The Company Man

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Garvey used anything he could to bandage the wound. His shirt and strips from his pants and a nearby newspaper, all wadded up. Still the blood seeped through. The man’s crotch was a mass of dark red and Garvey’s arms were smeared and crackling up to the elbows. Occasionally he would stop and listen to the man’s chest, as his pulse was now too weak to feel. Each time he’d hear the organs within slacken and fade a little more. Once when he lifted his head away he saw he had left a pattern upon the man’s shirt in mud and gore and sweat. His own molten face impressed there, mute and panicked. Then he turned and shouted for help once more.

  After a while he was unable to tell if the man was dead or not. He suspected he was. The pulse had been too faint for a long time and he could not tell if any breath still went through the man. But the blood still came. Drooling out of the edges of the sodden bandage.

  Garvey picked up his service revolver and opened the cylinder and took out each of the rounds. He lined them up on the cement next to him, copper points toward the morning sky, the last one’s nose open and smelling of sulfur. Then he laid the gun before them and sat on his knees. He was not sure why he did it. It was some ritual he had never known before, or perhaps had never yet existed. Some urban rite for those who died in these cement passageways, unshriven and unmourned.

  They took their time to come. He was not surprised. The response time in these neighborhoods was terrible. As dawn came the end of the alleyway lit up with a half-dozen beams of light and he saw the glint of little shields and buttons behind them like sparks. Someone shouted at him to put his hands up.

  He held up his badge. The beams stayed on him for a moment and then drooped as though disappointed. Then they walked to him and someone said his name and they all stood in the alley and looked at the man on the gore-streaked ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  They picked Garvey up in Lynn and gave him a coat and sat him in the back of the car. Half the district had shown up, guns and truncheons in hand, pacing back and forth over the cement like animals with their blood up. The detectives raced to beat the sun and keep the body from the residents, but it was already too late. By eight a crowd had formed. By eight-thirty someone had squawked out the name of the body, then begun to put together who had shot him down. Soon the bottles and the rocks were flying through the air and the patrolmen had their truncheons out, but they were retreating step by step. Stones struck Garvey’s car and the glass of one of the passenger doors turned to frigid webbing before falling in on the seats.

  “Christ,” someone cried. “Get him fucking out of here.”

  They drove Garvey to Central but he barely noticed. He was drifting along. The shot still echoing in his ears. Samantha still calmly peeling back the bandage. Hayes gasping over the wound.

  They stuck him in a back office. Collins came in and said, “Think. Just think. Don’t say anything yet. Just think.” Then he was gone.

  Solidarity, he thought to himself. It had always been solidarity before. But the city had changed, he knew. Police were now its casualties along with all the regular citizens. Protectors no longer, perhaps never again.

  He watched the ordeal through the slits in the blinds. Collins was speaking with two men, their faces impassive. High Crimes, he guessed. They handled the internal stuff. Collins wasn’t arguing with them, and that was troubling. Just talking. There seemed to be a lot of nodding going on. Then Garvey saw the gold glimmer of a full regalia hat, though they were not wearing the rest of the official uniform, certainly not at this hour. Everyone stood up straight and they maneuvered into lines. Someone big had come, Garvey guessed. Brassy. The commissioner, maybe, but Garvey couldn’t make out his face.

  He wished he could take a shower. He had crawled through miles of piping behind Hayes and Samantha, shedding clothing when it became too sopping wet. He stank of bilgewater and sweat and his hands and arms and thighs were still smeared with the blood from the union man. It seemed as though he would never get it off. As though the stain went down through each layer of his skin to soak into his own veins and perhaps touch his heart.

  He looked up. Collins was walking toward him, face set. He opened the door and came in and looked Garvey over. Then he took out a small green flask. “Here,” he said, holding it out.

  “I don’t want it,” Garvey said.

  “Yeah you do.”

  “I don’t. I really don’t, Lieutenant.”

  Collins hesitated, then replaced the flask. He sat down next to Garvey and asked, “You hurt?”

  “No. I need a shower, though. That High Crimes out there?”

  “Yeah. They ran down here the second they heard.”

  “And the commissioner?”

  A long silence. Collins said, “Yes.”

  “What does the commissioner say?”

  Collins did not answer.

  “I’m being strung out, aren’t I,” Garvey said. “Cop drops a unioner. Deep in Lynn. That’s… that’s as dirty as it gets, isn’t it?” He pulled the coat tighter around him.

  “It depends on the story,” Collins said quietly. “It depends on that. If you can sell it clean and sell it real, you can still come out ahead. Still come out police.”

  “Does the Department have a story for me to tell?”

  “We’re still putting it together. Why don’t you give it to me first? Run it by me and I can see if there’s any irregularities.”

  Garvey told him. Told his story in full. Collins listened and did not speak for nearly five minutes once it was done.

  “That’s your story?” Collins asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s what you’re going to tell High Crimes?”

  “If they ask.”

  “And the commissioner? If he asks?”

  Garvey shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “You can’t tell that to them. You can’t run with that. You’ll ruin us. You’ll ruin yourself. You’ll force our hand.”

  “That’s what happened,” Garvey said carefully.

  Collins looked him up and down. “I don’t even believe you.” He stood and opened the door and looked back. “I’m going to give you another hour to think. Another hour to remember. To listen. All right? I suggest you remember that you were traveling with Officer Philips from a local Midnight Mass when you saw the suspect coming from the alley entrance with what appeared to be a weapon and stolen goods in his hand, the stolen goods being three gold watches. Three run-down gold watches. Three of them. You then asked the suspect to stop, which is when he dropped the stolen goods and brandished his weapon. You then produced your revolver and told him to put his hands in the air, which is when he rushed you, which is when you popped off a round. You stayed on the scene, tried to revive him, but could not, and you waited for other police. Philips was there and he saw the whole thing, and he can testify to it, and it’ll be believable as he’s from that ratshit part of town. You certainly were not in that alley alone. You certainly didn’t see him stumbling around drunk with that weapon. You certainly didn’t accost him by yourself. It didn’t go like that. You understand me?”

  “I thought you were still putting it together.”

  “Do you understand?” asked Collins again.

  “I understand,” Garvey said.

  “All right. Now. When the representative from High Crimes comes and sits you down, will your story be more or less what we have just reviewed here, Detective?”

  Garvey shook his head.

  Collins took a deep breath. “You should really…”

  “That’s not the way it went,” Garvey said. “That’s not the way.”

  Collins studied him for a moment more, then turned and slammed the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Samantha struggled to help Hayes walk. He had been doing well for a bit, but now his head and nose were both bleeding freely. he had to keep his sleeve pressed to his scalp as if he were frozen in the middle of some bizarre salute. They went down empty s
treets at random and whenever they saw another pedestrian they shied away toward doorways and more empty alleys. Finally Hayes coughed and came to life a little more and began mumbling directions.

  He directed her to the Wering Canal. They went down a stone stairway and began walking along the canal apartments. A smoky waterfall laved the stone walls at the far end. Next to it was an apartment with a small green door. Hayes leaned against it and told her to reach into his pocket and find the key with the little pearl. She did so and used it to open the door. Inside it was like a low musty attic with a tattered cot in the corner. Hayes staggered over and collapsed on it, the springs screaming beneath him. He lay there and forced breath into his lungs until it became calm.

  “Whose place is this?” she asked.

  “Mine,” he said.

  “How many places like this do you have?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Several.”

  Samantha tended to Hayes’s wounds for the next two hours. He had a mild concussion and one finger was broken. He said nothing as she moved his limbs around. She suspected he could not feel them at all. When she was done she went and sat by the door, head leaned back.

  “What will happen to him?” she asked finally.

  Hayes licked his lips. “I’m not sure. But it’s likely he’ll be suspended.”

  “Suspended?”

  “Yes. It’s procedure. He’ll be suspended while they consider how to go. There’s a board. I don’t know who’s on it or how big it is or how it works. But they have the choice to prosecute or fire him or do whatever.”

  “Lord.”

  Hayes nodded. Then his head tilted back and he fell asleep. Samantha slipped out the door and wandered up to the street and found a paperboy on the corner. It was so early he had not even cut open his stack yet. He watched her like she was some ghost, a ragged, filthy woman rising up out of the mist. She bought a paper from him and he handed it to her, eyes wide, and she read it as she walked back to the canal apartment. Hayes woke when she shut the door.

  She said, “Be still. It’s nothing. I got a paper, that’s all.”

  “You got a paper? Where?”

  “From outside. On the street.”

  “Were you followed?” he asked quickly.

  “Who would follow me?”

  “Anyone. Everyone, now. Were you followed?”

  “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  Hayes sighed and rolled his head away.

  “He’s been arrested, like you said,” she told him. “It says so here.”

  “Which paper?”

  “ The Freedom.”

  “Ignore most of what they say. They’re saying he should be hanged, aren’t they?”

  She was silent.

  “Yeah,” said Hayes. “Yes. I know.”

  “They won’t hang him, will they?”

  “I doubt it. The Freedom ’s written by fucking loons. It’s no good that everyone’s gotten ahold of it so fast, though. That means the reaction will be quicker, and stupider.”

  “I know,” said Samantha. “I… I wonder where he’s being kept.”

  “Probably at the Central’s cells. I bet he’s still being held for questioning, and they’re not dumb enough to put a police in a real prison. They’d kill him overnight.”

  Samantha’s hand went to her mouth. She stumbled out the door and gripped the walkway railing, then stared into the waterfall and took some huge, deep breaths. Then when she had calmed herself she returned.

  “I’m sorry,” Hayes said, blinking through his matted hair. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “I don’t care. I just let my emotions get the better of me.”

  Hayes did not answer at first. Then he said, “It’s all right. I understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  He looked at her as though he was not sure what to say. “About you,” he said finally. “You and Garvey.”

  “You don’t have to understand anything,” she said harshly.

  “I know. I just thought I’d let you know.”

  “It’s none of your business. It never is.” Samantha shut her eyes and ground the heels of her palms into her eye sockets. She quivered, suppressing a scream, and said, “He hasn’t said anything about us.”

  “What?”

  “In the paper. He hasn’t said anything about us. It makes it sound like he was just wandering through the neighborhood alone, saw someone acting suspicious, and then there was a brief struggle and he shot him. Him, all filthy and crazy-looking. With no witnesses at all. That’s what he’s telling them, it says here.”

  “Oh, Christ. They’ll kill him with that story.”

  “They say the man he killed was Barney Patrick. That he was a longtime administrative aid in the Dock Assembly. But he wasn’t. You said so. The man said he’d never worked in a factory.”

  “Yes.”

  “So they’re lying.”

  “Oh, yes. A police shoots a union man all by himself in an alley, with no witnesses? If this was any other city he’d probably be dismissed, maybe even jailed. In this city, at this time, with a fucking unioner, it’s going to be madness. It’s his word against what every bastard in the city wants.”

  She sat very still, looking at the paper. She reached out and touched the words as though she could rearrange them into something better.

  Hayes opened his eyes as though he had heard something. He sat up and looked at her, mouth slightly agape. Then he said, “Don’t do it.”

  Samantha turned to him. “Don’t do what?” she asked.

  “Don’t go to the police.”

  “They’ll kill him with this story. You said so yourself.”

  “They’ll kill you, too, if you give yourself to them. You’ll link the company to the police even more.”

  “Then the hell with the company!” she spat. “They’re going to throw him in prison, Hayes! That or ruin him!”

  “You don’t know that. But he’s going to be the sacrificial lamb either way. You’ll just bring yourself down with him.”

  “I don’t care! They need to know the truth! Someone does, just one person!”

  “They won’t care. They can’t afford to care.”

  “Shut up! Just shut up for once in your damn life!” She stood and went to the wall and leaned her head against it. “I won’t let them do this to him. It isn’t right.”

  Hayes did not answer.

  “Why couldn’t he have left?” she asked quietly. “Why couldn’t he have just left that man there and come with us?”

  “Because Garvey was made for lost causes,” said Hayes. “That’s why he’s stayed in his hometown, after all.”

  “He believes he can help,” said Samantha.

  “I never doubted that he believes it. He believes it with all his heart. It’s whether he should believe it at all that I wonder about.”

  She sat down again on the floor and crossed her arms and pulled her legs up close to her chest.

  “Samantha…” Hayes said. “I know what you’re about to do. If you do it, it’ll bring hell down. Hell on everyone.”

  “Will it help Donald?” she asked, lifting her face.

  “Probably. It very well could. But-”

  “Then I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “Just be quiet.”

  Hayes looked at her a moment longer, then lay back and slept again. She waited, thinking, and then left.

  Samantha did not go to her apartment. She knew that would be watched. Instead she walked into the nearest post office, her skirt mud-stained and her face still smudged. The clerk stared at her as she calmly asked for a box of envelopes, some nice paper, a pen, and several bottles of ink. “Doing some letter-writing, ma’am?” he asked nervously.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

  When she had gotten her supplies she went to a phone station and called information. A bleary-voiced woman answered the phone. Samantha asked her for the address of a major newspaper.

  “Which newspaper?”


  “All of them, I should think,” Samantha said.

  She wrote them down. Then she went to a nearby shop and purchased some new clothes and cleaned herself up until she looked decent. She found a quiet restaurant and she sat in the back and began to write, first one letter, then two, then three, all the way up to ten, one after the other. Once she was done she walked to the mailbox tubes and slipped the letters in, the pneumatic lines greedily sucking each letter out of her hands.

  She sat on a bench then, not certain what to do, vaguely aware that she was putting things in motion that were far beyond her control. She suddenly felt that she had tipped something very large and very heavy over, and it had just passed its equilibrium and now there was no going back. She felt strangely detached. She had never really done a stupid thing in her life, and she’d always been careful about each decision she’d ever made. Normally she wouldn’t even conceive of doing something like this. But whenever she thought of Garvey lying in some cell she knew that it was not a choice at all.

  She sat for a moment longer, then stood and began walking toward Evesden Central Police Department.

  She wanted to wait for him on the front steps, but they told her they were going to be letting him out on the side. When she asked why, the duty officer gestured out toward the street in front of Central, and she looked and saw several men loitering, watching the building front with hooded eyes. She turned away and went down to the side of the station.

  She stood in the small loading dock with the municipal workers for more than an hour before Garvey came shambling out. He wore ill-fitting clothes that were certainly not his own. His hair was uncombed and his cheeks bore days of stubble. He blinked up at the sunlight. When he saw Samantha his shoulders drooped as though he was stunned and deeply disappointed, all at once.

  “Sam,” he said softly. “Sam, what are you doing here?”