False Dawn

by Paul Levine

“Cono!” the something yelled. It was Carlos, tumbling to the floor. I didn’t move. He couldn’t see me, because I couldn’t see him. A nerve-shattering cl-ick warned me that he had cocked the hammer on his .357 Magnum.

  My breathing sounded like a locomotive in my ears. Silently, I reached into a pocket, took out a quarter, and tossed it into the darkness. It landed with a ping on the concrete, and Carlos fired a shot that made my ears ring. The flash from the barrel was just below me. He was sitting on the floor at my feet. With the noise still echoing, I took off the other way and turned what I thought was a corner, but slammed into a metal rack, banging my bum knee hard. I backed up, tried to figure where the middle of the aisle would be, then started moving slowly, my arms in front of me, feeling the air.

  A soft noise.

  A buzzing.

  Louder now.

  Two small headlights swung around a corner. In the blackness, the lights blinded me. I was caught in their glare, frozen like a startled deer. The lights grew in size, the forklift closing the distance. I turned and ran, chasing my shadow, which loomed twenty feet in front of me.

  Thirty miles an hour. That’s how fast Crespo told me they went. Me, I never ran an hour in my life. On my best day, it took me four point eight two seconds to run forty yards. On this day, rapidly shaping up as my worst, I may have trimmed half a second off my time.

  The lift closed on me, someone shouting from behind. I looked back over my shoulder. It hung there five yards away, then closed the gap. We were coming to an intersection of rows. Let’s see how that baby corners. I faked left and took the corner right like a wide receiver on a deep post, trying to make a hard L-cut.

  My turn was a little flabby around the edges, but it was better than the guy behind me. The lift banged into a metal rack, sending sparks into the darkness. It stopped, backed up, and started again. I had gained twenty yards but was losing steam. With the air-conditioning off, the air went stale and the warehouse was a sweatbox.

  I was having trouble with my breathing, and there it was again, behind me. I thought of Smorodinsky, impaled on the wall. I thought of Cary Grant in North by Northwest, being chased by the crop duster. If I got out of this, I was going to ask Lourdes Soto “how a girl like you got to be a girl like you.”

  Slanting to the right, I tried to calculate how much room there was on either side of the forklift. I couldn’t outrun it, but maybe I could pivot out of its way, reverse my field, and take a poke at the driver as he went by. It was probably no more difficult than kicking a ball through the uprights, then running and catching that sucker before it hit the ground.

  More yelling behind me. No more time to think. I planted my left leg and pivoted. I heard the snap before I felt it, the knee giving way. I spun into a pallet of bottled barbecue sauce, my hands gripping the wooden frame to keep from falling. My back was pressed against the pallet, my arms outstretched, my knee throbbing. The forklift growled past me, braked hard, spun around, and came back. It stopped three feet in front of me, its headlights bleaching me in their malevolent glare. I heard the hydraulic whoosh of the lift and saw the blade raise to my chest level. Then the ugly machine moved forward, at first slowly, then with a charge.

  I raised my arms as the blades slashed into the pallet on either side of my rib cage. Behind me, bottles shattered, and what I hoped was barbecue sauce ran down the back of my legs. My chest was pinned to the front of the forklift, my back to the splintered wood pallet.

  The driver turned off the ignition, leaving the headlights on. My lungs wanted oxygen, but the lift was crushing my ribs in a mechanical bearhug. I watched the driver dismount, peel off a pair of gloves, and walk into the twin shafts of yellow light.

  “My father was right about you,” Lourdes Soto said, softly. “You are the kind of man who touches a stove to see if it is hot.”

  16

  THE POISON IS IN THE TAIL

  “But I don’t like Washington in the summer,” I said.

  Robert Foley didn’t seem to care.

  “Or the rest of the year, for that matter.”

  We were in some government office deep in the bowels of Miami International Airport. The sign on the door said simply, SPECIAL SERVICES.

  Foley sat on the vinyl sofa, reading a newspaper, ignoring me. His tie was at half mast, and his white shirt wrinkled. His creased face was pale and drawn. Maybe baby-sitting for me was a tiring job. Around us, a potpourri of government agents went about their tasks. There were customs inspectors in uniform, DEA agents in plainclothes, one with a German shepherd, and a variety of federal employees wearing photo ID badges and toiling at various secretive tasks in that governmental tempo that is somewhere between slow motion and a dead halt. In the center of the room, a dozen cubicles each contained eight miniature television monitors. Bleary-eyed women scanned the screens, occasionally whispering into their headsets. We were deep in the bowels of the airport in a restricted federal area. I was watching the inside of the door when Foley said, “You don’t have to go with me. Leave now if you want. I’ll get you a cab.”

  “Uh-huh. Only the cab driver has a different kind of license, right?”

  “What?”

  “A license to kill.”

  “Lassiter, you see too many movies. We haven’t done that sort of thing in years. At least not domestically.”

  On the wall was a panel with numbers one through fifty. Four or five numbers were blinking at once. Another lighted panel showed arriving and departing international flights with a matching number from one to fifty.

  “Okay, I think I’ll leave now,” I told him. “I need to put some ice on this knee.”

  Foley went back to his newspaper.

  I stood, straightened my bum leg, and said, “Well, I guess this is good-bye. Next time you’re in Miami, do me a favor. Don’t call me.”

  “Oh, you’ll be seeing me at the trial.”

  “What trial?”

  Foley put down the newspaper, creasing the folds as if it were the flag at Arlington. “Yours, pal. For the murder of Francisco Crespo.”

  The board showed a flight arriving from Bogota. Three numbers started blinking. Had I heard him right? He couldn’t have said what I thought he said.

  “Your prints are all over that trailer, Lassiter. You tell us a bullshit story about a man dressed in brown running away. There were a hundred people in that park, and nobody saw your mystery man.”

  “A hundred people, but not one green card in the bunch. Of course nobody saw anything.”

  Foley beamed. He looked genuinely happy. “Oh, I wouldn’t put it that way. Three witnesses saw you go into Crespo’s trailer and heard two muffled popping sounds maybe a minute later.”

  “Bullshit! It was the other way around. I went in after—”

  “That’s not what the witnesses say.”

  I sunk back into the sofa. My knee throbbed. “I take it back. There’ll be three green cards in that park by next week.”

  “Sorry, Lassiter, but you’ll be indicted for second-degree murder. As the English say, a nasty bit of business.”

  “You prick! You bastard! You scum-sucking pig!”

  Around us, various civil servants stopped to watch. Or did they just slow their tempo another nanosecond? The German shepherd padded over and sniffed my leg for contraband, or maybe just to see if I was edible.

  “Why would I shoot Crespo?”

  “Ah, yes, motive. Hard to get a conviction without one, but why should I tell you your business? Some dispute over fee splitting. Crespo wanted a bigger cut of the cases he sent your way. You brushed him off. He threatened you with exposure and disbarment. You warned him once. He persisted. You offed him.”

  “You’re full of crap! I never split a fee with Crespo or anybody else.”

  “Then how do you explain the letter written in your own hand?”

  “What letter?”

  He opened a thin briefcase and removed a one-page photocopy. “Exhibit A,” he announced.

  I grabbed it
. My handwriting all right. A curt little note telling Crespo to lay off or he’d regret it. And my signature at the bottom, a forgery so good even I couldn’t tell it wasn’t real.

  I balled up the note and tossed it back at Foley. “That’s why you had me write out a statement, you dickwad.”

  He took an identical copy from his briefcase and admired it. There seemed to be half a dozen copies. “The exemplar was quite useful, I admit.”

  “Who’s going to believe this? What kind of asshole would write a letter like that?”

  He smiled and put the letter back into the briefcase. “I believe that’s what you lawyers call a jury question.”

  “I ought to kick your ass.”

  “Go ahead. Assaulting a federal officer is pretty tame stuff compared to the trouble you’re in.” He smiled again and leaned toward me. “Of course, I could help you out. I could see to it that Socolow never gets this letter and those wetback witnesses all end up working in the Post Office in Corpus Christi.”

  “Who do I have to kill?”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic. All you have to do is sign a confidentiality agreement. Not a word about Operation Riptide to anybody, ever.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Why not have your handwriting guy just sign it for me, save the trouble?”

  “Not for this one. We’ll go to the Farm at Langley, videotape the signing, have you state for the record you’re not being coerced, that sort of thing.”

  “What makes me think you’ve got the statement all typed up and neatly bound in blue-backed paper inside your government-issue briefcase?”

  He opened the case and beamed. “Because you recognize efficiency and grudgingly admire it.”

  He handed me a three-page document, which, by golly, was stapled to a blue backing with a gold government seal. I skimmed it. “You prick, Foley. This isn’t a confidentiality agreement. It’s a confession to the murder of Francisco Crespo.”

  “Best confidentiality agreement I know. It goes in the safe in Langley. It’ll never see the light of day as long as you keep your mouth shut. You talk, or do anything contrary to our interests, the confession will be in Socolow’s hands quicker than shit through a goose.”

  “Or the next Socolow, or the one after that. There’s no statute of limitations on murder. You guys would have something over me for the rest of my life.”

  “I’m just trying to help you out here. So think about it.” He looked at his watch. “Flight leaves in ninety minutes.”

  I asked Foley if I could use the phone to call my secretary. He grunted an okay and told me I was free to call the Prince of Wales if I wanted. I used an unmanned desk out of Foley’s earshot and caught Cindy at home.

  “What is it, boss? I’m late for ladies’ night at the Crazy Horse.”

  “Sorry to make you miss the Chippendales.”

  “Nah, it’s the lifeguards from Daytona Beach, all those tan lines.” The line buzzed with faraway static as she paused. “Whadaya mean, miss . . . ?”

  “You remember how to write a writ?”

  “Now?”

  “C’mon, Cindy. I need a writ of prejudgment attachment under Chapter Seventy-six, and I need it quick.”

  “Courthouse is closed, el jefe.”

  “Call Judge Boulton at home. Prepare a short complaint, emergency motion, and affidavit. You swear to it. If you’re indicted for perjury, I’ll get you a good lawyer. The property to be attached is a one-page document belonging to me. At least, it seems to have my signature on it. An original and some copies, I don’t know how many, so plead it broadly. The document is a letter with no monetary value, so we don’t need to post a bond. The tortfeasor, one Robert T. Foley, is about to flee the jurisdiction, which gives us the statutory basis for prejudgment relief. Unless we secure the property now, the normal process of the court will be for naught, blah, blah, blah. Get it?”

  “Yeah. The usual bullcrap boilerplate.”

  “Good. Get the writ signed by the judge and hustle it to Concourse F, gate eleven at the airport, and I mean quick. Better bring the biggest process server you can find. Maybe one of the guys who used to repo Harleys from that Broward biker gang.”

  I hung up and walked back to Foley, who sat placidly, hands in his lap, watching me. “Well?”

  “I’m yours,” I told him.

  “Good. I’ll file a report. Then we’ll head to the gate.”

  He moved to one of the empty desks, worked quietly on a computer for half an hour, printed out a multipage document, and used an intercom to ask a young woman to fax it to Langley. Then he came back to where I was sitting. “Let’s go, counselor.”

  An elevator took us to Concourse F for the Delta flight to Dulles. I was still limping as we passed through the X-ray machine and then the neutron explosive detector. It scans for gamma rays, an indicator of high-density nitrogen. We didn’t ring any bells, so I assumed Foley was neither armed with his Beretta nor carrying TNT in his Jockey shorts.

  We sat at the gate until a loudspeaker announced that cattle with coach tickets were now being herded to the rear of the aircraft. Anyone within flushing distance of the aft lavatory should begin boarding. So should expense account first-class types, if they so desired. Foley stirred and stood up. I didn’t move.

  “I need a drink,” I told him.

  “What?”

  “Always have one before a flight. Sometimes two. Calms my nerves.”

  “You can get a drink on the—”

  “No, need it now. It’s a ritual.”

  The bar was twenty paces away. Airports may be big and noisy, sterile and dehumanizing, but the best ones use every spare inch for taverns with cushioned barstools and televisions tuned to the sports channels.

  “Okay,” Foley said, “but make it quick.”

  I ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, changed it to a double, and made myself comfortable on a high stool. Foley stood next to me, pulled a pack of Camels and put one in his mouth without lighting it. They called the flight a second time. Passengers in the middle rows who would get trapped by the food carts should begin boarding. I sipped at my drink, and Foley crushed his unsmoked cigarette in an ashtray. “C’mon, Lassiter.”

  I drained the drink and motioned the bartender for another. “Lots of time,” I said. “They probably haven’t gotten the pilot out of the detox center yet.”

  When the second drink arrived, I swirled the glass, watching the auburn liquid crash into the ice cubes like waves against a rocky shore. I already felt a spreading warmth that moved from my stomach to my chest and, if given half a chance, would spread to my toes.

  “Final boarding call for Flight three-seventy-six to Washington-Dulles,” a voice announced. They used to just say “Dulles,” but a lot of passengers headed to Dallas ended up on the wrong plane.

  “C’mon!” Foley ordered. “We’re on our way.”

  I stood, stretched, reached into my wallet, and found a fifty. “Gotta get my change,” I said, sliding the bill across the bar. We waited for the bartender to put the fifty under what could have been an electron microscope. Next he dribbled some blue chemical on the bill and showed it to the manager, who seemed to memorize the serial number before autographing it. Finally, I had my change. Deliberately, I calculated a tip, peeled off five dollar bills as slowly as possible—counting them three times—thanked the bartender for his outstanding service, and finally wished him a good day in English, Spanish, and Serbo-Croatian. Then I joined an impatient Robert Foley for a short walk to the gate. As I did, I took a peek up the concourse toward the terminal.

  No Cindy.

  No bullnecked process server with a writ.

  Lots of harried tourists with bulging shopping bags and salesmen with briefcases and career women with hanging bags and go-to-hell looks. And one sawed-off, bandy-legged bearded guy in a suit that hadn’t been out of the closet since Ike was in the White House. He hustled past a sunburned family carrying boxes of duty
-free liquor from the islands.

  “Mr. Foley,” he called out. “Sistere! Stop!”

  Foley turned and scowled. It took him a moment. “You’re that retired canoe maker, aren’t you? What do you want?”

  Doc Charlie Riggs was out of breath. “The documents in your briefcase,” he said, puffing, “the ones bearing Mr. Lassiter’s signature.” Politely, Charlie handed Foley certified copies of the complaint, motion, affidavit, and writ. It was pretty impressive, if legal jargon impresses you. “You are under court order to forthwith deliver to the plaintiff—” Charlie cleared his throat, ah-chem, “—Mr. Lassiter here, the original document described herein and all copies, pending a subsequent hearing to be duly noticed by the court.”

  Foley’s reply was not learned in Civil Procedure I. “Go shit in your hat.”

  “Dear me,” Charlie said. “Judge Boulton would not appreciate that. Indeed, once I report to her that you were served with process just as you were about to leave the jurisdiction, in flagrante delicto, while the crime was blazing, and that you ignored a duly issued court order, she’ll—”

  “Tell her to go pound sand.”

  From behind Charlie, two uniformed airport policemen appeared. “This him?” one asked.

  Charlie turned and nodded.

  “If he’s giving you any trouble, Officer Riggs, we can take him in,” the other said.

  “Officer Riggs!” Foley was turning pink. “This old fart’s a quack, a retired sawbones. What’s going on here?”

  “We know exactly who the gentleman is,” said one of the cops, a trim black man with perfect posture. “When the Eastern L-1011 went down in the Glades, Doc Riggs was on the scene within fifteen minutes. He happens to be an honorary police officer, and we give him all due respect.” The policeman’s eyes narrowed. “On the other hand, we don’t know you from a lump of gator shit. Now, if there’s a problem complying with a court order, we can go downtown.”

  “That won’t be necessary, officer,” Foley replied through clenched teeth, opening his briefcase and pulling out a sheaf of documents. He wheeled toward me. “We’ve still got the witnesses, Lassiter.”