by S. J. Rozan
“And if it's not?”
“Then the obvious question is what I—or whoever was paying me—wanted hidden that a lawsuit might have uncovered.”
“About what happened to Keegan in prison?” Uncharacteristically, then, Elizabeth hesitated.
No, he thought, you can't back away from this shit. He finished for her. “Or about Keegan.”
“Was there something to know about him?”
“If there was, I never knew it. But I can't prove that.”
Phil watched Elizabeth mentally file, index, and cross-reference everything he'd just said. When she was done she brought out the next question. “Who was paying you?”
“No one.” He saw her whirring mental machinery catch for an instant. “I've been taking the money and passing it on, but that's all. No cut, no fee. Normally that might make me look better, but not in this case.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, my relationship with the client goes way beyond the professional one.” He watched the women before him to see if this was news. Elizabeth (who for the past year had been dating a doctor) nodded. (And what a courtship that must be, Phil thought: she with a full-time job and in night school, he working residents' hours, both of them young and yearning. If they were smart enough to keep their dance cards this full, missing each other's arms more than they were in them, they stood a good chance of living happily ever after.) Sandra (who claimed to have hung up her sneakers long ago) just shrugged.
“And for another thing,” he said, “there's Eddie Spano. The Tribune implies Spano's behind it all, was from the start. If that's true, it'll be hard convincing anyone I didn't know it.”
“Did you?”
“I still don't.”
Elizabeth's steady brown eyes didn't change. Sandra poked her pencil impatiently into the holes at the spiral binding of her pad.
“The point is,” Phil said, “if anyone's gunning for me, this could be very powerful ammunition.”
Sandra smiled, the hard smile of a veteran who finds military life with all its privations preferable to the disorderly insignificance of life on the outside. Elizabeth tossed her long hair and frowned at Sandra's smile.
“You haven't been here that long,” Phil told Elizabeth, indicating Sandra, that she had been. “It's been tried. But this time might be different.”
Different, Phil thought. Hell, why shouldn't it be? Every goddamn thing was different now, why not this?
Sandra and Elizabeth waited, watching him. He tried to see from their eyes whether he was different, too. He gave up: he couldn't tell.
He sat back, threw the pen he'd been toying with onto the desk. “Okay,” he said. “I don't know what happens next. Another reporter's following up Randall's leads. She called this morning, and I told her to get lost. She call you guys yet?”
Sandra, with the tough smile, said, “One of the good things about working off cell phones. It's hard for her to find us.”
“She will, though. I'd rather you guys didn't talk to her, but it's up to you. But that's the press. If it comes to an ethics investigation, or criminal—anything official—Sandra, you know the drill, but it'll be new to you.” This looking into Elizabeth's straightforward brown eyes. “When they call you in, don't stonewall, and for God's sake don't lie. You'll just get yourself in trouble, and it won't help me. And.” This, too, was mostly for Elizabeth. He locked onto those eyes the way he did on a client's when he wanted to make it absolutely clear the time for screwing around was over, this was for real. “If you want out—now, during, or after—go.”
Again, Elizabeth nodded: she understood. Then shook her head: she wasn't going. Sandra let out an exasperated snort: she had work to do, could Phil quit crapping around?
“Yeah,” said Phil. “Okay. You want to talk about it anytime, we can talk. Now: lunchtime. Anybody know if Wally's reopened?”
Sandra said, “Not yet.”
“Then get me a corned beef and a cream soda from that deli up Broadway. Get yourselves whatever you want. Elizabeth, you get a chance to go through the Johnson file?”
Elizabeth echoed, “Not yet.”
Half an hour later, when his mouth was full of sandwich and his fingers were greasy, Phil's cell phone rang. He'd have said “Shit,” but he couldn't manage it. He swallowed, wiped his hands, flipped the phone open, and barked his name.
A woman's voice, sounding like she was speaking from a room with a bad smell in it, told him, “It's Marian Gallagher.”
Shit came to Phil again as a response, and this time he could have said it, but he kept himself in check. Short and cold: “What's up?”
A pause, a break in her rhythm before she answered. She didn't like him any better than he liked her, and the truce of years was shattered now. She'd always found him brash and rude; he knew because Sally had told him. Civility was important to Marian, Sally said, manners mattered to her. Sally had probably hoped if Phil knew this he'd tone it down, show Marian a more cultured and chivalrous face. What really happened was that in Marian's presence, Phil found himself fighting strong urges to put his feet on the table or let the long-suppressed Yiddish-Bronx rhythms of his childhood overwhelm his speech.
So he knew full well that even in the mutual distaste of their relationship, she'd be thrown off by the implied insult of his not bothering with phone etiquette. Knew it, thought less of himself, and went ahead anyway.
“There's a problem,” she said, and he heard her trying to match his cold tone.
“The whole damn thing's a problem, for Christ's sake,” he said. “What specifically do you have in mind?”
“Harry Randall's dead.”
“Thanks for the news flash.”
He could practically hear her grinding her teeth. You just can't cut her a break, can you? he asked himself.
“Another reporter was just here.” On the heels of her words her breath whispered in his ear, in, out. A yoga exercise, maybe; it would be like her. He waited it out. She said, “They think someone murdered him.”
“I figured that.”
Silence. “What do you mean, you figured that?”
“I read the damn Tribune this morning, Marian. Their story just about came out and said it.” It occurred to him: “You didn't, right? Read it, I mean. The Tribune's too lowbrow for you, I'll bet. You ought to try it anyway. You could learn a lot. What do you want?”
He was sure what she really wanted was to hang up on him, which was pretty much what he wanted, too, but he stayed, her voice drilling into his ear, phone pressed to the side of his head, elbows parked on either side of the sandwich on his desk like he was the Brooklyn Bridge and his corned beef was a stuck barge.
BOYS' OWN BOOK
Chapter 11
Sutter's Mill
September 1, 1979
Jimmy leaves Flanagan's, walking slowly. The late summer day has faded to that purple hour when a mist seems to hang in the air, clouding vision, though this is an illusion: the day has been fine, and the night will continue clear.
Jimmy's heading home, to the basement apartment he rents from the Cooleys. He stops at the deli for a roast beef on rye, picks up a box of Milk Bones for the Cooleys' yellow mutt. (The funny black dog they used to have, he died years ago.) But when he leaves the deli, sipping coffee, he turns left, not right, heads for the firehouse.
When he gets there, the door's up, the floor's wet and puddled: they've just washed down the truck, and it gleams. Jimmy could swear he sees the damn thing grin: it's ready, man. He grins back at it.
Owen McCardle, one of the senior men, sits out front, tipped back in a chair. He's watching the street from half-closed eyes. Hey, Superman, he says, nods as Jimmy walks up. Like Jimmy, Owen's not a talker. Owen's seen it all, lived through it all, could tell you all the stories but he doesn't. Probably he knows it won't do you any good.
Owen, says Jimmy. He squats down beside the chair, leans on the firehouse wall. Jimmy helps Owen watch the street.
You hungry? Vin
ny made spaghetti, Owen says.
Yeah? That one with the sausages?
Owen grunts. Enough to feed the Polish army.
Yeah, well, says Jimmy, and he doesn't get up.
Two pretty girls, their legs long and their skirts short, walk down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. A whistle cuts their way from inside the firehouse. One girl smiles, one girl laughs, but they don't turn and they don't stop.
Guy asked me to do something for him, Jimmy says to Owen.
Owen asks, You gonna do it?
Thinking about it.
The girls round the corner, stroll out of sight.
Superman. Owen's voice is even quieter than usual. Jimmy looks up at him.
Stay out of trouble.
I don't think, Jimmy says, I don't think this is trouble.
It's not illegal, what Mike the Bear wants. Not Jimmy's part. It's not even a lie: Big Mike wants Jimmy to tell the truth. Sat Jimmy down in Flanagan's to ask for this big favor: Jimmy, do this for me, tell the truth.
But the truth, Mike the Bear says, the truth can't come from just anyone. Some guys, you want them to know what's what, you want them to do something about it, it's got to be done a certain way, he says. It's got to be handled.
Jimmy can see the sense in this. When you're a kid, you don't tell your mom you don't want to go to school because you want to watch the Batman marathon on TV. You say your throat hurts. And it does; but if today were a game day, if you had to go out on the field in front of the whole school and be a hero, slam the ball out of the park, tag the guy sliding spikes-first toward home, if that were today, would your throat matter? But it's not today, so you tell your mom about your throat, and she worries about you so she lets you stay home.
It's the same here. Mike the Bear's worried about Jack. Jack's mom, she's worried even more.
Nine years old: Jimmy sees her, Mrs. Molloy, watching out the window while Tom calms Jack down, Jack all snarly because the kids don't want to climb the tree in Mr. Conley's yard, see if they can jump to the roof of his house from there. They won't do it even on Jack's dare: For Christ's sake, you fairies, the old fart's not even home!
Jack's going to do it himself, but Marian runs up to him and whispers. Jack stops, answers her. Jimmy hears Marian laugh. Jack says a swearword, but now, it's not like he's mad, it's like a joke, and Jack laughs with Marian. Next thing, Tom's calling, Hey, Jim, you coming or what? and Jack's pounding a fist into his mitt, and they're going off to play some ball. But Jimmy catches a look between Tom and Mrs. Molloy, something he doesn't understand, but he knows it's about Jack. And Mrs. Molloy keeps watching them out the window until the kids turn the corner and Jimmy can't see her anymore.
And back in Flanagan's, this is what Mike the Bear says to Jimmy: Trouble's coming. The cops're fed up, they're ready to jump on Jack and his crew. If Jack doesn't back off, he's going down.
Jimmy frowns. You sure? he asks Mike the Bear. I mean, maybe it's not true. You know, rumors, you hear stuff.
From where I heard it, Mike says, it's a safe bet.
Jimmy doesn't ask where that is. Firemen and cops, there's no love lost. A cop would rather bust on you than help you, rather knock you down than pick you up, because he figures probably you deserve it, anything bad you didn't do you just didn't get a chance yet.
That's what the firehouse says, and Jimmy knows some cops like that. But still, mostly they're straight. Mostly they want to fight crime and stop the bad guys, and mostly they want to be Superman just like he does. He thinks what happens, after a year or two on the street, they still want the same thing, but they forget how to tell who they're for and who they're against.
Bent cops, cops on the take—that's something else. They're against everybody, even their brother cops. Everything's for themselves, and thinking about them makes Jimmy feel like he did when the kids found a dead dog once down under the bridge, its skinny legs tied together, someone threw it in the water and made it drown on purpose. Jimmy remembers how mad he was, how he didn't know who to be mad at, how he wanted to do something and the dog was already dead and there was nothing he could do. So when Mike the Bear says what he hears about Jack, where he hears it from it's a safe bet, Jimmy just drinks some beer and waits.
I can't just tell Jack, Big Mike says. Sure, yeah, I can, but it's what I've been telling him all his life. Jimmy, you know him, he's always been like this.
Jimmy nods. He knows.
I can't say, kid, this time it's real, this time you have to back off, because I can't do anything about it, this time. He won't believe me, Jimmy. He'll think I can fix it, like I always have.
Mike the Bear's talking to Jimmy, but he isn't looking at him, he's looking across the room at the pictures on the walls, racing pictures, trotters winning and losing. Jimmy wonders how many guys have ever heard Big Mike Molloy say this, that there's something he can't do anything about.
Big Mike says, Jimmy, if your father, he worries about you, he worries about your mother worrying about you, he told you to stay out of burning buildings, what would you do?
Jimmy's thinking about Mrs. Molloy's eyes; but when Mike the Bear asks him this, he has to laugh, because his father almost did say exactly this, Jimmy's first week at the Academy. He said, It's not me, son, it's your mother, she's thinking she'll be worried every day when you go to work.
He tells Big Mike, and Mike asks, And what did you do?
I took my mom to the firehouse, Jimmy says. I showed her the salamanders over the door. They always come back after a fire, I told her. Then I gave her flowers, chocolates, too, a really big box, shaped like a heart. I told her she was lucky. I told her, Not every pretty woman gets presents from a fireman.
Big Mikes smiles. Tom's right about you, he says.
Jimmy smiles, too. He's thinking about his mom, how the day after he gave her the flowers she gave him a present, too, a St. Florian medal, said, Jimmy, keep this with you, I'll feel better if you keep this with you. It's in his pocket now.
Big Mike says, And you kept going to fires.
Yes, sir, says Jimmy.
Yes. Because Jimmy, this is you. And what Jack was like, since he was a kid, he's still like that, too. That's why I've been digging Jack out of holes all his life. Because it's not his fault he gets in them. You know what I mean?
Yes, says Jimmy.
But this one, it's too deep, says Mike the Bear. Jack's gonna have to climb out himself. But he'll never do it, he won't believe it, if it's me who tells him.
Jimmy sips his beer. He's thinking two things. One is, if Jack were just some guy, maybe the cops rolling him up wouldn't be a bad thing, maybe Jimmy'd just stand back and watch.
But the other thing he's thinking is, it's Jack.
And it's Big Mike, asking him for help, saying somebody needs to tell Jack.
But even if somebody does: just Jimmy, just like that?
Uh-uh, no.
If Jimmy tries, Jack's not going to listen.
If Jimmy tries, it'll go like this: First, Jack'll laugh. Jimmy, man, you're a worrier, you always were. I got it covered. Have a brew, man.
And if Jimmy keeps on? If he says, No, Jack, it's true, I heard it?
Then Jack will mutter, Jimmy, what the fuck? This something Tom told you? I don't need this, I don't need my little brother looking out for me, you can tell Tom that, you're such good buddies. I'm cool, Jimmy, and my guys are cool, no way I'm crapping out on them. Tom and you, get off my back.
Because this is something Jimmy hasn't told Mike the Bear, but he knows: He's been getting on the wrong side of Jack lately.
Last week: Jesus, Jimmy, when'd you get to be such a straight arrow, you got that arrow stuck right up your ass. This when Jimmy orders a Coke at the Bird, because he's on duty in a couple hours. Jack says, One beer's gonna matter? Jimmy shrugs, nothing to say. Ah, Christ, Jack says, his face hard, as if Jimmy did say something and what he said pissed Jack off.
Or back in July, Jimmy on duty on the Fourth,
he and the guys bring the rig to the pig roast so the kids can climb on it, play with the wheel, and make the siren scream; but they'll be leaving early, before the fireworks. Like the cops who close the street, have a quick sausage and pepper sandwich with Mike the Bear, and then have to go someplace important, the firemen will be out of here before the first fuse is lit.
What the fuck, Jimmy, says Jack, you used to like fireworks, all that shit exploding in the sky. He shoots Tom a glance. Tom shakes his head; he doesn't care, the firemen can go or they can stay, same thing to him. Used to be, when they were kids, Tom didn't care about something, Jack would say aw, fuck it and walk away. Now he glares. Tom glares back; this happens more and more these days, this silent war between Tom and Jack.
So Jimmy knows when Mike the Bear says it's got to be handled, he's right. But what Mike the Bear's thinking, that Jimmy can do it, it won't work that way.
So he tells Big Mike he gets it, he tells Big Mike he'll think. And Big Mike, Mike the Bear, he says, Thanks, Jimmy. Mike the Bear says, That's great, I knew I could count on you.
So Jimmy thinks. He thinks how to do it: like this, like that. And now there's a way he can see.
He doesn't really like it. It's not his way, more like Tom's kind of way, something smart, almost sneaky.
But, Jimmy thinks: there's a good part of it, too, this way he sees. It solves another problem, at least it could help out.
Jimmy's spending more time at the firehouse these days, less hanging with the guys. This is one of the things that burns Jack up, though Jimmy's not sure why. But it's not Jack who's been on Jimmy's mind lately, weighing him down: it's Markie.
Mike the Bear, Tom, Jack, what they do, it's what they were born for. Like Jimmy was born for the truck, the ax, the flames. But not Markie. Those cars: engines and axles, filters and fuel gauges, grease and the smell of gasoline, Markie was born for those. You tell Markie your engine coughs, your steering pulls, maybe you even took the car three other places already but you leave it with Markie, you come back tomorrow and it's fixed. That's what Markie does, that's what's his.
