Primary Justice

by Dave Conifer

  “That’s why you did it!” Morris shouted back. “That’s the damn reason right there! She dumped you and you didn’t like it!” Suddenly he leaned in across the table. “And don’t give me any of your rap about love. I know how you treated her.” He glanced at a woman who was watching from four tables away. “She told me all about you,” he said, his voice quiet again. “So don’t even start.”

  “I thought you were a man of God,” Fargo said.

  “This cuts deep.”

  “You’re right, I blew it,” Fargo conceded. “I don’t even remember much.” Fargo clamped his lips together and stared at the pile of cardboard chips that he’d reduced the Big Mac carton to as they talked. “The hell with all that. You won. I lost. But I was framed that night, Kevin,” he finally said without looking up.

  “Sure you were. Isn’t everybody in prison innocent?”

  “No, but I was.”

  Morris sat back into the padded backrest with his arms folded. “So, how bad was it in there? Did you get your bones jumped every night?”

  “Once. At the beginning. I ain’t gonna lie about it,” Fargo answered. “But I had a secret weapon. I just had to learn how to use it.” He spent the next few seconds pulling up his sleeves and then the front of his shirt, exposing a gallery of tattoos. “Worked like a charm.”

  “Wow,” Morris said. “You’re a neo-Nazi? I don’t remember all that ink on you.”

  “I got them just before I went in,” Fargo explained. “All in one night. It hurt like a son of a bitch but it saved my life.”

  “I don’t know what half those things are besides the swastika, but I guess the good people up in that prison of yours did.”

  “The only white guys who get left alone are the ones that the White Power dudes protect,” Fargo explained. “So I made sure to be one of them, and I made sure everybody knew it.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t a stretch,” Morris remarked. “You called me a nigger plenty of times.”

  “My first cell mate was a little white kid. Couldn’t have been more than twenty. One night they sent me back to my cell and they had a train going, and not just his ass. I knew I couldn’t do nothin’ about it so I turned around and walked back out before they grabbed me. He killed himself a week later. I don’t even know how he did it. They didn’t tell us. They didn’t want us gettin’ no ideas. Kevin, that woulda’ been me if I didn’t have protection. Most white dudes are on their own. They don’t stick together.”

  “So all that stuff you hear about what goes on really is true?”

  Fargo nodded. “I saw some shit that I’ll never forget.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Best you keep it that way,” Fargo advised. “So here’s what I wanted to ask you about. “Do you know whatever happened to Gail’s old man? Mankato? Because he’s the one that I really want to get at.”

  “Rip Mankato. The evil father-in-law,” Morris said. “He used the N word way more than you did.”

  “Don’t take it personal. He had it in for me just as bad. Worse, probably. And none of us were good enough for his little girls.”

  “That’s for damn sure. But he hated Gail,” Morris said. “You know that just as well as I do.”

  “Yeah,” Fargo agreed, “but he loved those grandkids even more than he hated her.”

  “I don’t know anything about where he is,” Morris told him. “Don’t want to. I put all that out of my mind after it was all over. You got a beef with him? That guy scared me.”

  “Damn right I have a beef with him. I know it was him that set me up. It had to be him. That’s what I want to talk about.”

  “I don’t know,” Morris said. “What’s the point? You still sound like you’re full of it. For me, it’s easier just to think you’re guilty of all of it.”

  “And that’s what everybody does think. So far, at least.”

  “I don’t know what I can do for you, even if you did get framed,” Morris said, “which I’m not sure I believe.”

  “Believe it. And I’m planning on proving it. But I might need your help. Why do you think I came straight to you the day I got out?”

  -- Chapter 2 --

  Fargo knew a lot more than he’d let on while talking with Morris. He knew about the pharmacy degree. He knew that Morris had gotten married and already had two kids, and that Gail had hardly been seen since the murders. Keeping tabs on the people of his former life through the internet was surprisingly easy once he learned how to do it, even if he only had a chance to check every month or two.

  It was too early to let Morris know how much he knew and how closely his life had been followed, however. What he had in mind for Morris wasn’t clear yet. He would need Morris’s help, but there were bridges to build first. It had all happened so long ago, and he’d never been completely sure of what went on between Gail and Morris. One thing he was sure of was that Morris still thought Fargo burned up his girlfriend and killed her kids. It wasn’t going to be easy to get past that.

  He tensed up when he saw the toll booths at the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge back into Philadelphia. He hadn’t paid when he crossed going the other way earlier in the day, so he’d assumed it was free. As he edged closer to the booth in the line of rush hour traffic he fingered the change in his pocket, trying to decide whether or not he had enough to cover the toll without fishing his wallet out. “What do I owe you?” he yelled at the blue-shirted toll taker when he reached the booth.

  “I got it on your EZPass,” the attendant answered.

  Fargo’s face wrinkled with confusion. “So I can go through?”

  “Sure can, pal. What, did you forget you had it?”

  A horn sounded behind Fargo’s Monte Carlo. “So I’m good?”

  “Yeah. It’s right up there behind your mirror,” the attendant said, pointing inside the car. “Better get moving.”

  Until then he hadn’t noticed the flat white box that was velcroed to the inside of the windshield. Like phones that were the size of a saltine and cars that looked liked spaceships, this was something else that had been born in the past eleven years. He’d only been out for a few hours and he’d lost count of all the things he didn’t recognize. The horn sounded again, this time for several seconds. “Move along, pal. You’re paid up.” Fargo did.

  As he crested the high point on the bridge and began the descent toward Pennsylvania he realized that, despite his online snooping skills, he didn’t know nearly as much as he thought. One important event he knew nothing about was that Morris had become a deacon, whatever the fuck that was. That could be a good thing. It explained a lot already. Eleven years earlier, Morris had been an angry man with a short fuse. That was one reason Fargo had been so nervous about meeting him. But Morris had mellowed, something that Fargo noticed right away. He didn’t have the edge he used to have. Being ten years older and married made a difference, but Jesus had something to do with it too. And that was going to help.

  Jesus or not, anger was something that Morris still had plenty of for Fargo. Morris had been there the night of the fire, and he’d been there for Gail long before then. Fargo could pretend Morris had stolen her away, but he knew that was bullshit. Morris had been the better man at the time. Maybe he still was. Gail made the right choice. And even though Morris didn’t have a clue about what had happened, he believed he did and that was all that mattered, at least until he gave Fargo a chance to prove him wrong.

  Finding the battered row house on Gillespie Street was easy, requiring only a few turns after he left the freeway for the urban setting of Tacony in northeast Philadelphia. There was a corner bar just up the street that was doing some brisk happy-hour business, so he had to drive a block to find a place to park. It was just as well. The Monte Carlo seemed huge as he examined his parking options near the pub. He hadn’t parallel-parked in years, and was perfectly content to dive front-end first into a wide-open space a few blocks away and walk back.

  Unlike with Morris earlier that afternoon, he’d made
sure he wasn’t surprising anybody this time. Russ Bismarck opened the door after the first knock and waved Fargo in. “Where the hell’s your coat?” was all the greeting he offered as he slammed the door behind his guest. Bismarck hadn’t changed much since the old days, when they lived on the same street back across the river in Crosswicks. Then again, Fargo thought, he was older than dirt then, so how much difference would a dozen years make?

  Fargo couldn’t even remember the first time they’d met after he moved into the boardinghouse in Crosswicks at the age of twenty, a few weeks after his mother kicked him out and he’d gotten tired of living in his car and with one-night stands. The old man had always just been there, and they’d become friends almost immediately. He never did much that anybody knew about, except sitting in an Adirondack chair on the front porch every evening, smoking cigarettes and sipping beer while he listened to the Phillies game. Everybody said he was retired, but Fargo had the distinct impression that Mr. Bismarck wasn’t drawing on a pension or sitting on some nest egg. Somehow he paid his rent and got by. He was what he was, and nobody asked too many questions.

  As they moved inside and out of the cold, Fargo noticed that Bismarck moved slower and was more hunched over than he’d been back then. He still had an unkempt thicket of white hair. If anything, it was thicker and longer than it had been. His hollowed face was covered with a forest of gray stubble, same as it had always been. To some, this grizzled man, clothed in a dingy cardigan and blue work pants, looked like nothing but a doddering, blue-collar retiree who’d put in too many hours. Fargo knew better. Although he tried hard not to show it, Bismarck was connected to street life and always had been. He knew all the right people and he knew how things were done. It was no accident that Fargo had chosen him to go to, although part of the reason was he couldn’t think of anybody else.

  “So they finally let you out,” Bismarck observed after a cursory handshake. “Sit down,” he said as he made his way back to a well-worn recliner in the corner. “You didn’t follow the usual plan for the first day out.”

  “Didn’t know there was one.”

  “Sure there is,” Bismarck said. “I’ll bet you heard it. Get drunk, get high, and get laid. Not always in that order.”

  Fargo nodded. “Yeah, that. I never had the chance. Can’t say I’d have turned any of those down.”

  “Now what are you gonna do?” Bismarck asked. “What’s going on with you? I thought you were in for longer.”

  “I was supposed to do fourteen years, but I was a good boy. I took a bunch of classes, worked as many hours as they’d give me, and stayed out of trouble. Now I’m paroled,” Fargo said.

  “Be careful, man,” Bismarck warned. “You wouldn’t believe how many guys I know who screwed up their parole and were back inside after a few days.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I won’t blow it. I’m free. Well, not quite free, but the next best thing. I have to call some guy over in Jersey. Other than that I don’t have shit goin’ on. I better get a job.”

  “Hold on a second,” Bismarck said. “You got nailed by the state, not the feds. You went to a Pennsylvania state prison. Why are you reporting to a parole officer in New Jersey? They had nothing to do with this.”

  “Some kind of arrangement between the states. Reciprocal something or other.”

  “Doesn’t that mean they expect you to stay in Jersey? I hope you’re not blowing your deal by being here.”

  “Would they really care? I got no other place to go. I didn’t want to go to no halfway house. That’s what they wanted.”

  “Smart,” Bismarck said. “That’s where trouble goes.”

  “I gave them my old Crosswicks address but I don’t know anybody there anymore. Thanks for putting me up. I’ll move out when I can.”

  “Just keep your nose clean and you can stay as long as you need.”

  “Thanks. It won’t be long. I’ll start looking for a job. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Bismarck held up a hand. “Don’t rush it. You need time to get used to life on the outside. You can’t tell yet, but you don’t know how to act around normal people. Not yet. A job means too many chances to fuck up. Getting a job doesn’t have to be first on your list.”

  “It isn’t. The first thing I want to do is find out who framed me. As if I didn’t know already.”

  “Walter Mankato.”

  Fargo smiled. “You better not let him hear you call him that.”

  “I’d stay away from that guy if I were you. I haven’t seen him in years, but I’m sure he ain’t changed. Don’t matter what he did. He can do worse if you make him.”

  “No he couldn’t,” Fargo argued. “What could he do to me worse than prison time?”

  “More prison time?” Bismarck suggested. “Or make you dead? He’ll do it, too.” He felt around on the floor next to the chair until he found what was looking for. “You got one of these yet?” he asked, holding up a cell phone.

  “Hell, no. I wouldn’t know what to do with it. Never had one.”

  “You should get one. You’ll wonder how you got along without it. Here,” he said, tossing it across the room, where Fargo snagged it out of the air. “Take this one until you get your own. It’ll help me keep track of you.”

  “Waste of time, but thanks. I don’t even know how to answer one of these fuckers, let alone make a call.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” Bismarck told him. “I’ll give you the charger before you leave.”

  Fargo stood and walked to the double window overlooking the sidewalk out front. “Rip Mankato. I’ve thought about him every day for a long time. I’m not afraid of him. Not anymore. Talked myself right out of that.”

  “You should be, Billy. He’s got friends. I don’t mean the kind that’ll break your legs if you piss them off. He’s got them, too, but I’m talking about cops. Politicians. He knows the governor. I don’t know how he did it, but he’s connected. He could probably kill your parole with a single phone call.”

  Fargo turned to face him. “He did this to me, Russ.” It was the first time he hadn’t called him ‘Mr. Bismarck.’ It just felt right after everything that had happened. “I’m sure of it.”

  “If he did, he’ll do it again,” Bismarck warned. “If he has to. Are you sure you want to push him? You paid your debt for what you did. Let it go. You’ll live longer.”

  “Paid my debt? You think I’m a killer? You think I did any of this shit? Because if you do, I’m out of here.”

  “Settle down. That’s not what I said.”

  “The hell it isn’t.”

  “Do us both a favor, kid,” Bismarck said. “Go into the kitchen and grab us a couple of beers. Then you can tell me everything that happened that night. I never got the full story. Maybe if you talk it out, you’ll drop it. That’s your best bet.”

  “That beer sounds pretty good.” He stopped after he was halfway to the door. “Hey, Russ, you got internet here?”

  “Don’t put me on,” Bismarck growled.

  “How about a computer? You got a computer?”

  “What in hell would I do with it?”

  “Shit, I don’t know, I was just asking. I thought everybody had one now. I’m gonna need to get online, that’s all.”

  “They got all that stuff at the Burger King over on Cresskill,” Bismarck said. “I see all the kids using them in there. Just buy a cheeseburger and you can sit on your ass all day in there, as long as you can stand those noisy punks.”

  ~~~

  When Fargo came back with two cans of Budweiser, both at room temperature despite coming from the back of the refrigerator, Bismarck was gone. Before there was time to wonder, he heard the man hacking and coughing from somewhere in back of the house. That’s new, he thought. All those smokes finally caught up with him. Eleven years away from alcohol, he desperately wanted to pop his can open and gulp, but out of courtesy he waited for his host. Finally, after ten more minutes, Bismarck appeared, a shirt tail hanging out from beneath t
he sweater. “So let’s hear it,” he said, wiping his mouth and nose with the back of his hand and falling back into his chair, where his beer waited for him. But before Fargo could open his mouth another coughing spell began.

  Fargo waited for it to pass. After about a minute he walked over and slapped Bismarck gently on the back and stepped away. Just as Bismarck looked up at him, the front door lock clacked and the door swung inward, the hinges squealing all the way. He recognized her instantly. It was Joanie Hibbing, Bismarck’s niece.

  She and Fargo were almost exactly the same age and he’d always thought they had a lot in common. He’d grown up on the streets, learning to fend for himself and sometimes not doing very well at it. It had always looked to him like Joanie had grown up the same way, at least until she moved in with her Uncle Russ. She had come to Crosswicks after several years of beatings at the hands of a loser husband somewhere up north. Then she hooked up with another guy and history repeated itself. Fargo tried to get along with her back then, but she had nothing but spite for him and his lifestyle. He’d finally given up trying.

  Hibbing had aged well, he decided as he sized her up. He wondered if she was checking him out in the same way as they stared each other down. If she was, she probably wouldn’t have anything as nice to say about him. She’d stayed slim, or at least knew how to pick the right clothes to make it look like it. While her blond hair was a bit short for his tastes, chopped at the shoulder, the platinum luster made up for it. Her knee-length skirt and sensible shoes told him that she was doing well, probably working in an office for a lawyer, or maybe in a bank.

  She pushed the door closed and rushed past Fargo over to Bismarck, carefully extricating the can from his hands and patting him on the back much like Fargo had done.

  “Did it happen again?” she asked him. He nodded and sat back. His breathing slowed and evened out.

  “What in the world is he doing here?” she snapped. At least she recognizes me, Fargo thought.