07-Shot

by Parnell Hall

  Poindexter waved his hands. “Yes, yes, yes. I understand your theory.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just, that’s all it is. A theory.”

  “And that’s all it will be until it’s checked out. That’s all I’m suggesting you do. Check it out.”

  He frowned. “It’s not much to go on.”

  “Well, whaddya want?”

  “And my client has no intention of hiring your services.”

  “That’s what she said. But she didn’t know about this then.”

  He sighed. “Are you asking me to talk to her again?”

  “Could it hurt?”

  “I don’t think it would help. She was most adamant.”

  “That leaves you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “As her attorney you have the right to hire anyone you want.”

  “Not against my client’s wishes.”

  “You’re supposed to act in her best interests?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Don’t you have clients who don’t know what their best interests are? As a lawyer, don’t you sometimes have to protect them from themselves?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “You really need the work this bad?”

  “I feel I have a moral obligation to do the work. Not getting paid for it is a bitter pill to swallow.”

  “It’s a tough life.”

  “You’re not particularly sympathetic.”

  “Of course not. I’m concerned with my client’s problems, not yours.”

  “Of course you’re being paid.”

  “Yes, or I wouldn’t be doing it. Maybe there’s a lesson to be learned there.” He paused, frowned. “But perhaps I’m being too hasty. Perhaps there’s something in what you say. Why don’t you fill in some of the blanks and we’ll see if your story has any merit.”

  “The blanks?”

  “Yes. Who is this man you’re talking about?”

  I shook my head. “You want names, you hire me.”

  “From what you’ve told me, my client could probably tell me who he is.”

  “Maybe, but not where he went.”

  Poindexter shrugged. “If that’s the way you want to play it. Of course, you’re a prosecution witness.”

  “We’ve been over that.”

  “Not in this context. As a witness, you will be cross-examined by me on the stand.”

  “Yes, I know, but—” I broke off, stared at him. “You’re telling me why should you pay for the information when you can simply demand it in court?”

  “It’s probably not proper cross-examination, but I would, of course, subpoena you as my own witness.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Sorry you feel that way. I have to protect my client’s interests. Now, are you sure you don’t want to tell me what you know?”

  Yeah, I was sure. The Melissa Ford case could go hang. Poindexter could go fuck himself. And if a year from now I should happen to read in the paper how a young woman just got found guilty of murder, I would shrug and think, gee, that’s too bad.

  Of course, I said none of this. I just stood with as much dignity as I could muster, said calmly, “Thanks for your time,” and turned and walked out the door.

  19.

  IT WAS NOT A GOOD DAY.

  After I left Poindexter’s office I got beeped and sent out to Bed-Stuy to call on a client who had no phone. He also had no home, which was a bit of a shock, since he was supposed to. But the street number on Herkimer that Wendy/Janet gave me did not exist. Needless to say, this made it difficult to find the gentleman in question.

  I called Wendy/Janet to report the wrong address, but she gave me no satisfaction, just another signup with a client in Montefiore Hospital in the Bronx. That was gratifying in that Brooklyn to the Bronx was a lot of time and mileage, but when I got there the client was in surgery and I couldn’t see him and I had to wash that one out too.

  Then I got beeped and given a picture assignment to go back and shoot shots of Raheem Webb. His mother had called in to say that his bandages had just come off, and, while I already had shots of his bandaged head, Richard was all hot to get gross-out shots of the forty-four stitches in his forehead while they were still fresh as possible.

  Any other day I would have taken that as a matter of course—naturally that’s what Richard would want to show to the jury. But today it just struck me as ghoulish. Plus, it was Raheem Webb, a case I didn’t want to be reminded of. A case I knew in my heart was bogus. A case where Richard was gonna dun the city of New York for umpty-thousand dollars, knowing damn well that kid had never tripped on any crack in the sidewalk. I’d told him as much when I’d handed in the case—about the crack and the pusher and the whole mess. And Richard had told me that wasn’t his problem. He couldn’t go by what I inferred, he could only go by what his client said. He’d file the case, and if it was without merit, the city shouldn’t settle.

  Easy for him to say. I was the one who’d have to go back there and shoot the shots. Look the mother in the eye again. Look the kid in the eye again. Pretend the whole thing was legit and pretend I didn’t care. And then live with the guilt. And for what? Twenty bucks for the photo assignment? While Richard stood to make thousands. Yeah, Raheem Webb was about the last person in the world I wanted to see.

  And I couldn’t see him either. When I called his mother he wasn’t home. Thank god for small favors. Though all that did was make it a pending assignment which would hang over my head and haunt me for days to come. Great.

  The whole day was like that, just one fruitless annoyance after another, and even though I wound up with zero on my pay sheet, it was still a blessed relief when it was finally over and I found myself on the West Side Highway heading home.

  Only I got beeped again. I figured no sweat, it would just be an assignment for tomorrow, but when I called in Wendy/Janet told me Richard had a summons he wanted served and I was to stop by the office to pick it up.

  That was all I needed to hear. I used to get a lot of summons work, but I don’t anymore. That’s because Richard has a service that does the work a lot cheaper. So the only summonses I get now are the ones the service failed to serve, which made them a less than attractive proposition.

  Great. It was all I needed to cap off a beautiful day. The unservable summons.

  By the time I fought my way through midtown traffic down to the office, it was after five o’clock, and while Wendy and Janet were still there, Richard had gone home, which was too bad, because I had a few choice things to tell him about the functionings of his office. I wasn’t going to waste them on Wendy and Janet, however. I just accepted the summons and got the hell out of there.

  As I walked back to 14th Street where I’d left my car at a meter, it occurred to me I was exactly where I’d been last night not twenty-four hours ago, doing yet another job that I wasn’t going to get paid for. And if Poindexter and Melissa Ford weren’t so stupid, I’d be following up that lead right now. But they were, so I wasn’t. Which was a damn shame, with the address just blocks away, at the end of a long, draggy day where I’d accomplished absolutely nothing.

  I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, furious with myself. Asshole. Don’t even think it. Poindexter made his decision perfectly clear.

  Only a moron would even dream of doing anything else now.

  20.

  I WASN’T SURE IF THE doorman was the same one I’d seen last night. For one thing, he was wearing a uniform jacket and cap, which tend to make people look alike. For another thing, last night I’d mainly been concerned with his finger and which button it pressed.

  I walked up to him, smiled and prayed.

  My prayer was answered. The name next to the third button down on the left was legible enough to read. So when the doorman said, “Yes?” I said, “Mr. Harrison, please.”

  The doorman nodded and said, “And who shall I say is calling?”

&n
bsp; “Mr. Hastings.”

  The doorman picked up the phone and pressed the third button down on the left next to the name Harrison. After a moment he said, “Mr. Hastings to see you.” He listened a few moments, then turned back to me. “What is this in regard to?”

  I flipped open my I.D. “I’m an insurance investigator. I’ve been given Mr. Harrison’s name as a witness to an automobile accident. I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

  The doorman relayed that information, then the phone squawked for a while. The doorman turned back and said, “Mr. Harrison knows nothing about any automobile accident.”

  I nodded. “That may well be, and his name may have been given to us in error. If that’s the case, I’d like to clear it up.”

  Mr. Harrison must have already given the doorman an earful, because he didn’t even bother relaying that one. “Well,” he said, “if that’s the case, you have no business bothering one of our tenants.”

  I smiled good-naturedly and shrugged my shoulders, but raised my voice. “I know,” I said. “I’m only doing my job. I work for an attorney. And he wants the facts. If there’s been a mistake and this guy can clear it up, fine. But if not, we gotta subpoena him and drag him into court and clear it up there. It doesn’t matter to me one way or another, I get paid for my time. But do the guy a favor and tell him there’s money involved, and there’s no way the lawyer’s just gonna let this go.”

  The doorman didn’t even have to relay that message, the phone had begun squawking before I’d even finished. The doorman listened, hung up the phone and said, “Mr. Harrison will be right down.”

  I can’t say he seemed particularly cordial. I was about as popular in that building as a cockroach.

  Minutes later the elevator door opened and a young man came out. Thirties, large-boned, solid, short blonde hair. He looked like he could have played linebacker somewhere. Except for his wire-rimmed glasses. They belied the image. Made him look more like a college student who just happened to be large.

  He was wearing some slacks and a sweater which were probably fashionable, if I knew what fashion was. Did that make him a yuppie, whatever the hell they really are?

  His attitude was almost laughable. He was obviously put out, but was doing his best to be agreeable and conciliatory. I understood perfectly. No one wants to get dragged into court.

  He came bustling up to us. “Mr. Hastings?” he said.

  “Yes. And you’re Mr. Harrison?”

  “That’s right. What’s this all about?”

  I shrugged. “As I say, your name has been given as a witness to an automobile accident.”

  “That’s impossible. I didn’t see any automobile accident.”

  “Ever?” I said.

  He frowned. “What?”

  “I haven’t told you when the accident happened. Some of these cases drag on for years.”

  That threw him. “Oh.”

  I smiled. “But, as it happens, you’re right. The accident took place Monday night.”

  “Then I didn’t see it.”

  “That’s odd, since your name was given as a witness.”

  “I don’t understand that.”

  “Well, the driver of the car may be in error. Your name is Harrison?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “What’s your first name?”

  “Alan.”

  I whipped out my notebook, flipped it open, checked a random page. “Well, that could be it. I have it as Albert.”

  He shook his head. “Not me.”

  I flipped my notebook closed, stuck it back in my pocket before he could think to ask to look at it. “Well,” I said, “let’s make sure, and maybe I can write you off.”

  “I tell you, it isn’t me.”

  “I believe you, but I have to satisfy the attorney. If I can convince him, he’ll let you go. If not, he’s not gonna take my word for it and you’ll get a subpoena.”

  He actually flinched at the word. People do. “You got the name wrong,” he said. “What more do you need?”

  “Monday night. The 25th. Eleven thirty-five P.M. Were you in the vicinity of 14th Street and Sixth Avenue?”

  “No.”

  I grimaced and shook my head. “You’re too quick to say no. You live in the neighborhood. You could pass that intersection just walking to the store.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “If I saw an automobile accident, I think I would know it.”

  “Yes, of course you would. But you’re not just saying you didn’t see the automobile accident. You’re saying you were nowhere near the location.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “How do you know? See what I’m getting at? I can tell the attorney, no, the guy didn’t see the accident, which isn’t gonna satisfy him. Or I can say, no, the guy wasn’t there, at the time of the accident he was uptown just getting out of a Broadway play. I know you can’t see the distinction, because you didn’t see the accident and that’s all that matters to you. But you’re dealing with an attorney, and that’s not all that matters to him.”

  He frowned. “I see.”

  “So where were you on the 25th at eleven thirty-five P.M.?”

  He frowned, and I could see his mind going. He didn’t want a subpoena, but how much of this shit did he have to take?

  He decided he’d had enough. “Frankly,” he said, “I don’t think that’s any of the attorney’s damn business. I keep telling you I was nowhere near the corner of 14th Street and Sixth Avenue. I was not even in the neighborhood at the time. If the attorney wants to put me on the stand, that’s what I will testify to. It’s not gonna do him a damn bit of good, and if I’m dragged into court I’m going to point out to the judge that I’m not Albert Harrison I’m Alan Harrison, and that the attorney knew that, and then I’m gonna ask the judge if I have any legal recourse for being illegally subpoenaed.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Good for you. And just between you and me, if that happens, I hope you win.”

  He looked at me. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Hey, this is a job. You think I like it? You beat the system, more power to you. Anyway, if I’m the guy winds up serving the subpoena, I hope there’s no hard feelings.”

  He frowned. “Hell.”

  “Hey,” I said, “I’m gonna try to talk him out of it. You’re not wanting to tell me where you were at the time won’t help, but I’ll do the best I can. For what it’s worth, I believe you.”

  Harrison hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to let it go at that. And he wasn’t sure if I was his friend or not. Probably not, but no reason to antagonize me. A tough call for him.

  He looked at his watch. “Well, if that’s it, I was getting ready to go out.”

  I put up my hands. “Don’t let me hold you up. I’ll do the best I can.”

  He gave me one more look, then turned and got back in the elevator.

  I turned back to find the doorman looking at me. Alan Harrison’s feelings may have been ambivalent, but the doorman’s sure weren’t. I was as popular as pond scum.

  I got the hell out of there and beat it down to the corner where the doorman couldn’t see me. Because I’d learned two things useful from my interview with Alan Harrison. One, he hadn’t been home and didn’t have an alibi for the night David Melrose had been killed.

  And two, he was about to go out.

  21.

  IT WAS TOUGHER THAN following Charles Olsen. Harrison knew me. And he wasn’t nearly as obliging and unobservant as Olsen had been. He came out the front door of his apartment building at six thirty-five—six twenty-seven, real time—and looked up and down the street as if he expected to be followed.

  If he had looked across the street at the far corner, he might have seen yours truly, standing behind a phone booth. But he didn’t, and moments later he set off down the street toward Sixth Avenue. As I followed him from across the street, it occurred to me, maybe he was going to check out the scene of the acci
dent. Though it also occurred to me there was no earthly reason why he should.

  He didn’t. At Sixth Avenue he walked out in the street and faced downtown, obviously looking for a cab.

  That was a bummer. I couldn’t let him get one first, but I couldn’t walk by him to head one off.

  I took a gamble. He was on the southwest corner of 13th and Sixth, and I was on the north side of 13th, natch, having been following him from across the street. I beat it to the corner and crossed Sixth Avenue. There was no reason for him to see me, since he was facing downtown. I glanced down Sixth, saw no cars in the near future. Then I turned and looked east on 13th.

  And there it was, a deus ex machina in yellow and black, a Checker cab, one of the few dinosaurs left in the city, coming down 13th with its light on. I flagged it down, hopped into the spacious back seat, whipped out my I.D. and made the cab driver’s day.

  Only I didn’t. The cabbie, Mr. Walsh, according to his posted license, was a quarrelsome old cuss who wasn’t about to listen to me. “I ain’t doin’ nothing illegal,” he insisted.

  “Of course not,” I assured him, but it cut no ice with him. He wasn’t waitin’ on no street corner to follow nobody in no cab. Just tell him the destination and he’d take me there. No destination, no ride.

  I was trying to think of the all-pervasive argument outside of cash, of which I was running low, when I spotted another cab coming up behind us. I hopped out of the cranky Checker and flagged that cab down.

  Follow that cab, take two. With much better results. The cabbie was a young black man who seemed quite pleased with the prospect. Pull up to the corner and wait for a man to hail a cab? No problem. He switched on the meter and did just that.

  As we reached the corner I looked out the window and saw something that made my blood run cold.

  Alan Harrison had just crossed the street and flagged down the Checker cab.

  “Oh, my god,” I murmured.

  “What’s the matter?” the driver said.

  I filled him in, which wasn’t that easy to do. Don’t get me wrong, he had no trouble understanding, I just had trouble explaining. It was a new one on me—a private detective tailing a suspect who happened to be riding in the very cab the private detective had tried to tail him in. I wondered if the cranky Mr. Walsh was giving Alan Harrison an earful about the private detective who had tried to get him to tail a cab. It seemed entirely likely. What would Alan Harrison make of that? Would he put two and two together and say, gee, I wonder if that’s the same private detective who just called on me? Not if he swallowed the bit about being mistaken for an accident witness. But what if he was involved in something heavy and hadn’t bought that bit at all? That could be dangerous. Very dangerous. After all, David Melrose had wound up dead.