The Lightning Rule

by Brett Ellen Block

  “Incentive?” Freddie was unfamiliar with the term.

  “It’s like motivation or encouragement, something to force the guy to come back.”

  “What’s my incentive gonna be?”

  Before Emmett could reply, the clerk was announcing the next name: “Fredrick R. Guthrie.”

  “Stand up,” Emmett whispered.

  Freddie rose and straighted his ripped shirt.

  “Do you have counsel present?” the magistrate asked, repeating the query without a glance at the individual case file in front of him.

  “Not yet, sir. My lawyer, he, um, had to go to this other trial.”

  The magistrate peered over the top rim of his glasses. “So you have counsel?” This was clearly the first occasion he had heard that all day.

  “Yes, sir. And he told me that I shouldn’t talk until he gets here.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Could be awhile. This other client ’a his, he ran somebody over with a truck. Sir.”

  Freddie glanced at Emmett to see if his improvisation had done any irrevocable damage. Emmett rolled his eyes.

  “Bail stands. You can pay it or return to jail until you and your otherwise occupied attorney can get your acts together.”

  Emmett motioned for him to take the bail, but Freddie mouthed that he didn’t have the money.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Guthrie?” Freddie’s hesitation was decelerating the magistrate’s turnover time, and he didn’t appreciate that.

  “He’ll pay the bail, Your Honor,” Emmett said, jumping to his feet.

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence, sir, however unless you’re his attorney, the defendant has to tell me that himself. Well, Mr. Guthrie?”

  “Yeah, I’ll pay it,” Freddie said unhappily.

  “Then consider yourself free to leave.”

  The clerk gave him the documents with his new court date, and Freddie brought them to Emmett. “What do I do with these?”

  “Mark that date on your calendar. That’s when you have to come back. Maybe your attorney will be finished with that hit-and-run case by then.”

  “Very funny.”

  They were exiting the courtroom as the clerk called the next defendant, the wheels of justice rolling onward without a speed limit.

  “Now we’ve got to find a bondsman to pay your bail.”

  Freddie stopped in the center of the second-floor rotunda, his sneakers squeaking on the stone floor. “I told you I didn’t have the money. And I gotta feeling whoever this bond man is, he ain’t gonna wanna play Santa.”

  “What you told me was that Luther Reed gave you a hundred bucks for every car you brought him. So where’s this big bankroll of yours?”

  “It’s gone,” Freddie exploded. “It’s all gone. Luther made me pay him for snitching to the cops about it being my idea. Said I owed him for getting us both in trouble.” The kid sunk into himself, hating to admit what had happened. “Guess that means I did this for nothing, huh? You gonna send me back to Newark Street, right?”

  Emmett wasn’t about to let his sole lead return to jail. “No, Freddie. Fifty-fifty, remember?”

  “But I told you I’m broke. Fifty percent ’a nothin’ is still nothin’.”

  “Ten percent of your bond should only be a few bucks. You can pay me back.”

  “You take spark plugs or distributor caps? ’Cause I ain’t got no cash.”

  “We’ll worry about that later.”

  Emmett had far bigger worries, not the least of which was what would happen once Ionello and Vass tracked Freddie down. In lockup or out on bail, Freddie was a walking bull’s eye.

  A block from the courthouse on Market Street, they found a bail bonds company located above a pet shop. The sign said fast cash for bonds. The minute Emmett laid eyes on the guy behind the desk he said a prayer that the sign was right, that this would go fast, because he could tell that the bondsman was a former cop.

  “Don’t you hold me to that, you bastard,” the bondsman joked loudly into the telephone, then he cupped his hand over the receiver. “Be with you in a jiff.”

  His meaty forearms, auburn hair, and ruddy drinker’s complexion weren’t what had given him away as an ex-cop. It was the slapjack on the edge of his desk. Preferred by some to a nightstick, the seven-inch piece of pipe bound in thick leather was a tiny yet formidable weapon, and anybody who got hit with one wouldn’t soon forget it.

  Most policemen earned extra money moonlighting. The plumbers’ and electricians’ unions were full of officers, spanning every rank. A paltry pension kept many in their second trades past retirement. Private investigations and bail bonds—jobs that required similar skills as police work and familiarity with the criminal element—were also favored professions of men who had left the force. Emmett was angry at himself for not having foreseen this.

  “That guy’s a cop,” Freddie said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Was.”

  “Close enough. I told you. I can smell ’em.”

  The office was a converted studio apartment with a miniature fridge and a sink. Glossy posters of tropical islands were tacked to the walls, likely ferreted out of a travel agency’s trash bin. Emmett wished he had made Freddie wait downstairs. He hadn’t been willing to let him out of his sight. Now it was too late.

  “This’ll go more smoothly if you’re not here. That way he can’t ask you anything. When the guy gets off the phone, I’ll say something about going to the pet store. Pretend you’re excited.”

  “Puppies and kittens. Yay,” Freddie deadpanned.

  “Oh, and if you run off on me, I’ll call Ionello and Vass myself.”

  “Wouldn’t we both be in hot water then?” Freddie was raising Emmett’s call.

  “Who do you think they’d come after first?”

  The kid gave him a sarcastic salute, assenting to play along.

  “Sorry,” the bondsman said as he hung up the telephone. “Was an old friend.”

  Another cop, Emmett thought. He had to make this quick. He put his hand on Freddie’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go and look at the dogs in the window while I take care of this,” he suggested.

  “Goodie,” Freddie replied, a little too enthusiastically.

  After Emmett heard him go down the steps and out the door, he said, “I’m watching my cousin’s boy. The rest of the family won’t talk to her anymore. You can see why.”

  That goosed a grin out of the bondsman. “Naw, he’s got your eyes.”

  “I need to spring a buddy of mine and your sign says you’re fast.”

  “Fastest there is.”

  Emmett passed him Freddie’s paperwork. The guy whistled with dismay. “Awful generous of you. Bail’s a thousand. Makes the fee one Franklin. That’s steep.”

  The number caught Emmett between the eyes. The charge was loitering, and Emmett had assumed the bail would be set at the low end of the range, a hundred tops. This was ten times the average, another sign that the detectives from the Auto Squad weren’t messing around. Emmett would be lucky if he had that much cash on him.

  “Must be some friend.”

  Emmett counted out the last of his money and handed it over. “Yeah, we go way back.”

  “He skips, it’s on you, ya know.”

  “He won’t skip. You’ve got my word on that.”

  “No offense, pal, but your word ain’t worth a dime. Nobody’s is. If every man, woman, and child was an honest, upstanding citizen, I’d be out of a job. As you can see, I ain’t.”

  When Emmett exited the bond office, Freddie was crouched in the stairwell, listening distance from the door. He had feigned going to the pet shop, footsteps and all, and was eavesdropping on everything that was said. Emmett opened his mouth, about to give the kid an earful, but Freddie hushed him, signaling that they should take the stairs in sync so it would sound as if one person was walking out, not two.

  “If I’d ’a known you had a hundred bucks on you, man, I’d ’a copped y
our wallet myself,” Freddie said once they were outside.

  “That’s reassuring.” For every step Emmett took, Freddie jogged three to match his stride.

  “What? You don’t believe I can do it. I’m a legend when it comes to wallets. Watch this.”

  Freddie bumped Emmett’s hip hard, distracting him. In a flash, he had Emmett’s wallet. Emmett hadn’t even felt Freddie’s fingers slip into his pocket.

  Emmett held out his palm. Freddie gave him the wallet. “Come on. My car’s at the courthouse.”

  “You bought it, didn’t you? That I left.”

  “When you’re good you’re good,” he answered blandly.

  “I’m not good. I’m great.”

  “If you’re so great, why didn’t you Houdini yourself out of jail.”

  “I did,” he said, strutting, pleased with himself. “And you was my talented assistant.” He waved his hand with a magician’s flourish.

  Emmett halted midstride and spun Freddie by the arm. “You think you played me? Is that it? Well, the only person you’re playing is yourself. Let me tell you what I know about Fredrick R. Guthrie. That water pistol they took off you at Newark Street, you push into the ribs of little old ladies when you stick them up for their purses. It’s an old trick. You’re no big shot gangster. You’re a pickpocket. That’s the bottom of the totem pole. I’ve arrested punks just like you, and you know what happens to them at the end of the story? They wind up in Bordentown Reformatory or Yardville or Trenton State. You might be smart, but you’re too dumb to see where you’re going.”

  Humiliation made Freddie seem smaller than he was.

  “As of today, you owe me one hundred dollars. That might be chump change to a master criminal such as yourself. It’s a week’s pay to me. So unless you can pull that money out of a hat, you don’t leave my side until I get paid or you go back to jail.”

  Emmett’s word might not have been worth much, but he would keep it.

  SIXTEEN

  The sun was glaring off a sea of car chrome in the courthouse parking lot, heat roiling off rows of hoods. Emmett chaperoned Freddie to the passenger side of his car and opened the door. The handle burned to the touch.

  “Get in.”

  Freddie was busy appraising the car’s tail fins. “A Dodge Coronet. Didn’t picture you drivin’ something with so much style. What is it? A ’58? ’59? This was the base model for the Royal and the Custom Royal. Doesn’t have as much dress work and no teeth in the grille. Identical turret to the De Soto’s ’cept this baby’s got a Getaway L-head Flat 6 engine. That’s one mighty engine. Original paint?”

  “Yeah and it’d better not go missing.”

  “Man, how’m I gonna steal paint off a car?”

  “I said get in.” Emmett pushed him onto the passenger seat and got behind the wheel.

  Freddie lowered his window. “Where we goin’?”

  “Nowhere. Not until you tell me everything about Ambrose and what he did yesterday. Down to the last minute.”

  “We gonna sit here in this hot ass parking lot? You crazy? You tryin’ to cook me?”

  “Do you think this is a game, Freddie? Your best friend was murdered.”

  “You don’t have to say that.” He pouted.

  “Start from the beginning.”

  “Fine. Ambrose came ’round my house that morning. Same as every morning. We was ’posed to be in summer school, but we’d been ditchin’ to go to the junkyard and look for parts to pay off Luther. ’Brose tagged along, and we sneaked in under the fence. He was always quiet. He’d just follow me through the junk heaps, helpin’ me pick up the heavy stuff. We searched for hours. All I could find were a couple carburetors. Nothin’ special. Weren’t no new cars to buy for switchin’. I knew Luther’d be sore, so I took Ambrose to the body shop with me. I shouldn’t’ve. But I thought if Luther saw me with somebody big and tough-lookin’ like Ambrose, he might go easy.”

  Freddie picked at the leather piping on the seat cushion, remorse making him humble.

  “There’s this room in back of the body shop where Luther and his guys sit around drinkin’ and playin’ dominoes. It’s got an air conditioner. A huge one. Makes it so cold you can see your breath same as winter. Two guys stand outside, guarding the door. At first, they wouldn’t let Ambrose in with me. Then Luther musta said it was okay. We went into the back room and I tried to give him the parts. He didn’t care much. He was more interested in Ambrose. Luther got in his face, showing him who’s boss. ’Brose didn’t get it. He wasn’t saying nothing, and that got Luther steamed.”

  The story slowed, as though the ending might be different if Freddie delayed it.

  “He punched Ambrose right in his gut. Then the other guys were trying to hold him down. ’Brose was swinging his arms, swatting ’em off like they was flies. Not to fight ’em but because he was scared. They kept hitting him. I told Luther I’d pay him double what I owed if they’d stop beatin’ on Ambrose. When Luther heard that, he made ’em stop. Told his guys to take ’Brose outside. I’ll never forget his face when they was draggin’ him out. He had blood runnin’ from his lip. He was so confused. That was the last time I ever saw him.”

  Freddie’s eyes welled. He blinked to clear them.

  “‘You got some balls bringing muscle to my place.’ That was what Luther said. Then he told me I owed him two thousand dollars. Double the grand he’d paid to the cops. I said it was impossible. I’d need a million junkyards to dig up that much money. He laughed. Said it was my problem now. I went home, hoping Ambrose would come there. I waited and waited. I was going to his grandma’s place to look for him when the cops arrested me.”

  He sniffled and wiped his cheek on his shoulder, collecting himself. “When you came to the jail and told me Ambrose was dead, I figured it was Luther. I wish I didn’t take ’Brose with me. If I didn’t….” Grief got him by the throat, strangling off the end of the sentence.

  Luther Reed was a drug dealer, a pimp, and a thief. Violence wasn’t beneath him, but Emmett hadn’t heard of any murders in connection with the man. Outside of the mob, Reed had no direct competition in the Central Ward, no rivals that required bumping off. Emmett wouldn’t put murder past him or his goons, however the circumstances of Webster’s death—the slashed throat, the missing finger, the location of the dump—were too contrived for the likes of Reed.

  “Luther didn’t kill Ambrose, Freddie.”

  An instant of relief twisted into confusion. “If it wasn’t him, who was it?”

  That was the same question tumbling around Emmett’s mind. “Maybe Luther can tell us that.”

  “You mean you’re going to see him?”

  Emmett started the car.

  “Nuh-uh. I ain’t comin’.”

  Frantic, Freddie grabbed the door handle, then Emmett grabbed him.

  “Where I go, you go.”

  “You get me outta jail just to deliver me to the guy who wants my head on a plate? Hell, take me back. Jail couldn’t be as bad as this.”

  “Yeah, Freddie, it could.”

  From the courthouse, it was a short drive to Reed’s auto body shop on Springfield Avenue, a street that originated faraway in the suburbs and wended through the tony enclaves of Short Hills, Milburn, and Maplewood, to dead-end in the center of Newark in an area called the Strip, a procession of bars, liquor stores, and barbecue shops with filmy windows. Traffic was creeping along as though the heat made cars’ tires suction to the road.

  “Where’s your partner at?” Freddie asked. “Don’t cops always have partners?”

  “Some do. I don’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Ask my lieutenant.”

  “Maybe nobody would ride with you ’cause ’a your attitude.”

  “I’m sure that’s the reason.”

  They parked down the block, giving Emmett a clear view of the body shop. A station wagon was jacked up on a lift in the garage, which was filled with the requisite tools and parts to pass the place off as oper
ational. Nobody entered or exited for fifteen minutes.

  “Ain’t we goin’ in?”

  “A half hour ago you refused to go anywhere near Luther Reed and now you can’t wait to see him?”

  “No, I wanna get this over with ’cause I’m hungry,” Freddie whined. “At least in jail, they have to feed you.”

  Emmett popped the glove compartment, dug out a candy bar and gave it to him.

  “It’s melted.”

  “If you won’t eat, I will.”

  As Freddie gobbled the candy bar, Emmett took a pair of handcuffs from the glove compartment.

  “What’re those for? You gonna lock Luther up?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Freddie stopped chewing. “Why you lookin’ at me?”

  “Put out your hands.”

  “You kiddin’, right?”

  “Reed’s only met Ionello and Vass. Auto’s a big division, and a badge is a badge.”

  “Then you don’t need me.”

  “Think about it: when you push a plastic squirt gun into somebody’s back, they don’t know it’s not real. They give over their money so they won’t get shot, even though they can’t. I walk in with you, Reed doesn’t know I’m trying to find out who killed Ambrose. He talks so I won’t come down on him any harder for the auto fraud, even though I can’t.”

  “Being in this hot car musta boiled your brains. There’s usually six or seven of them in that back room with Luther. Sometimes more. And they got guns. I seen ’em stuck in their belts.”

  “And those are the ones they let you see.” Emmett opened the cuffs.

  Freddie finished the last of the candy bar. “I shoulda stayed in jail.”

  Emmett led him into the garage by the handcuffs. The station wagon on the lift was missing a wheel. There was no replacement tire in sight. Wrenches and loose washers were strewn about, yet the smell of motor oil was faint, the floor dry, no spots. The body shop was as fake as a cardboard set for a puppet show.

  “Act as if I just arrested you and you don’t want to be here.”

  “I won’t be actin’.”

  Behind the garage was an office. Two large men sat on either side of the door, their heads leaned against the wall, languishing in the heat like sleeping giants. But they weren’t really asleep. Through heavy lids, they assayed Emmett, deciding whether he was worth standing up for.