by Joseph Flynn
Zeke had been referred to Aaron by Akio Sugiyama, the Japanese immigrant who ran the aikido school across the street. Sugiyama-san had opened his dojo the very same day Aaron had opened his investigations firm. Ten years later, Haruko Sugiyama married Jacob Levy. Aaron called his daughter-in-law Harry; Sugiyama-san called his son-in-law Levy-san.
When Zeke first arrived at Aaron’s office with a letter of introduction from Akio Sugiyama, Aaron asked the imposing young man, “Do you know what your given name means?”
“Ezekiel means the strength of God,” Zeke said. “My parents told me that.”
The older man nodded. “Very good. Do you know what my name, Aaron, means?”
“High mountain. I looked it up.”
Aaron Levy beamed. “You’re hired.”
“You know about me, too, don’t you?”
“I do. I’m not keen on American football, but I saw the video of your final play against Green Bay. It was magnificent. Reminded me of the way we smashed the Egyptians.”
Now, Aaron had a different question for Zeke. “Are you going to help Ms. Mallory?”
Zeke nodded. “I am. I think she needs help, and I’m ready to do the job.”
“Good.”
Then Aaron told Zeke what he’d be up against facing Jonas Dawson.
Chapter 3
Jonas Dawson told the reporter from the Trib, “I do criminal defense law, but I know civil litigators who can sue the balls off a brass monkey. You print anything saying — or even implying — I’m crooked, I’ll sue both you and the paper.”
“Nobody said anything defamatory.” The reporter’s name was Roberta Lane.
Dawson had called her Lois. That didn’t ruffle her. Neither did the threat of legal action. The guy was just being a dick.
“Yeah, but you were thinking it,” Dawson said.
“So I can write you’re a mind-reader?”
“Better not do that either, Lois.”
“You have any comment at all about the accusation that you introduced Paul Callas to Hector Campos?”
Dawson tried to look amused, but he couldn’t keep the anger out of his eyes.
“Without referring to anybody in particular,” he said, “I didn’t know making an introduction was something you got accused of.”
“Generally, it isn’t” Roberta said. “But let’s say a guy, not necessarily you, introduces Mr. A to Mr. B, and in the course of a business transaction that involves government funds both of those guys wind up with taxpayer money in their pockets, and they share the wealth with the guy who brought them together. That’s the kind of thing where accusations get made.”
“You better not write that,” Dawson said, “not with my name attached.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ll sue. So let me get on your good side here. That way when you feel the need to talk, you’ll come to me.”
“Never gonna happen, Lois.”
“Just listen. That’s all you have to do. Mr. A had a job to do: Put a new coat of paint on all the bridges in the city. Mr. B, happy days, is a painting contractor. Not only that, Mr. B gets a no-bid contract for the job. What could be better?”
Dawson’s jaw tightened and his eyes began to bulge.
“I’ll tell you what’s better,” Roberta continued, “Mr. A’s kickback and Mr. B’s profit margin were both so big they shared the pot with Mr. C. Just the way I mentioned a minute ago.”
Roberta Lane, uninvited, had joined Jonas Dawson at his table in his favorite steak joint. He took his knife and fork in hand. It wasn’t at all certain he meant to use them on his filet mignon. Roberta stood up and stepped back from the table.
She’d heard stories: Dawson could be a dangerous guy.
In more basic ways than threatening to take you to court.
“Here’s the interesting part,” Roberta said, ready to run if she had to. “The feds know their ABCs, and they’re calling their investigation Paint by Numbers. I’m told the numbers refer to both the crooked money involved and the prison sentences that will be handed down. In both halves of the equation, the numbers are said to be very big.”
Dawson looked like he was about to vent lava.
“The most interesting tidbit I have is the feds have already braced Callas and Campos and are waiting to see which one of them squeals first and gets a plea deal. That tells me they want you most of all. So maybe you should stop worrying about your reputation and get your own criminal defense attorney. That and give me a call if you want your side of things in the paper.”
Bitch, Dawson thought, but he didn’t say a word.
He only continued to hold his tableware in a death grip as he watched the reporter go.
Dawson wondered if he knew anybody who could get rid of Callas and Campos without fucking things up. He’d done that kind of work a long time ago. The way things were going, though, it might not be too smart to involve anyone else in his plans.
He just might have to go back to doing his own dirty work.
“You keeping your cool today?” Dr. Sandra Gallo asked.
She was the one who’d introduced Zeke to Akio Sugiyama.
Zeke sat in a guest chair at her desk. His therapist had a carry-out sandwich in a nest of wrapping paper set out in front of her. She dabbed a spot of mayo off a corner of her mouth. She pushed a bottle of pomegranate juice Zeke’s way.
“So far, so good,” he said.
He opened the juice bottle and took a swig.
“But you’re still not cool with being cool, right?”
“Every once in a while I catch myself smiling. Maybe laugh at something I’ve read.”
“Sing along with a song on your iPod?”
“Only when I remember you told me to.”
“You don’t have a bad voice.”
Zeke rolled his eyes. “Yeah, for a dancing bear. Or in my case an ex-Bear.”
Leaving pro football had become harder for Zeke once his ears stopped ringing and his vision cleared up, that was a few months after he was post-op from his posterior cervical compression discectomy. He was told he had to be careful because there was a 3-5% chance the disc could herniate again.
The numbers got a lot bigger if he ever went back to playing football or otherwise used his head as a battering ram.
“I didn’t spear anybody. That was a clean hit,” Zeke had told his surgeon.
The doctor had replied, “Nobody’s talking about blowing a whistle or throwing a flag here. You re-injure your neck in the same manner, we’re looking at spinal fusion in the best case and paralysis or possibly death in the worst case.”
Zeke’s mother and father were in the room to hear that bit of straight talk.
The fear in their eyes was more compelling than the doctor’s explicit warning.
His parents had always been good to him. They were kind and nurturing despite his childhood being anything but a stroll in the park. He’d been mad at the world for as long as he could remember. Nobody had ever figured out why he was so angry, but Mom and Dad could have raised another three kids for all the money they’d spent trying to help him.
Only they hadn’t dared to bring another child into the world.
Not after seeing what they had on their hands with him.
Zeke had decided in that moment that he couldn’t bear the thought of his parents having to care for him if he went back to the game and wound up getting paralyzed.
Tugging hard in the opposite direction, the NFL had named Zeke not only the defensive rookie of the year but also the defensive player of the year. He deleted all his social media accounts when he got tired of hearing from all the fans who begged him to come back. Hell, it wouldn’t matter to them if he wound up a cripple. There were always new players coming along.
He had no control over the video of his final NFL play that was shown endlessly on every sports network in the country. There were times when Zeke thought it would still be showing on the day he died, even if he lived to be a hundred.
Then there
was the devil in his head, whispering to him every night.
Saying nobody else was as good he was, not even close.
All he had to do to prove it was play just one more season.
“You’re still tempted to play again, aren’t you?” Dr. Gallo asked.
“Only when I’m awake or dreaming,” Zeke told her.
“Is it the game itself you miss?”
“Yeah, because the game allowed me to hit people. It’s a socially acceptable form of violence. It gave me … release.”
They’d discussed whether there was a sexual element to his anger problem.
The topic had embarrassed Zeke at first. Then he admitted that he was very careful about any woman he allowed to get close to him. There were way too many sexual opportunities available to a professional athlete. If you looked at it like someone had handed you a key to a candy store, that was how some guys wound up paying alimony and child support to a half-dozen women and wondering where all their millions went.
“But sex was more than that to you, wasn’t it?” Dr. Gallo had asked.
“Yeah. I needed to find a woman who liked things … vigorous. Someone who had the strength to take it and give it back as good as she got.”
He’d found someone he wouldn’t name. She had pretty much everything he wanted. Only problem was, her temper problem was as bad as his. That had given Zeke an insight into how people must see him. And that had scared the hell out of him.
He told Dr. Gallo that he and the woman had mutually decided to … not break up but give themselves some space before they killed each other. If every so often one of them felt the need to talk or engage in nonverbal communication, they’d be there for each other.
“That seems like a very reasonable arrangement,” Dr. Gallo said. “It shows self-awareness and concern for the other person.”
“Yeah, it’s peachy,” Zeke said, “but it makes for a lot of lonely nights.”
“Is your friend getting professional help?”
Zeke nodded.
“Then it’s up to me and my colleague, in part, to help the two of you get together in a mutually beneficial way. One that precludes the chance of great bodily harm.”
That made Zeke laugh. “Yeah, but remember you have less than ten years before you retire.”
Sandra Gallo had smiled and said, “We’ll probably just make it.”
She had taken a personal interest in Zeke. That was why she’d had forsaken her lunch hour and ate at her desk while she talked with him. She didn’t even charge for her time.
Zeke told her, “I took my first case today, have my first client.”
She smiled and said, “That’s wonderful. I won’t ask for any specifics, but I hope it’s an interesting matter — and not especially dangerous.”
Zeke responded to the question of whether the case was interesting.
“My client believes in reincarnation. She claims to remember certain parts of a previous life. What I’d like to know is this: Do you think she’s crazy?”
When Zeke returned to Evanston, he found that the day’s exercise in home improvement was done and some of the construction workers by day had morphed into their after-dark identities as entertainers. Egalitarians that he and George were, they provided the venue for the five-man band: the lake-view terrace behind the house. George and Paulette, drinks in hand, sat at the table with the red-striped umbrella taking in the sounds.
George uncapped a Stella Artois fresh from the ice bucket and handed it to Zeke.
He sat next to Paulette. The three of them clinked bottles. As a group, they were young, fetching and well off. With only one of them in fear for her life. Given the live music, it might’ve been a beer commercial.
George’s cousin Dexter was doing a credible cover of Marvin Gaye’s “How Sweet It Is.”
Featuring the line “I needed the shelter of someone’s arms.”
Zeke wondered if George had blabbed about Paulette Mallory’s problem to his cousin. That possibility lit a flame in Zeke’s mind, his ignition point being easily reached. But when he saw Paulette hadn’t made the same connection to the lyric that he had and was singing along with the band and smiling, he tamped the fire down.
When he saw George was singing along, too … well, Aaron Levy hadn’t shared any private investigator etiquette tips with George, who was more of an unlicensed bodyguard anyway.
After the song concluded and earned a round of applause, Dexter said, “Thank you, lady and gentlemen. You’ve been great, but the fellas and I are gonna take a fifteen minute break. Then we’ll take some requests.”
The closest neighbor’s house was fifty feet away, maybe the equivalent of twenty rows up from the stage in an auditorium setting. Zeke and George both waved to the people who lived next door as they drove up to their new home but they hadn’t introduced themselves. Apparently, the neighbors weren’t sports fans because they didn’t seem to recognize either Zeke or George.
That didn’t keep the neighbors from peeking out their windows to watch the renovations in progress. Perhaps they were concerned that the craftsmen were not ethnically diverse, but all large African-American fellows. Not that they would ever have voiced a concern about the neighborhood changing.
They might have objected to the band if its repertoire was oriented more toward rap than soul, but that fear had been allayed a few concerts ago. As things stood, the neighbors’ daughter and a baker’s dozen of her friends were arrayed across four open second-story windows in the mansion next door awaiting the band’s return.
Some of them were even jotting down notes.
Requests to be called out to the band, possibly.
Zeke used the intermission to say hello to Paulette and ask George how his audition went.
The big man beamed. “Got one more interview to do, but it’s looking good. Might be radio and TV. How about that?”
“Sounds good.” Zeke looked at Paulette. “You feel good with George for company?”
She took George’s arm. “Yes, very. But how about you? Did you find out anything helpful yet?”
Zeke nodded. “I’m off to a good start, I think.”
He noticed Dexter drifting back to the terrace.
“Are the guys really going to do another set?”
George nodded. “Unless you’ve got an objection.”
“No, I’m good with them playing. In fact, I was thinking we should ask the neighbors over, finally get to know them a little.”
George smiled. “You want to extend the invitation or should I?”
“I was thinking Ms. Mallory and Dexter might do it. Give you and me a minute or two to catch up on where we are.” He turned to Paulette. “Would you mind helping out?”
Paulette got to her feet. “I’d be happy to.”
She bussed both Zeke and George on the cheek and walked over to Dexter.
After listening to Paulette for a moment, he bobbed his head and extended his arm.
The two of them headed over to the neighbor’s place. The girls in the windows squealed as they saw Dexter and Paulette approach. George grinned.
“Bet those kids have the door open before the bell rings,” he told Zeke.
“Yeah. Now let me tell you what a sonofabitch Jonas Dawson is.”
“This is straight from Aaron,” Zeke told George. “So you know it’s right.”
“Because Aaron never lies? At least to you.”
The question caught Zeke off guard. It had never occurred to him that Aaron might tell him a lie. Now, that George had raised the question he looked at the idea and decided, yes, he could trust Aaron. At least as much as he trusted George. Which was almost but not quite totally.
The only people he trusted absolutely were his parents and Sandra Gallo.
“Aaron wouldn’t lie to me,” Zeke said. “Also, being Israeli, he knows he has to get things right the first time because there might not be a second time.”
George chuckled. “I believe you and I had some coaches with
that attitude.”
“Yes, we did. So here’s the deal with Jonas Dawson. He was a Chicago cop who had a long record of abuse of authority.”
“He beat the hell out of people,” George said. “Ones who look more like me than you.”
“Smaller than you, but you’ve got the picture. There were also accusations he was part of a crew of bad cops who robbed drug dealers of both their cash and their product.”
“Damn, I think I read something about that a long time ago, all the way down in Georgia.”
“Yeah, it was national news. Anyway, Dawson was the only one who got off.”
“That tells you something, right there. Nobody else in his gang snitched on him to make his own life easier. He must’ve been the scariest SOB of the bunch.”
“Maybe it was even more than that. I’ll get to it in a minute. Dawson didn’t go to trial or get locked up, but he was accused of being one of the bad guys, and he knew his time as a street cop was over. The department was going to put him in some dead-end clerical job and he’d never get promoted. So he decided to leave with a bang; he sued the cops and the city for defamation of character.”
George laughed. “That guy has some balls, but please don’t tell me he won.”
“The city settled. Jonas decided to use the money to go to law school. He was smart enough to graduate and pass the bar exam.”
Shaking his head, George said, “That’s not a good combination: crooked, smart and holding a law license.”
“Yeah, and with his experience as a cop, he knows all the weaknesses in a case to look for when one of his clients gets pinched. Aaron said Dawson has put more bad guys on the street than a jailbreak.”
“I’m liking this man less all the time. I see him even getting near Paulette and —”
“You’ll be real careful,” Zeke told him. “The thing I didn’t mention before, why nobody ratted him out, Dawson is supposed to have mob ties.”
“Well, hell,” George said. He thought about that for a moment. “You know what? I don’t give a damn. Anyone tries to hurt that girl and —” George slammed a massive fist against an opposing palm.
