They left in a daze, stopping for lunch before heading over to Estelle Wright’s office, although neither of them was the slightest bit hungry. Jack was devastated. Pat was his rock, his world. He couldn’t remember his life before she’d come into it, and he certainly couldn’t contemplate a future without her.
Estelle Wright was very nice, but she didn’t have any better news for them. She took a needle biopsy of the tumor in Pat’s uterus and explained to her the joys of Carboplatin and Taxol, the two drugs that were going to be used in her chemotherapy regimen.
“We haven’t confirmed the diagnosis, but I’m going to go ahead and schedule you for chemotherapy based upon an educated assumption that you do, in fact, have cancer,” Dr. Wright explained matter-of-factly. “You’ll come in once a week. The chemo will be administered intravenously. It’s not a traumatic process at all.”
Jack could tell from her use of just the right words that Dr. Wright had given this little speech quite a few times in the past. He tried to concentrate as she continued with her description of what lay ahead. “You may become very tired and listless,” she said, looking directly at Pat. “Some people don’t. You may experience nausea, constipation, diarrhea-and your hair may fall out. You may have a loss of appetite. You may develop sores inside your mouth. You may need a blood transfusion from time to time. If anything gets too bad, call us immediately and we will admit you to the hospital. Do not hesitate to call. Someone is available twenty-four hours a day. I will meet with you every six weeks so we can discuss your progress.”
They didn’t say much to each other on the ride back home, partly because they didn’t have the energy to talk. Jack drove with one hand and held Pat’s with the other. Ever since they’d first heard the news, he hadn’t let go of her-not even through lunch. He wanted to tell her everything was going to be all right, but he couldn’t. This was out of his control. What he could do was be with her every moment of her fight.
“You’re not going to quit Henry’s case,” Pat suddenly said to him after many minutes of silence.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, refusing to acknowledge that she had read his thoughts.
“I’m talking about what you’re spinning in your mind right now.”
“I’m just thinking that I don’t want to be away from you for one second. They can get somebody else to pick up Henry’s appeal.”
“Jack, honey, it’s three weeks to Henry’s execution. You can’t drop his case. You will never forgive yourself. I don’t want you to.”
“Sweetheart, I’m going to be with you. We’re going to fight this together. That’s the end of it.”
“No it’s not, Jack. We’re going to fight this together, but you are not going to let Henry go, and neither am I. His fight is our fight. That’s the way it has always been with us, and we’re not changing now.”
He looked across at her in the darkness as they drove along the back road that led to Bass Creek. Even now, with all they had been through this day, maybe now more than ever, she was magnificent.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
17
Tony Severino was lost in that world between deep sleep and first waking-the world of light dreams. He and his old partner Joe Fogarty were rousting some lowlife in the South Bronx for information. He was in Narcotics at the time, and this particular lowlife sometimes-though not very often-had information to give or sell. They found him in a bar in the middle of the afternoon, the only customer in the place.
Joe Fogarty walked up to the man, put his arm around him, and cuffed his neck in a pseudo headlock. “How ya doin’, Benny?” he asked. “Got anything for us?” Benny looked at the two of them. Tony saw his face, his eyes. Reality penetrated through his dream state. He sat up in bed.
“That’s him! Benny-what the hell was his last name? Joe Fogarty will know.”
“What are you talking about? Who’s him?” his startled wife, Frances, exclaimed from her side of the bed.
“Our murderer-I just remembered where I’ve seen him before.”
“Well, I’m happy for you, honey. Just try to be a little quieter the next time you find a murderer in your dreams. Some of us are still sleeping.”
Tony ignored the remark as he pulled off the covers and stepped out of bed. He checked the clock. It was 6:10 in the morning. There was no need to call Nick; he’d see him soon enough. He decided to get dressed and head for the office, then call Joe Fogarty at eight to see if he remembered Benny’s last name.
Tony caught Joe Fogarty at his precinct before he headed out for the day.
“Joe, I’m going to fax you up an artist’s sketch of a perp we’re looking for. Call me right away and let me know if you recognize him.”
Joe called him back immediately. “That’s Benny Avrile. You remember him, don’t you? He was one of our snitches. He’s still one of mine, although I haven’t seen the skinny little bastard in a while. Benny has these brief periods when he tries to go straight. Unfortunately, nobody will hire the poor son-of-a-bitch.”
When Tony told Joe why they were looking for Benny, Joe didn’t believe it.
“Benny a murderer? C’mon. Is there something in the water down there in Manhattan? This guy is harmless. I don’t think he even knows how to shoot a gun. Don’t get me wrong. Benny’s a lot of things, but he’s not vicious or violent.”
“I’ll keep your thoughts in mind, Joe, in case we need a character witness for Benny. Right now we just need your help finding him.”
“What I wouldn’t do if I were you is show up here and start asking questions in the neighborhood. If word gets out that you’re looking for him, Benny will disappear. If we see him, we’ll nab him and I’ll give you a call.”
“Fine, Joe. Just remember he’s a priority. This case is in the paper every day and you know what that means.”
“Yeah, I know. The powers that be are crawling up your asshole. I’ll get the word out around here. We’ll get him, Tony.”
Benny was maintaining a low profile. At first, he had a tremendous desire to run, but he had no idea where to go, and gradually the urge to flee dissipated. He started to believe that somehow he had gotten away with it all.
Even though he had run into the Bitch from Hell, as he liked to call her, on his first venture out, that didn’t deter him from continuing to stop at Tillie’s now and then for an afternoon beer. There was always the possibility that she would show up again, especially since he had shortchanged her, but that was a risk Benny was willing to take. Shit, she knows where I live anyway, he thought. If she’s coming back, she’s coming back. Nothing I can do about it. The money’s almost gone anyway.
Benny didn’t talk to anybody at the bar except Tillie, and he never stayed for more than a couple of hours. Usually it was just the two of them, and they shot pool or smoked a joint in the back. Tillie was just starting to get used to Benny buying his own drinks. Now, wonder of all wonders, Benny was supplying the pot as well.
One week after Tony Severino’s call to the Bronx, on a quiet, pleasant afternoon when Benny and Tillie, high as kites, were playing eight ball at the pool table in the back of the bar, Joe Fogarty walked into Tillie’s. He went right up to Benny, put his arm around him, and cuffed his neck in a pseudo head-lock. Joe Fogarty had obviously not bought into the dangerous-desperado routine they were selling downtown.
“Benny, Benny, where’ve you been? You don’t call, you don’t write. Old Joe is starting to think you don’t like him.”
“I’ve been right here where I’ve always been, Joe. You can ask Tillie.”
Joe ignored Tillie for the moment. Benny was the star of the show today. “I’ve got bad news for you, Benny. I’ve got to take you in.”
“For what?”
“Never mind. You’re in big trouble though, so just keep your mouth shut until they give you a public defender. Now turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Benny turned around and did what he was told. “I didn’t do anything, Jo
e.”
“Oh, you’ve done shit, Benny, but that’s not what I’m locking you up for. Like I said, just keep your mouth shut until you get a public defender. Don’t go pissing on people’s legs and making up stories, you understand me? Shut up until you get a lawyer.”
“All right, Joe.” Joe was a good guy. Benny almost wanted to tell him what happened, how it all went down, but he decided to take Joe’s advice and say nothing.
Joe checked Benny’s pockets after he locked the handcuffs in place and pulled out two tens and two joints. He threw the joints on the pool table. “You better hold these for him until he comes back, Tillie.” Then, taking Benny by the arm, he led him out of the bar and into his car.
Tony Severino put the phone down and spoke to Nick, who was on the other side of the desk, typing a report.
“They got him.”
“Good,” Nick replied. “Has he said anything?”
“Joe said he hasn’t talked. That surprises me, because Benny is a flapper.”
“Maybe we can get him to talk when we get him down here. Let’s go pick him up.”
They brought Benny back to Manhattan and put him in a cell on the second floor.
“Let’s just hold him for now,” Nick suggested. “Let him wonder what’s going on. In the meantime, we can finish our investigation. We’ll talk to him when we know what we need, if anything.”
Tony disagreed. “I think we should do it right away, Nick. If we get him to confess, we can short-circuit the rest of this investigation.”
“Think about it, Tony. If we put him through a lineup and tell him he’s been fingered already, isn’t he more likely to confess?”
“I guess you’re right,” Tony conceded, although he was irritated. He had located Benny and he knew he could wrap this case up if he got a shot at interrogating him.
With Benny in custody things started to move, although not as fast or as smoothly as Nick would have liked. They did two lineups, one each for Paul and David, who both identified Benny within seconds.
Angie came to the station to look at a few pictures. When she was unsuccessful in that regard, Nick took her to see Ralph Giglio to try and come up with a sketch of Lois Barton. However, she proved to be as bad in the description department as Philly Gertz: after describing Lois’s long black hair, she came up blank. Ralph prompted her for almost an hour but got nowhere. Nick suspected that Angie was holding back again. He knew he’d have to have another heart-to-heart with her, but not right away. He’d talk to Benny first. Maybe Benny would give him something that he could use to make Angie open up about Lois Barton.
Something else troubled him as well. Tony had contacted the credit card company, who told them there had been no charges on Angie’s credit card after it had been stolen. That didn’t make sense if Benny had actually stolen Angie’s credit card at the bar that night. A guy like Benny should have charged thousands of dollars by now. Yet there was nothing.
It was just like Dan Jenkins, the coroner, had said the night of the murder: it’s never open-and-shut.
18
At mid-season the Lexingtons were three and one and tied for first place. Johnny Tobin, the hero of game one, had allowed a receiver to get by him for a long touchdown pass in game four. Even though the team pulled the game out, Johnny felt terrible. That evening they were having a few beers at their usual spot, the Carlow East. Johnny was huddled with Rico and Floyd. Floyd was consoling him.
“Everybody gets beat once in a while, Johnny. You just gotta shake it off.”
Rico, however, was still coaching. “What happened on the play, Johnny?” he asked.
“I don’t know. He just beat me, I guess,” Johnny said, looking down into his beer.
“Look at me,” Rico said sharply. Johnny looked at Rico, who stared into his eyes. “You’re gonna continue to get beat until you figure out why. That’s the way it is, Johnny. You don’t let things pass. You correct them.”
“Man, leave the guy alone, he feels bad enough,” Floyd told Rico. Rico and Floyd were best friends although they were polar opposites.
“I’m not trying to make him feel bad,” Rico replied. “I just want to go over the play and find out what went wrong. Take me through it, Johnny.”
“Well, he came off the line and ran out about five yards, then turned to do a buttonhook. I saw the quarterback look at him and raise his arm to throw. That’s when I made my move toward him. I remember thinking I could intercept. He just turned and went right past me.”
“Did he give you a fake before he did his buttonhook?” They were on their third beer, but Rico was just as intense as he had been on the field that day.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Do you remember back in practice before the season started and we were talking about fakes?”
“Yeah.”
“And what did I tell you to be careful about if a guy doesn’t give you a fake before he makes his cut or turns for the ball?”
Johnny didn’t answer right away. His head was a little fuzzy from the beer. Rico had drilled the fundamentals into him, however, and eventually they started surfacing.
“If a guy doesn’t give you at least one fake before making his cut, then watch for him to go long.”
“That’s what happened, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Johnny felt as if a lightbulb had just gone on in his brain. “The buttonhook was really the first fake and I went for it.”
“Exactly!” Rico shouted. “So if he doesn’t fake before he turns, don’t charge until the ball is released, got it?”
“Got it,” Johnny told him. He and Rico smacked hands-the lesson was over. Johnny took a swig of his beer while Rico went to get another.
“Man, Rico is intense, isn’t he?” Floyd observed.
“Yeah,” Johnny said, “but he’s right. That’s the way you become a champion.”
Just then Frankie O’Connor yelled over to Floyd. He’d been talking to one of the regulars who had been upset when the team first came into the Carlow East weeks before. Frankie never stopped politicking.
“Hey, Pink Floyd, come on over here. I want you to meet someone.”
Floyd had earned his nickname only recently. At practice the week before, he’d opened his equipment bag and found that his white practice jersey and pants had changed color. His mother had washed them with something red and forgot to tell him about it. So Floyd had to dress for practice in a pink jersey and pink pants. The jeering was unmerciful; even Joe Sheffield got into it. Floyd laughed along with everybody else. Most guys would have gotten mad or at least embarrassed, but not Floyd. He had that rare ability to laugh at himself.
Floyd walked over to Frankie.
“Pink Floyd, I want you to meet Vinny Gaines.” They shook hands.
“That was a great story Frankie just told me about how you got your nickname,” said Vinny. “Man, you must have been surprised when you opened your equipment bag. I would have just gone home.”
Before Floyd could respond, he was interrupted by Joe Meeley, another regular, who had been eavesdropping on the story. “We outta be thankful the son-of-a-bitch washed his clothes at all. Most of them don’t.”
Nobody could say for sure what happened next because it happened so fast. As best as anyone could recollect, there was a brief awkward moment after Joe Meeley’s remark when nobody said anything, then Frankie hauled off and punched Joe Meeley right in the nose.
Joe flew off his bar stool and hit the ground hard, although he wasn’t knocked out. All conversation in the bar stopped as everybody braced themselves for a brawl.
Mary McKenna came out from behind the bar almost before Joe hit the floor.
“Joe Meeley, get the hell out of here!” she yelled.
“But Mary!” Meeley protested. He was on his feet now but going nowhere near Frankie O’Connor. “He hit me and I’m a regular customer here.”
“I heard what you said,” Mary told him. “He had a right to hit you. You won’t come back in here until
you apologize to this young man.” She pointed at Floyd. “And anybody else who feels the same way Joe does, you can leave too. Now get going, Joe.”
Mary was taking a big risk. Her regulars came in every day. They paid the rent. With the Lexingtons it was once a week at best, and then only during the season. But there was something about the exuberance and the casual camaraderie of the young men that had caused her to change her opinion about them. She was gambling that many of her regular patrons had similar feelings, and she was about to find out if she was right.
Joe Meeley walked out of the Carlow East alone.
Ten minutes later everybody was laughing and talking like the incident had never happened. Frankie O’Connor’s punch, however, would become a part of the neighborhood folklore forever.
19
Night still lingered on the river when Jack and Pat jumped into their dinghy and headed out on the Okalatchee. At its widest point the river extended only a hundred yards from bank to bank, and at this time in the early morning it was teeming with fishing boats heading out to the big lake. Their dinghy had no lights, so they had to hug the shoreline and be extra careful. Twenty minutes out, Jack made a right turn, and they both ducked as the boat meandered under a thicket of brush and foliage for several minutes until they emerged in a narrow inlet bordered on both sides by mangroves, cypress trees, and tall pines.
Pat had been here many times, but she never ceased to be amazed by the dramatic transformation that occurred in those few minutes. They went from the hustle-bustle of the river-with motors roaring and waves from the bigger boats buffeting the dinghy-to total calm and a chorus of crickets that blended with the peacefulness of the dark.
Jack steered to the middle of the inlet, cut the engine, and let the boat drift. They sat there breathing in the early morning air, neither one of them saying a word. Gradually the sky started to lighten, although they could not see the rising sun through the thick foliage. The droning of the crickets ceased and all was quiet. A slight mist hung just above the smooth surface of the water. Nothing moved.
The Law of Second Chances jt-2 Page 10
