The Mayor of Lexington Avenue

by James Sheehan

  “Yessir.” Rudy was a little afraid, even embarrassed about the admission, but he was glad too. Glad to get it off his chest, especially in a nice conversation like this.

  Elena had been sitting in the waiting room for twenty minutes. She had grown more and more impatient, and now was starting to suspect that something really wasn’t right. She walked up to the window again.

  “I’ve been waiting twenty minutes. I want to know where my son is,” she said in a firm but steady voice.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the woman replied. “I’ll call back there again.” Elena stayed at the window, watching as the woman called. After a moment she hung up and said, “Someone’s coming out to talk to you.” Elena stayed where she was. If someone didn’t walk through that door immediately, she was going to do something—she didn’t know what. All she knew was that the time for being polite was over. Almost immediately, a man walked through the door from the inner sanctum. He was dressed in black pants, a short-sleeve white shirt and a plain black tie, open at the collar. Elena guessed he was in his mid-thirties. He was as nondescript as his attire, neither short nor tall, fat nor skinny, handsome nor ugly—the perfect face in the crowd.

  “Ma’am, I’m Del Shorter.” He stuck his hand out, which Elena stiffly accepted. Del motioned to the waiting room chairs. Elena noticed that he had closed the door to the inner sanctum behind him. She reluctantly sat down. “Ma’am,” Del began, “my partner, Detective Brume, is talking to your son as we speak. We’re investigating the Lucy Ochoa murder and your son may be able to help us. He works at the convenience store nearby. He may know the girl, know who she was coming in the store with. Maybe even saw her that night. These are things we need to know. We need descriptions. We’re showing him photographs. He could be a big help to us.”

  It was a lie but a plausible lie, something that played into Elena’s own thoughts about the matter. Still, she wasn’t ready to sit calmly and wait. Rudy was too vulnerable.

  “I accept what you’re saying but I’d like to see Rudy. I’d like to be there when you’re questioning him.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s against department procedure.” Del knew he was treading on thin ice so he supplemented his response. “Technically, since this is an investigative stop, we’ve advised Rudy of his rights, so I’ll advise you as well. He does have the right to remain silent, he does have the right to an attorney —” Elena interrupted him.

  “Mr. Shorter, you don’t understand. Rudy’s a little slow. If someone asks him a question, he’s going to answer it whether you advise him of his rights or not. I’m his mother, and I don’t want him answering questions.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. He’s an adult and he must make those decisions himself. But you can hire an attorney for him and if his attorney advises us that we cannot talk to him, we’ll certainly stop.” Elena finally got it This was a stonewall. And why would they be stonewalling her if her son was not a suspect? She glared at Del Shorter.

  “You’re not going to let me see him?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And you’re going to continue to talk to him?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Elena turned to leave. She had to get a lawyer over there immediately. But who do I know? And then she had a thought. “Is there a public phone here?” she asked the receptionist.

  “Yes, ma’am, right outside the front doors.”

  In the other room, Wes’s chat with Rudy was moving along quite well.

  “Rudy, were you in Lucy Ochoa’s house that night?”

  “Yessir.”

  “What time?”

  “I’m not sure but I close the store at eleven and I walked right over.” Rudy knew the next question would be about what he did at Lucy’s house and when he left. This was nothing like he imagined. He felt comfortable, relieved. He would tell Wes what happened and then he would go home. Unfortunately, his new best buddy, Wesley Brume, did not ask the logical next question.

  “You killed her, didn’t you, Rudy.” It wasn’t a question: It was a demand.

  Something kick-started in Rudy’s brain when he heard the question, like he was on a treadmill walking slowly and all of a sudden somebody hit a button and everything went into warp speed.

  “No, no, no, I didn’t,” Rudy replied in a fractured voice that continued racing along. “She invited me in. We had a couple of beers. I started to get sick—tried to get out of the house but I fell over the coffee table. Broke the glass, cut my hand. Then she kicked me out.”

  The Grunt kept the pace moving.

  “You wanted her, didn’t you? You went over there to screw her, didn’t you?”

  “No, no, no, it wasn’t like that. I mean in a way, yes, but I was hoping she wanted me.”

  “And when she didn’t, you got angry. You took her in the bedroom. You slit her throat. You laid her on that bed and you watched her die.”

  “No, no, no!” Rudy started to cry, the tears flowing down his cheeks. “I couldn’t do that, not to Lucy, not to anybody.” He was crying hard now. The Grunt decided to cut it back a bit. He handed Rudy his handkerchief. Rudy took it and wiped his tears.

  Del came in at that moment and whispered something in the Grunt’s ear. Wes seemed a little perturbed.

  “I’ll be done by the time she gets someone,” he told his partner. He turned his attention back to Rudy as Del walked out.

  “Sorry, Rudy, but I had to do that. I had to test you.” Rudy nodded as if he understood, but he didn’t. Wes waited a few more moments to make sure Rudy had calmed down before he went at him again.

  “What did you go over there for, Rudy?”

  “Lucy invited me over.”

  “At eleven at night?”

  “She told me to come over when I got off no matter what time it was.”

  “You weren’t going over there to make small talk—did you think you were gonna get you some?” It was an accusation already made but this time Wes smiled as he asked it, as if they were old high school buddies conspiring over a little sex. Rudy again took the bait.

  “Yeah, I did.” He had a sheepish, embarrassed smile on his face but he was relaxing again.

  “What was she wearing at her house?”

  “A little white nighty.”

  “See-through?” Wes had his smile on again.

  “Pretty much,” Rudy smiled back. He was one of the boys, finally.

  Wes took a few moments to write the conversation down. He put a star next to the “little white nighty.” He remembered seeing it at the side of Lucy Ochoa’s bed the night of the murder.

  “Were you mad at her, Rudy, when she turned you down?”

  “No. I was out of the house before I knew what was going on.”

  “Were you frustrated that you didn’t get laid?”

  “A little.”

  “But not angry?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What would make you angry—angry enough to kill somebody?”

  “Nothing. I don’t think.”

  “What if somebody killed your mother?”

  Rudy stiffened. “Yes, that would make me angry enough to kill somebody.”

  “What if somebody raped your mother?”

  “Yes.” Rudy was getting angry just thinking about it.

  “Let’s say you were married to Lucy and somebody raped Lucy, your wife.”

  “Yeah, I could kill them.” Rudy thought of some of the guys at school who had taunted him. Sometimes, he felt that he could have killed them too. Suddenly it dawned on him that he could kill someone. That’s when the Grunt started building up to his sliest hypothetical.

  “Rudy, is it possible that Lucy said or did something to you that night that made you so angry you could have killed her and you just don’t remember?”

  “I already told you, I didn’t kill her.” Wes could hear the anger now.

  “I know you didn’t kill her but is it possible that she could have said something to you that night that made you so
angry you could have killed her?”

  Rudy could feel the pressure—it was causing his chest to burn.

  “I don’t know what you’re asking me, Mr. Brume. Woulda, coulda, shoulda—I didn’t get angry at Lucy that night.” Rudy was shouting now.

  “I know you didn’t, Rudy. And you didn’t kill Lucy either. I know that. But you could get angry enough to kill somebody who killed or raped your mother and you could get angry enough to kill somebody who killed Lucy if she was your wife. What I want to know is, could Lucy or anyone say something that would make you so angry you could kill them?”

  Rudy immediately returned in his mind to his classmates taunting him. He closed his eyes thinking back, picturing them. He stayed there for more than a minute.

  “I guess so,” he said without opening his eyes. His voice was again calm.

  “So Lucy theoretically could have said something that night that could have made you so angry you could have killed her?”

  “I guess so.” The eyes were still closed. He was tired now, confused. He just wanted to go home.

  “Do you forget things sometimes when you’re angry?”

  “I guess so.” The eyes were still closed. Rudy had a headache now. He wanted it to stop.

  “If theoretically you got angry at Lucy that night and did something, you might not remember it?”

  “I don’t know, I guess so. I don’t even know what you’re talking about anymore.”

  The Grunt took a moment to write in his pad. “She might have made him angry enough to kill her. He could have killed her. He doesn’t remember.” It was time to wrap it up.

  “All right, Rudy, you can go now. Someone’s going to come in and take some blood from you. It will only take a second. Do you need a ride home?”

  “No, I’ll walk.” He needed the fresh air.

  Rudy was glad it was over. He had no idea his nightmare was just about to begin.

  The Grunt stepped towards the door but then turned back. “One more question, Rudy. Do you own any knives?”

  “Sure.”

  “How about a serrated knife—do you own a serrated knife?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know, the kind with the little grooves along the blade.”

  “I might have one. One of the guests in the hotel gave me an old tackle box once and it had a few knives in it I think one of them had that kind of blade.” The one question had become several.

  “Where do you keep that tackle box?”

  “In my room, under my bed. Why?”

  “No reason.” Wes walked out of the room.

  Six

  Austin Reaves was a rakish old coot. He was a transplanted Yankee whose parents had moved to Fort Lauderdale many years ago when he was only sixteen, but forty years later he was still considered a Yankee in Bass Creek. Those who knew him well called him something far worse—a carpetbagger. He was an attorney specializing in wills and trusts, hardly a lucrative practice in Cobb County, but the work was fairly easy, it paid the bills, and it left Austin free to pursue his true vocations—fishing and drinking good booze. He was a big, wide man with thick reddish brown hair that didn’t have a hint of gray. No worries, he would reply when people would remark about the robust color of his hair. The rest of him fit well with his age.

  Every weekend and every Wednesday, Austin was on his boat out on the lake. Every afternoon promptly at the stroke of three, he could be found placing his generous rump on his favorite barstool at the Bass Creek Hotel. Drinks at the Bass Creek were a little more expensive than at the local dives around town, but Austin wouldn’t go anywhere else. He loved the old bar: the thick Southern atmosphere that hung from the old oak walls like Spanish moss, that called to him and cradled and comforted him in his time of need—which was every day at three. He was not unique in that regard. Many well-to-do inebriates called the Bass Creek home. It was, after all, the best place in town to get a steak after a few highballs.

  Austin was in residence at his usual spot, taking a long, satisfactory pull on an authentic Cuban cigar, when the call came in from Elena.

  “Now hold on, Elena. Slow down a bit. I can’t understand a word you’re saying, girl. Start slowly and for God’s sake, speak English.” As she often did when she was upset, Elena had slipped into her own brand of Spanglish. She forced herself to calm down.

  “It’s Rudy. They have him at the station and they’re questioning him about the murder of that girl in the barrio. I told them to stop but they told me only Rudy or his attorney can stop him from talking. I want you to be his attorney and call them and tell them to stop talking to him. I’ll come and get you and we’ll go to the station together.”

  “I’d love to help, Elena, but I don’t know the first thing about that kind of law. I do wills, wills and trusts.”

  Elena had no time for niceties. “Austin, I don’t care what you do. I want you to call the police station now and tell them to stop talking to my son. I’ll pick you up in five minutes.” She hung up the receiver before he could lodge any further protest.

  Austin was in a pickle and he hadn’t even been drinking that long. He knew Elena and Rudy well enough from the bar but not well enough to stick his neck out for them. He didn’t know anybody that well. On the other hand, he didn’t want Elena as an enemy. Making a phone call, driving to the station—that would be easy and it might make him a real hero at his favorite watering hole. Besides, it might prove to be a profitable venture down the road. He picked up the phone and made the call.

  Austin could sound very authoritative when necessary. In just a few seconds he was talking to Del Shorter and then Wesley Brume. Wes’s conversation with Rudy had just ended but Rudy hadn’t had his blood taken yet when Austin emphatically demanded that Wes cease and desist.

  Austin was standing outside the hotel when Elena pulled up just a few minutes later. Having had a quick shot of Lord Calvert before exiting the bar, he was more than comfortable in his new role as defender of the innocent.

  “I’ve already shut them down,” he told Elena. “We’ll have Rudy out of there in no time.” Elena could tell from his words that Austin had stepped over the line separating mere tipsiness from outright intoxication, and her shoulders sagged as he dropped into the passenger seat.

  But Rudy was already walking down the street from the police station when they pulled up. Elena now had to restrain Austin from going into the station and giving the police “a piece of my mind.” She convinced him to come back to the hotel with her and Rudy instead. While Austin dined on a complimentary porterhouse, Rudy told them everything.

  Elena felt like she had spent her whole life anticipating the pitfalls that would confront her son as he grew. She had known, for instance, that he would face ridicule at school because he was “different,” so she had enrolled him in a karate class when he was six years old. By the time he was fourteen, he was a brown belt, which eliminated much of the direct heckling from his male peers. She immersed him in structure and routine: Always come home right after school, she said; always leave messages where you’re going to be, who you’re going to be with; call if you’re going to be late; avoid strangers, unfamiliar situations. She took him into the hotel bar when he was twelve, told him about what alcohol did to people’s lives, how it was an addictive drug. Told him to look at the faces at the bar and to check every day to see if they changed. The message stuck with young Rudy as he witnessed the same soap opera day after day. The star of the show happened to be sitting next to him eating a steak at that very moment.

  Elena had done her job well. Still, after all the training and preparation, Rudy had fallen headfirst into the maelstrom. But this was no time for second-guessing. The only important question now was, Where do we go from here?

  Surprisingly, it was Austin who got them headed in the right direction.

  “You’re going to need a top-notch lawyer right away. Somebody who’s not from here and specializes in this stuff.” The steak was sobering him up
somewhat. “I know the perfect person. Tracey James. Her main office is in Vero Beach but she has several branch offices inland, including one in Bass Creek. She’s an expert in criminal law and I could call her if you like.”

  Elena had heard of Tracey James. Who hadn’t? She was the most famous lawyer in the area, perhaps in the whole state. Elena had seen her billboards on the highway and her name and picture in big ads in the phone book.

  “Would you, Austin?”

  “Why certainly, first thing in the morning. But I must caution you, Elena, she is very expensive.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she said. At the moment, money was the last thing on her mind.

  Seven

  SUMMER 1960

  “We’re going to Boy Scout camp in July. Why don’t you sign up?”

  “Who’s we?” Johnny asked.

  “My brothers and me,” Mikey replied. Mikey had two older brothers, Danny and Eddie. Eddie was eighteen months older than Mikey, and Danny was sixteen months older than Eddie. Irish triplets.

  “I can’t. You know my parents. They’d have to look into it for a year.” Johnny’s father was a bank clerk. Mr. Kelly, on the other hand, was a fireman, a big burly fellow, afraid of nothing. He gave that same confidence to his sons.

  “I’ll tell you what.” Mikey had his thinking cap on. “I’ll ask my mother to talk to your mother. She’ll think of something. She’ll be sure to tell her that my brothers will look after you and all that shit.”

  “Will she do it?”

  “Sure. My mom loves you. Sometimes more than me, I think.” Johnny looked at him to see if he was serious. Mikey flashed him that million-dollar smile. Mikey’s smile. It was like a magic wand. He always looked like a saint when he was smiling.

  Two days later, Johnny was having the conversation with his parents in the living room of their tiny four-room apartment. He could not believe they were actually considering letting him go. Of course, his father had to place a few obstacles in his path.

  “You have to keep up your summer reading.”

  “I’ll bring the books with me, Dad.”