He didn’t want to be too twisted tonight: Abigail Hitchins is a shifty stickhandler, she wants favours from him, admissions; he must not be tricked into signing away the family farm. What was on her wish list? His head maybe, to be mounted on her wall. She had detested the role she’d played in those distant times, mistress to an equivocating married man. How voracious she’d been in bed, selfish, demanding. Wanting to be on top. That’s how she will prosecute, the dominatrix.
A cruiser went by, slowing as it passed Brian, getting a fix on him. Brian tightened his grip on his attaché case, headed to the corner, past the mime, who began following him, impersonating his long, hurried strides. The busker with the bongos commanded the next corner, and who knew what his game was. He had a big ugly dog. Brian was afraid of dogs. But Lance Valentine was with him, confident, in control. It’s only a busker and his mutt, old boy.
Jaywalking Main, he encountered a seedy group outside the Palace–two dancers, two customers, the doorman, a smoke break between sets, between Candy Floss and Cherry Blossom, tonight’s star grinders. He steered a course right at them, like he owned the street. The doorman smiled and said, “Merry Christmas, sir!” He respected Valentine, understood class.
He made it to the corner, looked behind. The mime had melted into the gloom, You foiled him, old fellow. Just to make sure, he slipped into the Eternal Happiness Café, went out the back way after buying a pack of A’s.
Why couldn’t he find Il Giardino? Was it on Homer, Hornby, or Howe? He’d been there a hundred times, why couldn’t he remember? They may have doctored his orange juice at his hotel. Somebody had access to his room, not just the maid, somebody who wanted the information from his computer. He’d printed out his manuscript in case of theft, it was in the attaché case. Where had he left his backup disk? The usual place above the ceiling tile? Or had he changed hiding places again?
Responding to his Nazi salute, an empty taxi stopped, its turbaned driver looking at him suspiciously: a bum, a street thug?
“Il Giardino,” Brian said. The driver locked the door, rolled up the window, and pointed across the street to where a man was hijacking a Mercedes, its owner standing by helplessly. The scene metamorphosed into a valet parking situation. Brian made out a sign in the gloom: Il Giardino.
He was too torn up, he needed a straightener before going in, a couple of rails to get his engine back on track. He had a murder trial to run. He had business with a prosecutor. Think business. Be clever, calculating, conniving. Be a lawyer.
He found privacy behind a Dumpster in the alley, booted up off the back of his hand, then entered the restaurant to a delicious wafting of garlic with its strange, power-enhancing properties. Now he felt on top of himself, in control, ready to face any situation, he was the legendary Brian Pomeroy, defender of assassins, hero of the Bhashyistan Democratic Revolutionary Front.
The maître d’ greeted him with the effusiveness he deserved. “Ah, Mr. Pomeroy, I thought you’d deserted us forever. Ms. Hitchins is waiting for you.”
Brian was led to a dark alcove, a table for two behind a gurgling fountain. While bending to take his chair he came to a sudden, paralytic stop. Not at the sight of Abigail Hitchins, in her long black witchy hair and witchy green eyes and witchy red puckered lips. Something else, something that had registered below awareness, caught from the corner of his eye.
Abigail’s mouth tasted not of the Pinot she was drinking but of cinnamon, either from perfumed lip gloss or breath mint. An unromantic kiss, businesslike. “Can’t afford a razor? You look like shit.”
“It’s the mujahedeen look. It’s the rage.” Somebody was staring at his back, he could feel it. He ordered a vodka martini.
“So, Bry, how’s divorced life treating you?”
“I’m gutting it out.”
“I heard you got busted for waking up the neighbourhood. Beating on a garbage can lid and singing ‘Come All Ye Faithful’ at the top of your lungs.”
Brian didn’t respond until his drink arrived. Just stared at her, fearing to turn around.
“How are the kids?”
“I’m barred from them! I can’t even phone! Caroline delisted the number, even Gabby’s cellphone. I haven’t been sleeping, I get maybe three hours on a good night.” He began rapping, speed-talking, discursive and repetitive, pouring it out. How Caroline sent him packing, allowing him meagre visiting rights, and now there were none. His sense of having been hijacked in divorce court, having his face rubbed in it by Mr. Justice Rafael Whynet-Moir, currently gratefully dead. I reject the disingenuous testimony of the respondent husband, whom I regard as a kind of “fiddler on the truth” (merriment in the courtroom) and accept without reservation the candid, poignant version of his soon-to-be-ex-wife.
Abigail stared at him, frowning but with an irritating lack of real concern. Serves you right, her face said. “You’re having another breakdown, aren’t you?”
He wondered how she could tell, he’d gone to great lengths to seem normal. “A little one, maybe.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be taking on this trial.”
“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.” At some point Brian must have ordered a seafood pasta, because a waiter slid it under his nose.
“Something obsessive going on here, Bry? Defending the killer of your bête noire?” No answer. “You going to dine that way? Chained to a briefcase? What’s in it, gold?”
He released it from his wrist, opened it, showed her. Kill All the Judges, chapters one to ten. “Yes, gold. My masterwork.”
“Thought you stopped pretending to be a writer after the last round of rejections.”
“You’ll be in it too. It’s about dead judges. It’s creative true fiction.”
“I read Caroline’s short stories. Heart-rending.” She knew how to hurt. “You’re in trouble, Bry. You’re teetering on the edge.”
He needed a smoke to help wash down the martini, that was his only trouble. But he was trapped in a smoke-free zone. Suck it up, focus, concentrate on business, he’s not going to let Cud down, that’s not his style.
Abigail handed him a printed sheet. “Let’s do our admissions of fact before you totally wing out. The date, deceased’s address, his identity, the list of dinner guests, catering staff, photos, prints…”
“What prints?”
“The defendant’s. Plastered all over a cigar humidor, several on a cognac bottle outside the steam room. Okay? Next, the 911 calls–”
“What calls?”
“Astrid Leich at 3:11 a.m., possible homicide. A neighbour at 5 Lighthouse Lane at 3:15, Aston Martin in his front yard. It’s in the material I sent. You’re not on top of this, are you?”
“I’m idling. I’ll get up to speed when I need to.”
“Okay, I take it there’s no contest over the gear Cud left behind in the suite over the garage. Backpack, toiletries, spare clothes. I’d appreciate admissions on the DNA–”
“What DNA?”
“Your guy’s sweat. Learn to read. Take a remedial course. It was on a towel by the swimming pool’s outdoor shower. We presume he went for a swim and a steam.”
“With Florenza?”
“Maybe. No proof.” She continued with her list: “Autopsy report, cause of death–blunt trauma consistent with a fall…”
“No, I want to hear about how he died.” Every detail.
He finally turned around, saw no one staring, nothing untoward, nothing that would have caused that little jolt. He focused on a neatly bearded man in an expensive suit with an expensive bottle of red and an expensive redhead, her back to Brian, the guy’s trophy wife or concubine. The way she bent to him, in intense conversation…He felt another shiver, another jolt, recognized her. Dr. Alison Epstein.
“Brian, you may want to back out of this trial, because the judge…Who are you staring at?”
“The redhead is my shrink.”
“Well, she might come in handy.”
Clearly, Dr. Epstein had known Brian woul
d be at this very restaurant tonight, but how had she managed to secure a table ten feet away? Who was the man with her? Too well-dressed to be a cop. Maybe someone higher up. He’d been looking at Brian’s feet. Why would he be interested…The attaché case, of course.
Concentrate, he hadn’t caught what Abigail was saying. Something about the judge assigned to the Brown trial. “Sorry? The chief assigned whom?”
“Himself.”
“Kroop?”
“Who loves you not.”
The death camp commander, the Badger, who loves Brian as one loves a pit viper creeping into one’s underwear. “A bullying, sadistic mountebank”–that was one of the lesser slurs against him that Brian had tossed off in defence of Gilbert Gilbert. Either the stars were out of alignment or the conspiracy ran deeper than he’d imagined.
“He pencilled himself in for one reason, Bry–he wants to eat you alive.”
She only sees the surface. Kroop is at the centre of the whole thing, the mastermind. This had been a set-up from the beginning.
“Ready for him?”
“God’s will be done.”
“Hey, are you trying to send your guy down for the count? I have a better idea. Want to hear it?”
“I have a better idea. I’m moving for a stay of proceedings.”
“You’re not getting rid of Kroop that way.”
“Fuck Kroop, it’s because I haven’t got notice of Florenza LeGrand’s evidence.”
“Get your head around this, Bry. She isn’t talking to me, to the cops, to anyone but her mouthpiece, Silent Shawn Hamilton. And he ain’t talking to me, the schemer. Call him. Good luck.”
Silent Shawn will give him zip. A weird one, the mouthpiece who won’t talk, you can’t do a deal with him.
“I’ve subpoenaed Florenza, but we’re flying blind.”
“What’s she hiding?” Her debauch with Cud, for sure. Maybe worse.
Abigail leaned toward him. “I know it’s hard in your unbalanced state, but try to focus on what I’m saying. If Florenza LeGrand is complicit in her husband’s death, she becomes a rich target. Of far more interest than some country Joe in red braces.” She let it hang there, smiling.
“What would you want for that?”
“If he rolls all the way, manslaughter.”
“No fank you. I’ll cop him to drunk driving though.”
Abigail looked pissed, but he wasn’t going to explain how Cud stormed off when he mentioned manslaughter. He fumbled for his A’s, he was having a nic fit. He looked back, Dr. Epstein was gone, presumably to the ladies. Her associate was waving a credit card at the waiter.
“I need some fresh air.”
“Enjoy. I don’t partake of the filthy habit any more.”
“Anyway, I’ve got to run.”
“Not interested in extending the evening? Dessert? One for the road? A hump for old times’ sake? A visit to a mental health clinic?”
“I have a…an emergency.” He wanted to get out of here before his shrink came back.
“I’ll drive you.”
He shook his head, rose. “Thanks for dinner. I’ll call you.”
He retrieved his case, clutched it to his chest, made his way out the back entrance, where the smokers gather, where one of the kitchen staff, chef-hatted, was taking a last drag before butting out. And here was Alison Epstein, staring at nothing, darkness. He was about to turn on his heels when she turned on hers, toward him, with a smiled “Hello.”
“I didn’t know you smoked,” he said.
“I don’t. I was hoping we could catch up. Briefly.”
He lit up. Now she would want explanations, she’d want to know why he was hiding out, and where, why he’d quit Xanax. “Who’s the man you’re with?”
“My husband.”
She could be lying, but he thought not. Maybe she hadn’t lured him here after all. One of life’s coincidences. They happen. Maybe he could trust her, maybe he could take that chance.
“Seems like a…nice fellow.” His voice stilted. “I was with a friend. A prosecutor. A business date.”
“I see. And how have you been coping?”
“No complaints.” He struggled to invent a plausible lie. But Dr. Epstein had X-ray vision, she saw through him like glass. That was the problem, that’s why he strived so hard to avoid her; she saw past his mask.
“Are you still hearing voices?” The voices of dead judges, he’d told her that. And Lance Valentine, his cut-glass accent. And Widgeon, telling him what to do, like God. Like God telling Gilbert F. Gilbert to kill the chief justice. Brian had gone back through that file, the psychiatric reports, seeking symptoms, clues, answers to his own problems.
He lied. “The voices don’t bother me.”
“Have you decided to terminate therapy?”
“I wasn’t handling it very well. I needed a break.”
A long pause, one of those significant pauses where she waits for elaboration, confession, expects to reel the truth out of him like a fish from the sea. He felt sudden, overwhelming defeat. He was imploding under the pressure, all the followers, the conspirators, the plots and subplots; he could no longer tell who was real, who fictitious, who was with him, who against him. He opened his case and thrust his manuscript at her.
“I want you to have this.”
“Brian, I can help you.”
“They’re after me. I know too much. I know who killed the judges. All the clues are in here.”
She took the manuscript, stared for a few moments at the title, then looked hard at him, penetratingly. “Brian, you’ve stopped the Xanax.”
“Sort of.”
“What are you on right now? Cocaine?”
Panic. “How can you tell?”
“It’s the worst thing you can do in your present state.”
He made for the alley. “I’ll call you. I promise.”
VALE OF TEARS
Arthur has soared too close to the sun, and his feathers are melting. Fire above, fire below, engulfing the hall, and he’s falling toward those blue flames, totally doomed, totally doomed…
He opened his eyes before the impact and lay still, staring at the rough cedar ceiling, feeling no relief to have survived those flames. No interpreter of dreams needed. A telling metaphor for last night’s disaster.
Margaret’s side of the bed was distressingly unrumpled, denying him any flickering hopes she’d found a tiny corner of forgiveness in her heart. “Come in,” he’d told Stoney, Dog, and McCoy, “meet some friends.” This grossly negligent invitation was, to Margaret, further proof of his secret plot to abort her political career.
It may have taken a while for her Greens to realize that the tumultuous invasion of Bob Stonewell and the two dwarfs was not some picaresque after-dinner entertainment. Reactions ranged from puzzlement to barely suppressed dread.
McCoy sang bawdy songs, Dog threw up, and Stoney passed out business cards: Loco Motion. Ride in style in our fleet of heritage limousines. “One of them’s a cherry 1970 Chrysler New Yorker,” he announced proudly. “Gulps the gas, you only get eight to the gallon, but where you gonna go on a small island anyway? The fun is just laying some rubber on the roadways, man.” The three of them polished off the leftovers, washing them down with the remaining organic wine and beer.
The champion worst episode involved a venerable, now broken, leaded-glass window in the parlour. The runner-up: a burning butt in a paper recycling bin. Third place went to Dog vomiting on shoes left by the veranda door.
The woofers, embarrassed, left early, though the noise was loud enough to draw Nick from his room, complete with iPod and headphones. Margaret skipped about with a fixed, ferocious smile until her friends and patrons sped off to the late ferry. Whereupon she wordlessly fetched her night gear and slammed the guestroom door behind her.
He’d slept poorly but late, Aurora had long ago rolled up the curtain of night. He dragged himself up, looked out the window–the family pickup was gone. He lashed himself with an ug
ly scenario, Margaret speeding off to the city to start a divorce. Petitioner further alleges mental cruelty rendering intolerable the continued cohabitation of the spouses.
The flatbed was still parked below, though Icarus had mysteriously disappeared. The driver’s door was open, Stoney lying there under a dirty blanket. Somehow, despite having got awe-inspiringly drunk, he’d had the sense not to drive. Also in the driveway was the rust-scarred van of Mop’n’Chop (“We do it all, no task too small”), so Felicity Jones and Bobbi Rosekeeper must be downstairs, cleaning up.
There was Nick, standing by the pond, idly tossing pebbles, making ripples in the reeds. Looking down upon this sad, thin figure, Arthur felt devastated. He’d promised to take him fishing before breakfast. This skipped-generation relationship was being badly mishandled by the Baron of Blunder Bay. Lord Stumblebum.
He hurriedly washed, dressed, crept down to the living room. Beneath the staircase, the cat was sniffing at the stubby figure of Stoney’s pal, Dog, who was face down on the cat’s pillow. Where had Hamish McCoy disappeared to? Icarus had either been spirited away or regained the power of flight.
The girls had already done the living room, except for Dog’s redoubt under the stairs, which they’d vacuumed around. They were in the kitchen now, dishwasher and washer-dryer going, the ninety-year-old house jiggling and rumbling.
He stepped out into a chill, dry morning. A wind had pursued the mists into the dales, and the sun was a pallid ghost behind the unbroken gloom of filmy cloud. A flutter in the bay, a school of fleeing herring, competition for his lures–pinks had been running, but now they’d be sated and lazy. As a backup, he could fetch his crab pots–he had put some bait aside in the freezer, salmon heads.
The Japanese kids were repairing fences. Lavinia was in the far distance, leading Barney, the overfed, farting horse, to a leaner pasture. Nick was staring forlornly after her.
Kill All the Judges Page 10
