A Clean Kill

by Mike Stewart

  “No way.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  “Prob’ly not.”

  “Windows open, lights on, Cajun music blasting on the stereo?”

  Zybo’s color darkened, and thin cords of muscle worked against the skin at the hollows of his temples.

  “I filed a police report this time. You can’t take a whack at the back window of my Land Rover with a woman inside, Zybo. That’s too much.”

  He leaned in, his fingers laced together on the tabletop. Dark skin around his nails turned white from the pressure of his grip. “You tink I did dat?”

  “Be kind of stupid, wouldn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Anyting else?”

  “Hearing some rumors out of Montgomery about a Louisiana hit man hired by Chris Galerina.”

  He nodded.

  I said, “You heard the same thing, didn’t you?”

  He shrugged his shoulders forward a little. “Dead men dey don’ testify.”

  “That’s right. Neither one of you.”

  He paused and rolled his shoulders in full circles. Then he leaned forward again. “Your investigator, he de one been messin’ in my business.”

  I reached inside my coat pocket and took out two envelopes. One was a manila routing envelope with a series of scratched-out names on one side. “Take a look.”

  Zybo picked up the envelope and tilted the names toward the light. When he had examined each name in turn, he unwound the string holding the envelope closed and pulled out his arrest and prison records. This time, they were in the right order. He leafed through the records, holding them lightly by the edges, just as I’d hoped he would.

  When he was done, he said, “Your investigator, he come up with dis?”

  I shook my head.

  He nodded. “I tink I’m gonna keep it.”

  “Keep the report. Not the envelope. They’ll know it came from me.”

  He shook his head. “Nobody’s gonna see it. And I ain’t askin’ for it. I’m takin’ it.”

  Now I leaned forward. “You try to hold on to that”—I pointed at the envelope in his hand—“and you and I are going to go at it again right now. And I’m done telling you anything.”

  He shrugged. “So why you showin’ dis stuff, anyhow? I figure you hate my fuggin gut by now.”

  “You figure right. But I want my life and my law practice back. And I don’t want to have to be Judge Savin’s punk to get them.”

  Zybo just sat there, thinking. Finally, he asked, “How do I know you not workin’ with dem to set me up for de Baneberry woman’s death?”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “No way.”

  “Would you have murdered that woman if they’d paid you enough?”

  He shrugged. “Dat ain’t what happened.”

  I leaned back. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Why should I be believin’ you’re not already Judge Savin’s punk?”

  I lifted the flap on the second envelope I’d taken out of my coat pocket and placed a check for $25,000 on the table.

  Zybo stared, but didn’t touch. “I guess dey bought you, Tommy.”

  “They tried.”

  “You gonna cash it?”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Den why’d you take it?”

  “So I could show later they tried to buy me.” I held up my hands. “Look, I pretty much stumbled onto their operation. I didn’t land hard enough to send everybody to jail, but just hard enough to make them stop what they were doing for a while. Maybe enough to kick off some kind of ethics investigation. I don’t know. But the judge’s got a good thing going. So he makes plans to cut my legs out from under me before I can get started.”

  Zybo sat quietly. Listening. This is why he had come.

  “Basically,” I said, “the judge has got three ways he can handle damage control.

  “First, he could ruin my life and my reputation so nobody’ll believe me—which is what they started out to do. But the problem there is that I still know what I know. And he can never be sure that some reporter or prosecutor isn’t going to take my story seriously. Particularly since his people’ve still got a dead juror on their hands.

  “So, he goes to the second option. The judge meets me at the Mandrake Club and invites me to join his little jury-rigging group and get rich along with the rest of them. I tell him I’ll do whatever’s necessary to keep my license. And he has his boys at Russell and Wagler cut me a check, which is intended to both shut me up and tie me to them with a paper trail.”

  Zybo nodded almost imperceptibly and said, “Right, but de woman she still dead.”

  I repeated. “The woman’s still dead. The husband’s still suing Judge Savin’s girlfriend. And somebody’s trying to tie you to Chris Galerina.”

  “You say tree ways dey could handle dis.”

  “Oh, yeah. They could kill every one of us.”

  He leaned forward again, but this time it was a natural movement—not something designed to intimidate. “Me, you, de psychologist, maybe your investigator and your lawyer? Prob’ly have to trow in your client to be sure.” He shook his head. “I don’ tink so. Dat ain’t their style.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for that.”

  “Yeah.” He paused. “Okay.” He slid the routing envelope across the table. “Keep it. I be talkin’ to you.” He gathered the loose pages of his criminal record and stood. “But listen up, Tommy Boy. I find out you tryin’ to fug me over, I’ll end all your worries in a heartbeat. Dat’s my fuggin style.”

  He crossed the diner. As he pulled open the front door, I picked up both envelopes and my check and walked to the counter. I was curious about something. When the waitress glanced up, I asked, “Why didn’t you wait on us?”

  She nodded at the door, “That good-lookin’ boy there. He give me a twenty to leave you be.”

  I nodded and walked out into the cold wet night. Zybo had disappeared.

  Thirty-one

  Over a breakfast of bagels and cream cheese, Kai-Li and I had discussed my meeting with Zybo. As we talked, I’d eaten my bagel and half of hers: She was still working on half of her half when she asked, “How did it feel?”

  “What?”

  “Sitting across from this Cajun who’s attacked you and made your life miserable. How did it feel to sit across from him, making polite conversation? Trying to manipulate him?”

  “It felt,” I said, “like teasing a cottonmouth with a stick—which is something I tried once when I was a kid.”

  She smiled. “Think you’ll get bitten?”

  “I sure as hell hope not.”

  Kai-Li scraped a tenth of an ounce of cream cheese onto a piece of toasted bagel. “Well, did the snake bite you the first time? When you were a boy?”

  I held out my right forearm and rotated it to display the faint scars from two puncture wounds near my elbow.

  She paused with the bagel raised halfway to her mouth. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish.”

  “So you’ve always been like this?”

  “Boyishly charming, isn’t it?”

  All she said was “no.”

  I went for a shower.

  Upstairs, the tiled bathroom floor felt cold under bare feet. I switched on the overhead heater, left the ventilator off, and cranked on the hot water. By the time I’d grabbed a clean towel and stripped down, steam had filled the room. I adjusted the water temperature and stepped into the spray.

  The muffled ring of the phone sounded twice. Minutes passed. A fist bumped at the door, and a faint puff of cool air touched my shoulders as the bathroom door opened and closed.

  “Thomas?”

  An opaque glass door was all that separated me from my houseguest. I turned my back. “Yes?”

  “Mind if I come in?”

  What was I going to say? “Of course not.”

  “The phone.”

  “Yeah, I heard it.”

  She spoke louder than usua
l to be heard over the shower. “It was Judge Savin’s secretary. He wants you and me … he wants both of us to come to some affair tonight at the Mandrake Club.” She hesitated. “You sure I’m not making you uncomfortable? You’re sort of hiding in the corner there.”

  I turned to face the door. “Want me to step out there so we can talk face-to-face?”

  “Maybe. I really can’t see anything through the door, you know.”

  “What kind of ‘affair’ did he invite us to?”

  “Oh. It’s something called the Hunter’s Ball, whatever that is.”

  “Formal?”

  “Unh-huh. That’s what the woman said. And the way she invited us, by the way, made it seem more like an order than an invitation.”

  “Probably was an order. The judge figures he owns me now.”

  I could see Kai-Li’s form through the frosted glass. She was leaning with her bottom against the edge of the sink. I turned to rinse conditioner out of my hair.

  I turned back. She was still there. “Worried?”

  “Maybe a bit,” she said.

  More time passed. “Is there anything else? We can talk when I get out.”

  “Thomas?” She paused. “Am I reading you wrong? You seem to like me, but … I don’t know how much longer I can bear to be ignored while walking around your house in a T-shirt and panties.”

  “Oh.” It was all I could think to say.

  “I’m not asking to jump in the shower with you or anything. And please don’t come popping out of there in all your glory. But … I was wondering. So I thought, what the heck, may as well ask.”

  I turned off the shower. “Mind if I discuss this with my pants on? It’ll make the answer less obvious.”

  She laughed. “See you downstairs.”

  I heard the door close behind her.

  That evening, the drive into Daphne little resembled our earlier trip to Dr. Adderson’s farmhouse for dinner with the judge. Now, the last remnants of snow and ice had melted, soaking the roadsides and turning frozen strips of tire-churned soil as black as chimney soot. The Gulf Coast had settled into the seasonal sameness of wet, gray, penetrating cold that moves through clothes and skin and bone as if they were made of gauze.

  Kai-Li shifted in her seat. Again. She’d passed the afternoon shopping in Fairhope. Now she seemed uncomfortable inside the new silk wrap that circled her shoulders and the pale folds of evening dress surrounding her legs and ankles.

  I could sympathize. In most places, “formal” means black tie. In Mobile and along the Eastern Shore, it means white tie and tails. My coat lay on the back seat, but I had on the tie and vest, the satin-striped trousers and thinly pleated shirt.

  It wasn’t comfortable, but I thought I looked pretty good.

  Kai-Li pointed at the brick monument marking the turnoff into the club. “Is that it?”

  I nodded. “Just up around the curve there. It’s a nice place. Very horsey. You’ll like it.”

  “No,” she said, “I won’t.”

  Around the curve, there was a line. Just to park.

  When we finally approached the dropoff area, a young guy dressed like a waiter opened Kai-Li’s door and then came around for mine. No parking under the hill tonight. All valet. All free. What the hell.

  At the door, my old friend Harvey had traded his usual getup for tails and spotless white gloves. He opened the door, and I noticed that his was a more expensive outfit than mine, but then he probably wore his more than once a year.

  Inside the entry hall, Kai-Li leaned in close and whispered, “We could have crashed, Thomas. No one bothered to check an invitation.”

  I shook my head. “They never do. That would be tacky.”

  “Heaven forbid,” she said. “What now?”

  “I’m thinking we hit the bar, then snoop around a little.”

  “Is that it?”

  I put my hand on the small of Kai-Li’s back and guided her toward the bar where I’d first seen Zybo. “No, no. Later, after I’ve plied you with champagne, we’ll wander into the garden where I’ll pull you under a canopy of Confederate jasmine and do unspeakable things to you.”

  Kai-Li showed me her profile, and I caught a hint of perfume. She said, “It’s about time.”

  Inside the paneled barroom, other perfumes mixed in the air with cigar smoke and cocktail chatter. I ordered scotch. Kai-Li asked, “Do I have to drink champagne to do things unspeakable in the garden?”

  I laughed. “Whatever you want.”

  She ordered Stoli on the rocks. The bartender grinned at my beautiful date and winked at me. Kai-Li threw a green-eyed, flirtatious glance at the poor guy just to torture him and walked away. I rushed to catch up and almost bumped into Kai-Li when she stopped short. “Look who’s here.”

  I glanced around the room and was about to ask who she meant when I saw Sheri Baneberry. She stood ten feet away, laughing. Jonathan Cort and her father stood on either side of her as she talked with our host, Judge Luther Savin. And I was struck by the feeling that I’d never seen my young client looking quite so comfortable in her skin.

  Sheri felt my gaze and turned. She held out her hand. “Tom!”

  I walked into the group and took her hand. “Good to see you, Sheri. You look wonderful.”

  She laughed. She turned her back to Jonathan Cort and motioned at her father. “Do you know my father, Jim Baneberry?”

  I offered my hand. He shook it, but he didn’t look happy about it.

  Judge Savin spoke up. “Tom? May I speak to you and Dr. Cantil, please?”

  We excused ourselves and followed the judge through the bar and the entry hall to a glassed-in area overlooking lighted oak trees outside. The three of us were alone.

  He began. “Bill Wagler told me about your meeting.”

  I looked at him.

  “I understand you don’t want to work with them on the Baneberry case.”

  “I’ve had enough of this one.”

  His eyes narrowed. His lips stretched tight as if grimacing from a bad taste. “I was sorry to hear that. Have you cashed the check, Tom?”

  Something was wrong. “No offense. But I don’t see where that’s any business of yours, judge. I thought we’d worked this out. Are you planning to be in my business from now on?”

  The taste in Judge Savin’s mouth seemed to turn rancid. “You said you were interested in what we discussed here in the club.”

  “I am interested.” I glanced at Kai-Li and turned back to Savin. “Did you invite us out here tonight to insult us? What the hell’s going on here, judge?”

  “You were invited to a celebration. Then, this afternoon, I heard about you turning down Wagler on the Baneberry case.” I started to interrupt, and he held up a pudgy hand with the blood ruby on its stubby pinky. “Just hold on. After I talked to Wagler, I did a little checking. Looks like somebody at the Alabama Bureau of Investigation called down to the Mobile police asking about a Cajun hit man with a year of medical school.”

  I tried to look shocked. “You’re kidding.”

  He glared into my eyes. “Fuck you, McInnes.”

  “What …?”

  “Who do you think you’re dealing with? You think you can fuck me over? Blowing off Wagler, planting information about the Cajun. Shit. The man’s disappeared.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m warning you, McInnes. Quit playing the dumbass. Zybo’s missing, and you know it.” He turned and nodded at Kai-Li. “And this little bitch is still sitting on all that so-called research about jury fixing.”

  I raised my hand and poked the air. Before I could speak, Kai-Li broke in. “Who are you calling a bitch? You creepy little troll.” I grinned, and she turned to me. “Is this funny to you?”

  “Sort of.”

  Kai-Li’s cheeks burned red. Fireworks exploded inside her emerald irises. “I’m leaving.” She spun toward the doorway behind me, took one step, and stopped.

  I turned. Billy Savin and Chuck Bryony stood shoulder-to-shou
lder inside the closed door. Both wore tails, which is an outfit that was never intended to be coupled with jelled hair and hip-hop attitude. They looked ridiculous.

  I said, “Kind of a bad place for a mugging. Isn’t it, judge?”

  “Nobody’s getting mugged. These boys are going to take you and the chink professor home. We get her notes. We get your notes. Just so we understand each other and we won’t have any more miscommunications, the professor’s going to give Billy the address where her daughter is spending Christmas.”

  Kai-Li blurted out. “I won’t do it.”

  Under his breath, Billy said, “Good.”

  The judge reached out and, almost gently, used one finger to turn Kai-Li’s face to his. “Billy’s in charge tonight. You hand over everything we want, he’s supposed to leave you alone. You hold back on the research notes or anything else … well, Billy’s looking forward to getting to know all about you.” Judge Savin grinned into Kai-Li’s face.

  His fat, whiskered cheek was turned toward me; so that’s where I hit him.

  He dropped like a brick.

  I grabbed Kai-Li’s arm, pushed her toward the outside door, and said, “Run!”

  As I turned back to the young men by the door, the silenced muzzle of an automatic pistol appeared an inch from my nose. Chuck said, “Stop right there, ma’am.”

  Kai-Li froze.

  The muzzle of Chuck’s pistol bounced in front of my face as Billy lunged and hit and clawed against Chuck’s other hand. Billy wanted to kill me. Chuck talked to him in a quiet voice. “Calm down, Billy. Somebody needs to check on the judge. Calm down and check on your daddy. I got these two. We’ll take ’em home, just like the judge said. We’ll take ’em to this guy’s beach house and deal with this there.”

  Billy stopped struggling, and Chuck released the front of his pleated shirt.

  Judge Savin spoke. “Motherfucker.” Moherfoher. “Goddamnit.” Godum-if. “Help me up.” Heh meh uh.

  Billy rushed around and grabbed the old man under his armpits. When he was vertical, Savin shoved off Billy and glared at me. “Tough guy. Hit an old man.” His words had mushed together and lost the hard consonants.

  “You’re not that old.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “And you asked for it.”