by Mike Stewart
I let some silence settle between us.
No, I didn’t particularly think Chris Galerina had come to my house to blow my brains out. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t really scared. But that’s not right. I was deeply frightened of what was about to happen. I just didn’t think it would involve me getting shot. Of course, I’d been wrong before.
“What are you afraid of Chris?”
“Same thing you are.”
“Okay. Then what am I afraid of?”
“I heard about your wreck.”
I drank some scotch. “What do you know about my wreck?”
He shrugged.
I said, “I thought we were going to talk about the Baneberrys. So let’s talk.” I motioned at his revolver with my drink. “Put that thing away and let’s talk like reasonable people.”
Galerina pressed the release on the side of his revolver, swung the cylinder open, and dumped all six bullets on top of the coat in his lap. “See, no problem. Nothing to worry about. We’re both lawyers here, Tom. We can work this out. That’s what I’m here to do—you know, work it out. This is like any other case.
You and me, we’re in settlement negotiations right now.”
“You want to settle with my client?”
Galerina lifted the revolver and pointed it at me with the empty cylinder hanging open to one side.
I held up an open palm. “Point that somewhere else.”
“It’s empty. I’m just trying to make a point.”
“Point it somewhere else, or I’m going to make a point of shoving it up your ass.”
He put the gun in his lap. “Shit. I’m trying to show you something. I’m using the gun for a friggin’ exhibit. I’m telling you that right now you got a gun pointed at your head. And I don’t mean this one. I mean, you know, figuratively. I mean there’re people who’re waiting to see how close you get. And, Tom, you get close enough and they’re gonna drop the hammer on you.”
I said, “Figuratively speaking,” but I don’t think he was listening.
Galerina looked at the outside door again.
I looked too. “You expecting somebody?”
“No. But you should be.” He shook his head in a kind of drunken shudder. “So, uh, how much? We’re in negotiations right now. How much you need to go away?”
“How much do I need, or how much does Sheri Baneberry need?”
Galerina plucked his glass off the rug and killed the rest of the bourbon. “I write you a check. Split it up any way you want.”
“Is this a settlement of the wrongful death suit Jim Baneberry’s bringing against Dr. Laurel Adderson?”
He swung his five-o’clock shadow from side to side.
“Nope. We’ll still represent Mr. Baneberry on that. This is just for you. And, you know, for the girl—for your client—if that’s the way you wanna do it.” Galerina turned once again to look at the door; then he picked up one bullet and stuck the business end of the thing in his mouth. He twirled the brass casing between his lips and pulled it out. “Tom? You ever see actors in the movies do that? It’s when somebody’s gonna shoot themselves. I think Mel Gibson did it in Lethal Weapon. He’s got this special bullet he’s been saving to kill himself …”
“Why don’t you give me the gun, Chris?”
“He’s got this bullet, and he puts it in his mouth and sucks on it before he loads it into the gun.” As he spoke, Galerina dropped the moistened bullet into one of the six empty chambers and swung the cylinder into place.
“Give me the gun, Chris. We’ve gotten past this. We’re in settlement negotiations, remember? Just like any other case. Come on. Put the gun down and give me an offer.”
He swung the cylinder open again and gave it a spin before snapping it shut. “How about a million dollars, Tom? Would you go away and forget about us for a million bucks?” Galerina crossed his legs, lifted the pointed toe of his polished loafer into the air, and took aim.
“Chris!”
Clack! The firing pin snapped into an empty chamber.
“Goddamnit, Chris!”
He popped open the cylinder and gave it another spin before flicking his wrist and slamming it shut. “Whatcha gonna do, Tom? You gonna shove this little pistol up my ass? That’s what you said. Come on, Tom, answer me. You gonna shove this gun up my ass, or you gonna take a million dollars?” He screamed, “Come on, goddamnit! Let’s negotiate!”
I had already placed my drink on the end table. Now I eased forward in the chair, centering my feet under me, getting ready to move fast if the crazy bastard pointed his gun at me. “Fine. Okay, fine. We’re negotiating, Chris. There’s a million dollars on the table. I’ll take your offer to my client tomorrow morning.”
Galerina pointed the revolver at his toe and popped the hammer against another empty chamber. “Shit! Can you believe that? Man, I’d be the king of Russian roulette. Remember The Deer Hunter? Guy stayed over in ‘Nam after the war just to play Russian roulette with the gooks? Remember that? Hell, I’d’ve been king of that shit. Watch this.”
I saw him swing open the cylinder again, and I almost made a move. But I was torn between going for the gun and running the hell out of there. And, in that split second of indecision, Galerina had spun the cylinder and swung it shut again.
“It’s funny.” Tears pooled in his eyes. “I mean, you know. Shit. We were trying to do good, Tom. Can you understand that? We were trying to do good. Help the little guy. Make it come out right. That’s what he tells you at first.”
“That’s what who tells you, Chris?”
He ignored me. Maybe didn’t even hear me. “Comes to you and says, ‘How’d you like to win more cases, help more of your clients.’ Then you’re in, and you wish you weren’t. You wish you could go back. But you take one step and then another. It … it doesn’t seem … shit.” He shook his head. “You can get used to anything a little at a time, Tom. Did you know that?”
My eyes were on the gun. I didn’t answer.
He wiped at tears with the palm of his free hand and repeated. “Get used to any fucking thing.” His mind seemed to loop back on itself, and he smiled. “Watch this.”
He jerked the trigger three times in quick succession. Two loud clacks were followed by an explosion and someone yelling. The yelling was me. I’m not sure what I said.
I was sure that my drunken idiot of a guest had fired the only bullet in the gun straight through the outside edge of his loafer. I sprang out of the chair, reached Galerina in three steps, and twisted the still-smoking pistol from his hand.
I stepped back. “You dumb sonofabitch.”
Galerina dropped the back of his head against the chair and started to chuckle. “A million dollars is on the table, Tom. A million fucking dollars.”
Fifteen
“Is that all he said?” Sheri Baneberry hunched forward in the client chair across the desk from me. She was completely focused. The mention of a million dollars has that effect.
“That’s it. I’ve told you everything he said from the time he got there until he stumbled out and climbed into his car.”
She nodded her head. “And you think he’s serious?”
“Yeah, I do. At least, I think he was last night. The man’s scared out of his mind that we’re going to find out something about his firm’s business. And, by the way, Chris Galerina could write you a personal check for a million bucks tomorrow.”
“He’s that rich?”
“Rich enough.”
Sheri leaned back and studied Mobile Bay through the window over my shoulder. “Why’d you let him drive when he left? He could’ve hurt someone.”
“I tried to call him a cab, but he wasn’t having it. And, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t much interested in being around him any longer. Drunk and suicidal is a lousy combination. I did take away his bullets, though, before I let him have his gun back.”
Sheri let some time pass. “How much of the million do you get, you know, as my lawyer?”
“None of
it.”
She lowered her lids and tucked her chin. My client looked like a blonde, disbelieving lizard.
I said, “I told you at the outset I wouldn’t take the case on contingency. You’re paying me by the hour. I can’t switch over to a percentage now just because there’s money on the table.”
She laughed. “How about that? An honest lawyer.”
I shrugged. “I’m just not a crook. But what we’re talking about isn’t exactly on the up-and-up either. First of all, you didn’t hire me to sue anybody. You hired me to find out the truth of what happened to your mother. So, what Galerina will be paying you for is to forget about the truth and keep your mouth shut. And since you haven’t brought suit or even threatened suit, the whole thing is really more of a payoff than a settlement, which means we’ll all have to do some fancy lawyering.
“Galerina and his cronies will have to invent some imaginary scenario that supports them giving you a million bucks, seeing how they aren’t about to admit to having anything to do with your mother’s death. And I’ll have to come up with some way to keep the payment from looking like you blackmailed Russell and Wagler—which, just so there’s no confusion here, is pretty much what you’d be doing.”
Sheri’s strained and angry smile appeared. “So if I take the money, I’m a blackmailer?”
I picked up a half-empty coffee cup and swirled the cold contents before placing it back on the desk. “Well, it’s close, but no. Galerina would be paying for your silence. But he made the offer, not you. So you’re not threatening exposure to make him pay.”
She studied my face. “But you find the whole subject offensive.”
And she was right. I did find it offensive to be bought off, to be offered money to forget about the likely murder of an innocent woman. But … “A million dollars is a lot of money, Sheri. And, whatever we find out, nothing’s going to bring your mother back. So it’s up to you. At base, it’s not all that different from taking money to drop a wrongful-death action in court.”
“Okay, okay, I don’t like it either. But what if we take the money using some kind of ‘fancy lawyering,’ as you call it, and keep on looking for the truth? I mean, if Galerina or his firm did have something to do with Mom’s death, then, you know, screw ’em.”
“Nope.”
“But if we …”
“Look, Sheri, I’m no Boy Scout. I’ll bend the law as much as I need to to draft a settlement agreement that keeps you and Galerina out of court and out of jail. But what you’re talking about is taking money—a lot of money—under false pretenses.”
She shook her head. “And it’s taking money to let my mother’s murderer go free. That’s what it boils down to, isn’t it?”
“Well, we don’t know that for sure, and I didn’t want to put it that way. But, yeah, that’s basically what we’re talking about.”
She puffed up in her chair and raised one medium eyebrow. “Then the hell with them.”
“Yeah,” I said, “that’s pretty much what I was thinking.”
It was after lunch, and a dark little man named Vynuvese Rapazaar stood across the desk from me, showering the carpet and furniture with profuse thanks. He and I had spent most of the last hour on a conference call with the INS. We were making progress toward an extended work visa. Mr. Rapazaar was uncommonly pleased, which was nice. But I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.
In the midst of the little man’s smiling gesticulations, Kelly poked her head into the office. She was smiling too. “Joey’s on line two.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. “Nope.”
I stood and held my hand out to Mr. Rapazaar. He clasped my hand in both of his, pumped all three hands eight or ten times, and followed Kelly out of the office.
I grabbed the phone. “Where the hell are you?”
Joey laughed. “I’m in Montgomery, and your client is going to owe me a wad of cash.”
“Loutie’s looking for you.”
“I called her.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” My giant friend laughed some more. “Shit, I just saw you Friday. Now it’s Monday. That ain’t a real long time to go missin’. Loutie got a little worried ’cause I didn’t answer my cell phone. But you can’t much answer one that’s outta juice.”
“You didn’t have a charger with you?”
“You know, Tom, you’re a friggin’ genius. I wish I’d thought of that. Only you had my car, which, if you think about it, has my charger on the dashboard.”
“And I thought I was glad to hear from you.”
“You are glad. I’ve been tailing the Cajun. Picked him up when he came back for the cooler we thought might have his prints on it.”
“You’re kidding. It occurred to me after you disappeared that maybe the Cajun had the same idea about the cooler.”
“He did. But at least you thought of it first. I parked down the road there and got to the alley about two seconds before he did. Didn’t have time to get the cooler; so I just hung back. You know, in the diner there. I was standin’ inside the screen door checkin’ things out when he came prancin’ over the back fence like a ballerina or somethin’.”
“I don’t think they call the men ballerinas, Joey.”
“Whatever he was, I thought about shootin’ him in the leg or somethin’, but decided it’d be smarter to tail him a while and see where he went.”
“And he went to Montgomery?”
“Yep. At least, that’s what he did early Saturday night. Up till then, he was looking for you. Sonofabitch checked out your beach house, your office, Kelly’s townhouse, even my place.”
“But he’s in Montgomery now?”
“Beats me. I lost him.”
“That’s good.”
Joey made a sound like a verbal shrug. “Shit happens. What do you want me to do now?”
I took a few seconds, staring at the corner of the ceiling. “I’ll check with Sheri Baneberry to see if she’s willing to keep paying. In the meantime, check out Judge Luther Savin.”
“Criminal Appeals?”
“That’s him. Lives over behind Huntingdon College somewhere there in Montgomery. He had a couple of alleged law clerks try to strong-arm me into a meeting on Sunday. Who knows? With everybody showing up in Montgomery, maybe there’s some connection between the judge and the Cajun.”
“Okay. You got the clerks’ names?”
I said, “Hang on,” and punched up my notes on the laptop. “Here it is. The smarter one’s named Chuck Bryony. The other one’s a pushy little blond bastard named Billy. They both have really cute hairdos. The two of ’em look like Backstreet Boys in golf clothes.”
“You didn’t like ’em.”
“Not much. Give me a buzz at home tonight and let me know if you’re finding anything. I’ll check with Sheri in the meantime.”
“Got it.”
“And, Joey? Buy a phone charger that fits the cigarette lighter on that damn Safari vehicle and send me the bill.”
“Yeah, okay. Listen, there’s something else you need to know. I called a buddy of mine this morning. Ben Stilham. He’s a Mobile cop, and I wanted him to run the plates on the Cajun’s car. The plates turned up stolen, so that was no use. But he told me somethin’ about you.”
“Did you tell him you were working a case for me?”
“Hell, no. But Ben’s been around a while, and he knows I work for you some. Anyway, he tells me that there’s been a statewide O and R out on you since Friday.”
“A statewide what?”
“Oh. O and R. Observe and report. Just means somebody—usually state or federal—wants to know where you are but doesn’t want you stopped or arrested. Goes out on the wires to cops all over the state.”
“Could he tell you where it originated?”
“Nope. That was all he’d say. But hell, Tom, I was surprised he said that much. Doing a Big Brother on the citizenry ain’t something cops usually talk about.”
>
I asked Joey to keep his ear to the ground and dropped the receiver back in its cradle. Almost immediately, the door opened and Kelly’s head popped through.
I smiled. “Joey’s fine.”
“Good.” She widened her eyes. “Sully Walker’s on line two. He says pick up fast.”
I snatched up the receiver and punched a blinking button. “Sully? What’s wrong?”
A good friend, an even better criminal attorney said, “A warrant was issued this morning for your arrest in the death of Chris Galerina.”
“What? He was at my house last night.”
“I’m not sure I’d share that with anyone else. And, listen Tom, I know you’re gonna want to turn yourself in and clear this up. But, right now, if you think you should find another location—somewhere safe—and call me back, well, I suggest you haul ass. The police are on the way to your office to execute the warrant.”
As I got to my feet, I asked, “How do you know about this?”
“Tom! Go!”
Sixteen
I was walking fast. At five-foot-one, Kelly was trotting to keep up. She looked scared. “What is it, Tom? Is Sully okay?”
Kelly and Sully had dated for a while a year earlier. I said, “He’s fine. The cops are coming here to arrest me.”
“Wha …”
“Listen, please. Go back to your desk. When they get here, you don’t know where I am. That’s all you need to say. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
As I stepped into the hallway, the elevator ding-donged. I cut straight across the marble floor and opened the door of the CPA across the way. Her receptionist, a frail, henna-haired woman named Lucille, said too loudly, “Well, good morning, Tom. Did y’all run out of coffee again?”
I held my finger in front of my lips. I winked. “I’m trying to avoid someone.”
Lucille bobbed her bony head and gave me a wrinkly wink in return. “Crazy client?”
I nodded. “Something like that.”
“I know whatcha mean. Patricia’s got a few of those. Some people live in their own little purple world. You tell ’em to go away, and they stick to your foot like bubble gum.”
