The Judgment

by William J. Coughlin

  “What’s the problem, Ismail?”

  “Old age is the problem, Charley. I’m eighty. They never thought I’d make it to eighty with this emphysema I got. See, it was those damned little cigars I used to smoke put me in this condition. I used to inhale ’em just like cigarettes. Truth is, if they were cigarettes, I’d a been dead a long time ago. But I loved them, no doubt about that. You pays your money, and you takes your chances. That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it?”

  “I guess when it comes right down to it, that’s what we all do. How long have you been in here?”

  “Five years—ever since they put me on oxygen. They bring people around to see me like I was the eighth wonder of the world or somethin’. Doctor says it’s a marvel I’ve survived this long with these lungs of mine. My secret is, I keep eating. Whatever they put in front of me, man, I put it down.” He grinned. Then the grin faded quickly. “Yessir, I been he-re in Parkview .five years, but I keep in touch—read the papers, keep my ear to the ground, got my own private communications network. I heard a lot about you lately, Charley Sloan.”

  “Not much of it good, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, now, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “I messed up pretty good, Ismail. Since we last met, I drank my way through two—no, three marriages, lost some cases I shouldn’t have, lost a big income, and a perfectly good Rolls-Royce—all to the bottle.”

  “Well, some of us have problems like that. I never did.”

  “I hit bottom—lost it all.”

  “No, Charley, the way I heard it, you almost hit bottom. You got a year’s suspension from the Bar Association, then you went up to that little town by Port Huron, kicked the booze, and you been working your way back.”

  I nodded. “Well, I’ve been trying. I’m what they call a recovering alcoholic.”

  “They got all kinds of fancy names for things these days. Main thing is, you’re off the stuff now, and I hear you won a couple of pretty big cases. I know you did. I read it in the papers. I just couldn’t find which one of those little towns was yours. Charley, anybody can take a dive. One way or another, I did it myself a couple of times. It takes a man to come back up. You’ve done all right for yourself.”

  I didn’t know quite what to say. Hearing this from an eighty-four-year-old man with an oxygen cylinder beside him lent considerable weight to his words. What he was saying was that I had his respect. That meant more to me than he would ever suppose.

  “Well,” I managed at last, “thanks, Ismail.”

  He looked at me, nodded, and said, “Now let’s talk about this new case of yours—Mark Conroy. I’ll be honest with you, Charley Sloan, there’s not many men I owe a damn thing to—not anymore, since most of them are dead. And I do believe you are the only white man still around I owe anything to. So tell me your situation on the case, and let’s see what we can do.”

  “It’s not good, Ismail,” I said. “But I’m going all the way for him.”

  “That doesn’t quite surprise me. I know the trouble he’s in. I knew you were his lawyer. The boy must be pretty desperate.”

  “He is, but he hasn’t shown it to anyone but me.”

  “Tough cop. I know the type.” He had something more to say, but he thought a long moment and decided to keep quiet.

  “He didn’t take the money.” I said it firmly. I felt I ought to convince him.

  “Well, that’s good to know. But I want to hear the story.”

  “You mind if I close the door?”

  “I’d be obliged if you did.”

  I got up and did that. Then I sat down beside him and started to talk.

  There were parts of it I left out, had to leave out, for different reasons. Telling Ismail Carter anything at all might well have been construed as a breach of client confidentiality. I knew if I’d consulted with Conroy beforehand, he would never have allowed it. But I felt he was in the sort of situation that called for extreme measures. So I tiptoed a fine line and did a little dance around the more sensitive areas—not a word about our adventure on John R last Saturday night.

  Even so, Ismail was impressed. “That’s a lot,” he said with a grin. Then he reached over to the oxygen cylinder beside him and took another hit through the mask, three deep ones this time. When he finished the operation, he nodded. “Go on, Charley.”

  I did, but just as carefully as before. I made the point that two other people knew the combination to the safe in Conroy’s office. The Mouse had it officially—he kept the books and handled the payouts through the ledger, now missing. I told Ismail, too, that Mary Margaret Tucker had it unofficially. As Conroy’s secretary, she had access to it. I made clear her relation to Mark Conroy, before and after their breakup. I told him I thought she had managed the actual theft—though not necessarily as her own little get-rich-quick scheme.

  All this and more I told Ismail Carter. He took everything in, for the most part without interruption. When I’d finished, I leaned back and realized I was sweating. I took out my handkerchief and mopped my face and neck.

  “That’s it, huh?”

  “More or less.”

  “Probably less than more. But I realize you’ve got responsibilities to your client. I trust what you gave me, and what you gave me is a lot.”

  “It’s more than anybody else knows about it except for me and Conroy.”

  He frowned. “What do you want me to do with all this shit, Charley? I have some ideas myself.”

  “That’s up to you, Ismail. I thought, hoped, you might still have a channel open to the mayor, and you could get him to read a letter I might send, something like that, I don’t know.”

  “What would you say in it?”

  “That’s just it. I’m not sure. Conroy is convinced that he’s been made the object of this frame because he’s been after the mayor in a series of investigations. He’s certain that the mayor’s out to get him. I’m less certain of that than he is—although I am sure one of the cops on the Mayor’s Squad is involved.”

  “Guilt by association?”

  “Maybe more than that, and maybe not. What do you think? You surprised me with that phone call the other night. You said you’d been trying to get hold of me. I hoped you’d have some ideas about getting him out.”

  “Well, I think maybe I do,” he said.

  Ismail fell silent, lost in thought for a while. With his eyes shut and his face at rest, I thought for a moment that he’d fallen asleep. But no, his eyes opened and he fixed them on me.

  “You know, a lot of people make fun of us old-time politicians. Some do worse than that: revile us and curse us, call us Uncle Toms, and all. They say what we did was just horse-tradin’, makin’ deals, and so on. And it’s true, I made a lot of deals in my time, but I never begged. I always had something to offer in return. That’s what politics is—something for something—and if you don’t keep your word, then you ain’t long for politics, my friend.

  “My deals benefited my people—meaning black folks and specifically those in Black Bottom—but some benefited white folks, too. And some, I admit, benefited me as well. Just a few. I am not a rich man, and I wasn’t when I left office. Main thing is, I didn’t have my hand out, like so many did and do.

  “Yessir, Charley, I am an unreconstructed, old-time pol. Only time I ever did anything to get modern, go with the flow and that shit, was when I changed my name.”

  “What? I never heard about that.”

  “Oh, I didn’t change it, really—just how I spelled it. I was born Ishmael, just the way it’s spelled in the Bible. My mama’s name was Hagar, and she thought Ishmael, therefore, the most fittin’ name for me. You do know your Bible, I hope, Charley.”

  He looked at me severely, and in response I waggled a flat hand at him, as if to say so-so.

  “Well, you should. It ain’t just a comfort. There’s a lot of wisdom in it, too. But anyhow, that’s what I was named, Ish-ma-el—means ‘God hears.’ But in the Sixties, when the Black Muslims was
gettin’ so powerful, I decided it wouldn’t hurt nothin’ if I spelled my name their way, show I was with them, see? I ain’t sure it got me even one vote. Back then, mostly they didn’t vote at all.”

  A knock interrupted him. A shy smile spread over his deeply lined face. “That’ll be my regular Saturday visitors,” he said. “I wonder, would you mind opening the door for them?”

  As I got up to do that, Ismail reached over for the oxygen mask once again. I didn’t know quite what to expect, but in no way did I expect what was just beyond the closed door.

  Women—there were three of them. They bustled by, paying me no attention at all. They were well dressed, wonderfully coiffed, and beautifully perfumed. They livened the room with giggles and brightened it with their greetings to Ismail, who they addressed most respectfully. They fussed over him, patted his shoulders, his hands, whispered in his ear, while all the while he beamed back at them, like the happy boy he seemed just then. He assured them he was feeling fine, just fine, and urged them all to find places and seat themselves.

  As they moved chairs and settled on the bed, I went unnoticed by the ladies and said a quick good-bye.

  “I can see you’ll be busy for a while,” I said to Ismail.

  “Oh, I will indeed. These ladies will keep me entertained the rest of the day, just like they do every Saturday. But I have some special interest in that young man Conroy. I want to help. I’ll give some thought to how I can do that. I’ll respect your confidence, and get back to you on this matter.”

  I thanked him, and we shook hands. Then, as I turned to leave, one of the visiting harem caught my eye, winked, and waved. I recognized her from all those years ago—Melody Martin, the barber’s niece, her face a bit rounder, her figure amplified, but with the same sweet smile she had shown the jury when she testified to Ismail Carter’s fine character and fair nature.

  I waved back to her on my way out the door.

  17

  I hadn’t gotten as much from Ismail Carter as I had hoped. During the next few days, I scolded myself often for relying upon him as I had. What help, after all, could a sick old man in a nursing home be likely to give? I might as well have applied for aid from the tooth fairy. Or so I was telling myself by Tuesday.

  In the meantime, I worked, filling a couple of yellow legal pads with speculations, arguments with myself, questions, and details, details, details. My theory of the crime was supported by a couple of facts dug up by Mark Conroy and sent by messenger to me late on Monday. The first was a confirmation that, as I had supposed, Mary Margaret Tucker had indeed left 1300 Beaubien bearing a cardboard box nearly half her size; in it were the gifts that had been showered upon her and the contents of her desktop and middle drawer, which would have left plenty of room for a million or so in cash. When one of the detectives on the Untouchable squad had tried to take it from her to help her with it down to her car, she resisted his efforts almost to the point of physical violence.

  The second bit of information sent to me by Conroy was unexpected—in fact, I could not have anticipated it. But it may certainly have had greater significance: It seemed that the house on Westburn, where Mary Margaret Tucker resided and where I had spoken to her, was the property of the City of Detroit, taken over earlier that same year for nonpayment of taxes.

  By Tuesday, as I said, I had lost all faith in Ismail Carter’s ability to influence the situation. It seemed unlikely that he would have the clout to do Conroy any real good; he might not even have the inclination.

  Yet Tuesday morning, of course, was when Ismail called.

  “Charley, I got good news for you.”

  “What’s that, Ismail?”

  “I got an audience with the pope.”

  “The pope?”

  “Okay, have it your way. The mayor?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Very serious indeed. I dropped so many nickels, dimes, and quarters down this little project, I might as well have been droppin’ them down a well. You think it’s hard get-tin’ through to you with that constipated secretary? It’s about ten times harder to get His Royal Highness on the phone. And I got what’s supposed to be his private number!”

  “But you did talk to him?”

  “Oh, yeah, and a meeting’s all arranged. Manoogian Mansion, four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  “But I don’t have any idea what I’ll say to him.” I moaned a bit. I sounded pretty ineffectual even to myself.

  “I can tell you what you’ll say to him—not a damn thing! You better understand right from the start that I do all the talking.”

  “You mean you’re coming along with me?”

  “No, you’re coming along with me. I’m lettin’ you come along, Charley, because I might need a little help gettin’ in and out of the car. Now, you tell me, what kind you got?”

  “What kind of what? Car?”

  “Yeah. I mean what are you driving?”

  “A Chrysler. It gets me where I want to go.”

  “Well, it won’t do to drive up to the mayor’s front door in one of those. Order up a limo, Charley. Take your pick, Lincoln Town car or Cadillac, but make it big and make it black. Have it in front of Parkview about three-thirty. That’ll give me plenty of time to get in and out, maybe take a little drive around town. Just be there. Understood?”

  He didn’t even wait for me to say yes. His receiver clicked in my ear.

  I sat for a moment, weighing what I had just heard. He had surprised me by coming through for me, as requested. Yet doubts lingered. He would do the talking? How did I know what he had to say? How did I know he had anything to say? And this business of the limousine, that seemed downright stupid to me. Were we being asked to finance an old man’s last hurrah? Well, maybe we were. I shuffled back through the pages I had written on the legal pad in front of me. There were some good ideas there. I had some degree of confidence in the case as it was shaping up. I wasn’t desperate. But I knew Conroy needed all the help he could get, all that I could get for him. If a direct appeal to the mayor would help, and Ismail Carter seemed to believe it would, then it should be tried. I only wished that I knew what sort of approach Ismail intended to use.

  During the morning Dominic Benda called. No, he hadn’t been asked to come in. Yes, he was feeling a lot better now, recovering from his long walk into Pickeral Point. I talked to him for a while just to keep his spirits up, and by the time he hung up, he seemed good. The whole family was getting together for Thanksgiving dinner day after tomorrow, he told me, and that was just what he needed.

  I walked over to Benny’s around noon. It was damned cold and getting colder. I had a bowl of chili, eating at the counter and reading my copy of the Free Press without interruption. That suited me just fine.

  The bank’s time and temperature clock read thirty-five degrees as I left Benny’s. I tucked the paper under my arm and headed for the men’s store in the mall just down the street from my office. I’d bought a suit there last winter. It fit as well as any of mine did, but it seemed kind of pricey for Pickeral Point—who did they sell to in this town, anyway? I’d more or less promised myself I’d do my buying elsewhere. But being without gloves on a day like this constituted an emergency.

  Just as I expected, the clerk brought out a pair from under the counter that looked like they’d go for a good hundred bucks.

  “We just got these in,” he said. “They’re really something special.”

  They looked like kidskin, light in color, and so slender that I doubted they would fit my stubby hands. But they did—perfectly, snug and tight as if they’d been made of rubber.

  “They’re unlined, aren’t they? They won’t keep my hands very warm.”

  “NO, look here.” He slipped it off my hand. It certainly didn’t feel like rubber coming off. Then he folded it back and showed me that it had a micro-thin plastic lining with a pattern of holes throughout. “That’s so your hand can breathe,” he said. “You’ll never pull it out sweaty. And look at the wor
kmanship. You can barely see the stitching.”

  It turned out that they were from Argentina, calfskin, boiled and rubbed down to the consistency of kid.

  “They’re trying to break into the luxury leather market, show what they can do,” the clerk explained. “The price is the best part—fifty bucks. They can also use the hard currency.”

  I was sold. I whipped out my checkbook and wrote one out on the spot. They felt like a second skin as I wore them out of the shop. Flexing my hands into fists, wiggling my fingers, it didn’t take me long to decide I’d never had a pair of gloves I liked as well as these. If I couldn’t hold on to this pair into next winter, I’d never forgive myself.

  It’s odd how much these little blessings can cheer you up. I jogged across the street, feeling the way I used to when I’d just won a tough one in Recorder’s Court. Hopping up to the curb on my side of River Road, I almost bumped into Sue. Literally. She didn’t seem shocked or annoyed, but she did give me a puzzled frown.

  “My,” she said, “you’re certainly acting chipper.”

  “New gloves,” I said.

  I held up my hands and wiggled my fingers at her.

  “Aren’t they pretty?” She sounded singularly unenthusiastic.

  “How’ve you been, Sue?”

  Although we hadn’t seen, each other since Dominic Benda’s polygraph examination, and our last direct communication had been the telephone conversation that followed it, the decision to cool it had been hers. She had left a message for me on my answering machine, asking me if we might not “give our relationship a rest while we still had one.” She’d gone on and on, talked nearly the length of the tape and pointed out along the way that I seemed to show up “on the wrong side” every time a suspect was brought in. She had ended quizzically, “What is it about you, Charley?”

  But here she was, only about a block from my office. I wondered if she had popped in to see me. I wasn’t sure whether she’d want to be asked that or not. Oh well, what the hell.

  “Were you looking for me?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “But I was just up at your office.”