you maybe start a new life.”

  He stared at the table in front of him. For the first time I looked back at Mr. Coyne. I’d been running solo without approval of any of it. He held his hands out in a way I read as “We’ll see.” I knew he couldn’t commit for the Feds, but at least he was not squelching the offer.

  “That’s the offer, amigo. It has a short life. Decision time.”

  I walked over and held the door open. “You’re in or you’re out. Right now.”

  He sat there in limbo. I called in one of the detectives who was waiting outside the door. With absolutely no authority, I gave the order. “Take him out, Detective. He’s free to go. No charges. He’s been very helpful. You can spread the word.”

  That did it. The detective took him by the arm. He pulled away and grabbed the table with both hands. “All right. All right.”

  “All right what?”

  “I’ll talk. I want the deal.”

  I gave the detective a nod to let go and exhaled the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. On my way out of the room, I whispered to Mr. Coyne, “Can I get a written copy of his statement?”

  “I’ll send it to your office.”

  I started to walk out.

  “Michael.”

  “Yes, Mr. Coyne.”

  “None of this gets out of this room. This never happened.”

  I no
dded. I started to leave again.

  “Michael.”

  I turned around. He just gave me a slow nod of the head and the faintest crack of a smile. Coming from him, it was like a blast from the Harvard cheerleading team with the marching band playing the victory march.

  THIRTY

  BEFORE I LEFT his office, I told Billy about the dead homeless man on the bench beside Jamaica Pond. I knew he’d send someone to pick up the body and take it to the morgue. I had one last request.

  “Mr. Coyne, could you put the word out to the press that a body was found last night by Jamaica Pond with two bullet holes? And could you withhold identification or any other details?”

  “It’s possible. Why?”

  “The one who ordered it will probably assume the dead body is mine. It could give me some slack without another attempt for a few days.”

  “And to even the exchange or favors, you might want to share the name of the one behind it.”

  “I do want to. And will. As soon as one more piece fits into the puzzle. I don’t want to mislead either one of us. I’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  It was around ten thirty when I aimed the nose of my Corvette toward a spot on Beacon Hill that for six years had been my personal Monday night refuge from all of the pressures and anxieties of my peculiar practice of law. I parked on Beacon Hill and walked down the small circular staircase that led to Big Daddy’s Jazz Club.

  Big Daddy Hightower was a particular idol of mine. His driving bass had accented the New York club and recording dates of the jazz giants of the ’50s and ’60s from Charlie Parker to Miles Davis and even Oscar Peterson, when Ray Brown was out of town. He and Charlie Mingus carried the bass line of so many iconic jazz groups that their names became synonymous with the stand-up bass.

  Then the day came when he got “an offer he couldn’t refuse” for an exclusive recording contract from one of the New York mafia bosses. He refused the offer, and what they did to his hands took him off the bandstands of the first string New York jazz clubs permanently. After years of rehabilitation and wood-shedding with his bass, a number of the musicians he’d made sound even better in the old days staked him to a small jazz club near the top of Boston’s Beacon Hill. He was the nightly headliner, together with every noted jazz instrumentalist who passed through Boston.

  By the time I settled onto my usual third barstool from the back and took that first transporting sip of the three fingers of Famous Grouse Scotch that Sonny, the bartender, automatically set in front of me, I could feel knotted muscles start to unwind. By the second and third sip, I was in a more peaceful world.

  Across that small room that Big Daddy kept in nearly total darkness to focus attention on the music, I could take in the gentle rhythms he was laying down under a dreamy version of Errol Garner’s “Misty.” I did not have to look up to recognize the languid sax of Jim Redeker, a West Coast disciple of the breathy tone of an Ellington alumnus, Johnny Hodges. The guitarist was up to their level, but unfamiliar.

  That first unwinding in as many days as I could remember continued all the way to the Land of Nod. I never heard the end of the set. My first conscious thought was that an arm the size of a small side of beef was resting on my shoulder.

  “My music never put you to sleep before, Mickey. I must be losing it.”

  “Daddy, the day you lose it is the day we close the book on music. That was beyond beautiful. I was just resting my eyes.”

  “And your feet, and everything in between. You been gettin’ yourself into all kinds of mischief again?”

  “Not a bit of it. You know me, Daddy. Safety first. Words to live by. I see Jim’s in town. Nice he came by.”

  “Yeah, it’s nice. I never known him not to when he comes east. Keeps Old Daddy young, jammin’ with these babies. How come you’re here? This is not Monday night.”

  I thought back. “I had a couple of things going on Monday. This is my make-up night. Terry’s meeting me here. Have you seen her?”

  “Not yet. Why don’t I give you a table for the two of you down front there? Can’t have that pretty lady sittin’ at the bar.”

  “Thanks, Daddy. That’d be nice.”

  He picked up my Famous Grouse in one hand and took my left arm in the other. He led me weaving through the barely visible tables to one beside the musician’s stand. He laid the Famous Grouse on the table. When I started to sit in one of the two chairs, the arm kept me moving past the table, up the step, directly to the piano bench. Under slight pressure of the big hand, I sat.

  “Here we go, Mickey. Let’s make up for Monday night. See if you pick up on this one.”

  I could feel the vibrations of Daddy’s driving bass deep in the base of my stomach. It somehow spurred enough adrenaline to bring my fingers instinctively in touch with the keyboard. Within four bars, I picked up on the chord changes and followed his lead into a medium-tempo run of “’Round Midnight.”

  We had improvised about six choruses in comfortable sync with each other’s thoughts, when I heard the lush, throaty sax of Jim Redeker take the lead. I could just fall back into backup and happily coast. For the next four choruses, my entire conscious world lay between Big Daddy’s bass line and Jim’s transporting improvisation.

  When Daddy gave the signal, we came back down to earth for a final chorus as Thelonious Monk had written it. When we finished, there was applause that reminded me that there were other people in the room. I was back in the world I’d left, but, as always, with a peace that made the sharp edges softer.

  I shook hands with Jim, and exchanged smiles with Big Daddy. I saw him cast a big wave in the direction of the table by the stand, and my entire world brightened. Even in that dark room, I caught the glowing warmth of Terry’s smile, and I was there beside her in a second.

  Big Daddy said to the other people in the club, “This here’s a personal message between two people who found what this whole life gig is all about.” He whispered a word to Jim, and together they just enfolded Terry and me in the warmth of “There Will Never Be Another You.”

  When it ended, I waved them a “thank you,” and Terry blew Big Daddy a kiss before taking my handkerchief out of my suit coat pocket.

  I knew that I had to make the most of the limited time I had with Terry. While Big Daddy took a break, we caught up on any loose ends that needed tying before our wedding that was now a fast-flying four days ahead.

  Apparently our wedding planner, Janet, had reached an emotional plateau by the third martini that afternoon. It enabled her to approach the whole production with a fatalistic “What the hell, it’s their wedding” calm.

  She had been astounded at how the mention of Lex Devlin’s name to Terry Griffin, the function manager of the Parker House, had freed up the very ballroom we had in mind. I hadn’t mentioned to Janet that it was Mr. Devlin’s magic in years past that had dissolved a certain tax tangle that could have given our friend Terry state-funded living quarters for three to five years. Justice had been done, and I’ve never known Terry to refuse any request Mr. Devlin had made since.

  With that issue secured, the details of caterer, band, flowers, limo, and even expedited RSVPs from guests had apparently been, could I say, a piece of cake. The real sine qua nons—the church, the priest to perform the ceremony, the substitute for Terry’s deceased father to give her away, the maid of honor and best man—those had been preordained from the moment we became engaged, and we knew that every one of them would cancel their own funeral to be there.

  Terry and I stayed for one more set. It seemed that every note was directed at us. We could blissfully have stayed until Daddy laid down the bass at closing, which was usually one side or the other of three a.m., but the early day ahead promised its share of challenges.

  * * *

  Before coming to Daddy’s, I had contacted my client, Victor, by cell phone. Since his return from Mayagüez, he had been staying out of public view with a cousin off Hyde Square. At my suggestion, he had gotten in touch w
ith Fat Tony Cannucci to let him know he was available to do his dirty work on command. Fat Tony knew that Victor had been the key link between the insectos and his cousin, Chico, to set up the contacts necessary to smuggle the animals into the mainland. It had been easy to sell Fat Tony on the notion that Victor was now in for a cut of the profits on the deal to market the wild animals. Given that, it was an easy next step to convince Tony that he could rely on Victor to go through with the fix.

  Since Victor had not been available to ride recently, he agreed to let Fat Tony know when he could arrange for a mount in a race in which he could oversee the fix of the other jockeys.

  I got home from Daddy’s around two in the morning. When the alarm went off at five, I had to persuade each muscle individually that it was worth the effort to leave the bed. I doubled my usual Starbucks intake, and drove to the backstretch of Suffolk Downs.

  I saw Victor standing with Rick McDonough by the corner of Rick’s row of stables. Rick saw me and waved me over to the coffee shack. The three of us joined up and walked with yet another cup of coffee to an unpopulated section of the outer rail of the track before any of us said a word.

  I had set up the meeting the night before. I figured it would take a good bit of backfilling and persuasion to get Rick on board. I knew it would cut against the very core of his nature. Still, there was no one else I could trust enough to lay bare the plan.

  First, I laid out more of that vicious web that had engulfed both Victor and me than I ever thought I’d share with anyone. By the time I had him up to speed on the inhuman animal trade, the unholy alliance between the mafia and the insectos, and the crucial part the detested race-fixing manipulations of Fat Tony Cannucci played in it, I had his full attention. I also had him emotionally on board, since the death of his favorite jockey, Victor’s brother Roberto, had been a direct result of it all.

  I saw him taking a long look down the track where the earliest workouts and breezes were just beginning. His eyes were on the horses, but I knew he was digesting the enormity of the evil he was hearing. I gave him time with it, because I knew what I had to ask.