"It was just a job, Suzy. Somebody had to be a witness, so I came up with the evidence."
Suzy was stunned. "You did that? I don't believe it!" Her fury was beginning to mount. "You're supposed to be the man I love. But looking at you now, I see a horrible weasel, a shitface of a weasel!" She caught her breath. "I sent you to Freeberg and Gayle to fix you up, and instead you used the opportunity to investigate them, to turn it into a sting operation."
"That was incidental, a side thing," Hunter explained uncomfortably. "Of course, my real purpose was to get some help and normalize our relationship. But along the way, I picked up this evidence." He waved the papers in his hand once more. "Do you know what this means for us, Suzy? It means this is now a political issue, and I'm guaranteed a job on Ferguson's paper. It'll put us on our feet."
He tried to get past Suzy, but she stood in his way. "You're not going anywhere. If you try to, don't come back. I never want to set eyes on you again. I'd regard you as the lowliest thing in the universe. Not good enough to come out from under a rock. Chet, do you know what you're doing to them—to Dr. Freeberg, to Gayle Miller—after what they've done for you? Your evidence could put them both behind bars, put Freeberg out of business, ruin Gayle's career."
"Listen," pleaded Hunter, "I don't make the laws—"
"But you're going to be the one to try to prove they broke the law. You're their only evidence. How can you be against them? How can you go in there and destroy Gayle Miller, that wonderful woman? I just read what she did for you. I just found out what she did for you in your bedroom. Now you're going to try to prove she's a criminal."
"You know that was never my intention."
"That's what it comes down to. Chet"—Suzy had him by the shoulders—"you can't . . . You can't do it."
"I'm sorry, Suzy, but I'm committed."
"Then get uncommitted." She snatched the story from Hunter. "Chet, did a low-down prostitute do this for you? Or was it a legitimate surrogate working for a licensed therapist?"
"Suzy, please don't stand in my way. The court will decide what's right or wrong. All I know is what's right for me, for us. I want to get someplace."
"Chet, you are no place! As a human being, you are nowhere! You're behaving like a rat!"
"Suzy, stop that!"
"You can go on with the work you've been doing. A decent opportunity will come along, and you'll go further. But don't do it this way. Right now you have to live with yourself and me. How can you even consider turning on the people who did so much for you? Please think about it, Chet. Think about it!"
Tony Zecca sat behind his desk in the backroom office of his restaurant, waiting for the telephone at his elbow to ring.
He had placed the call to Big Manny Martin in Las Vegas nearly a half hour ago. He had been told that Manny was out of his suite but would be back soon and would return his call. He had been advised to sit tight for it.
He had been sitting tight all this while, wondering if he had done the right thing, and wondering what he should ask of Manny when he phoned back.
There was little doubt in Zecca's mind that Manny would do whatever was requested of him. Zecca had always had a smooth working relationship with Manny and the mob. With his restaurant chain, Zecca had set up a perfect cover for them to launder loose money and give themselves an acceptable legitimacy in the eyes of the IRS. They'd helped him get along, and get along well, of course. But he'd helped them more and in a more crucial way. Beyond the business, he had done many other favors for the mob, allowing his chain to perform as a safe conduit for their drug smuggling from South America. There was no question in Zecca's mind that the mob owed him one, and Manny was the person to ask for a repayment.
What was confusing to Zecca was exactly what repayment he should request when Manny's call came through.
What was not confusing to Zecca was his ultimate goal. That was clear. Get rid of that fucking Dr. Freeberg, by one means or another. Freeberg had seduced Nan and was keeping her on the side for some daily nooky. Once Freeberg was put out of commission, Nan would be alone and lost. Zecca would have no trouble bringing her back under his control.
Zecca's first instinct had been to take care of Freeberg himself. Though he was careful to conceal the fact from Nan, he always packed a .45 wherever he went, and turning the doctor into a corpse would be easy. Somehow, something made Zecca hesitate about going after the doctor on his own. Not that he was adverse to killing anyone who had harmed him or stood in his way. But the fact was he had not killed anyone since his Vietnam years, because his facade and value to the mob had been respectability. If he ever caused a scrap, and had a run-in with the police, it could end his usefulness to the mob and even put his own life in jeopardy.
Zecca had finally decided that what he wanted done should be done by the faceless mob. They were expert at this, and no clue would be left to trace the act to them. He himself would remain in the clear—hands clean—and free to bring Nan back into his life.
So Zecca had buzzed Manny in Las Vegas.
Now, waiting for the return call, only one uncertainty existed. Exactly what did he want to ask of Manny? Did he want Manny to assign a hit man to waste the fucking doctor and dump his body? Or did he want Manny to send down one or two strong-arm hoods to rough up Freeberg, beat him to a pulp, and tell him to get out of town fast if he wanted to hold on to what was left of him?
Trying to determine what should be done, what he should tell Manny he wanted when the call came, he glared impatiently at the telephone and reached for his unopened copy of the day's Hillsdale Chronicle.
Opening the newspaper to turn to the sports section, a headline on the lower half of the front page caught his eye. Actually, what caught his eye was the name of Dr. Arnold Freeberg in the lead paragraph of the story.
Curious, Tony Zecca hastily read the story.
Finishing it, he lay back in his swivel chair, a smile of satisfaction on his face. So, District Attorney Hoyt Lewis was charging a local sex therapist, Dr. Arnold Freeberg, with using female surrogates to cure patients. So, Lewis was arresting and booking Freeberg and an as yet unnamed surrogate for the criminal offenses of pandering and prostitution. So, Lewis was going to place Freeberg on trial and end his practice in Hillsdale.
Tomorrow, the district attorney would hold a press conference outlining details of his prosecution against Freeberg.
Zecca's smile broadened.
His dilemma was over. A means of getting rid of Freeberg had been neatly resolved by the law. Zecca would not have to ask anyone to get rid of Freeberg. The D.A. was doing it for him. The D.A. would, in effect, waste the fucking doctor, and Zecca would have the faithless bitch Nan back in his bed for as long as he wanted her.
That moment, the telephone rang.
It was Big Manny Martin himself on the line from Las Vegas.
"Hiya, chum," said Manny. "You have something important to discuss?"
Zecca swallowed. "Not really important, boss. Maybe I overdid it in my enthusiasm. More routine, really."
"What is it, Tony?"
"Uh, the shipment—the shipment from Colombia—came in a week early. Thought you'd want to arrange a pickup."
"Is that all? We'll catch it on the regular pickup. Thanks for staying on the ball, Tony. See you soon."
After he hung up, Zecca settled back, relieved.
Just as well to have District Attorney Lewis do Manny's job for him. Tomorrow, Zecca resolved, he'd be on hand to keep an eye on the D.A.'s press conference.
Only a second before being shown into the district attorney's office did Chet Hunter feel any unsteadiness in his legs. This, he was sure, came not from nervousness about the momentous step he was taking but from the exhaustion engendered by his second roll in the hay with Suzy Edwards. It had been better than the first, far more prolonged, and much better.
Now, his shoulders back, feeling strong and certain, he walked into the district attorney's office.
The Reverend Josh Scrafield wa
s there, of course, off to one side, beaming at him. Hunter detoured to shake Scrafield's hand, then continued on to the district attorney's desk.
Hoyt Lewis was standing, his hand extended. Hunter took it briefly.
"Congratulations!" Lewis boomed out. He tapped the copy of the last installment of Hunter's journal lying on his desk. "A great job, an absolutely perfect job."
"Thank you," said Hunter.
"I've been eager to see you, Chet," said the district attorney. "I want to map out our strategy with you, before my press conference tomorrow. Sit down, sit down. Let's talk it over."
Hunter remained silently standing.
Lewis settled in his leather chair. "The main thing is that you testify on the stand just as you wrote it all out for me. We can't lose. You're going to make a magnificent witness for the prosecution. You're going to be an unimpeachable witness."
Hunter cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I won't be," he said simply.
Hoyt Lewis raised his head with a jerk, as if he hadn't heard right. "What?"
"I'll repeat it for you," said Hunter. "I'm not going to appear as a witness for you. I've come to the conclusion that Dr. Freeberg is not pandering and Gayle Miller is not engaging in prostitution. They should not be prosecuted. They're performing legitimate therapy. I participated in a cure with them, and it worked. They're good people, and they deserve to be left to continue their work."
Hoyt Lewis shook his head in disbelief. "Have you lost your mind, Chet? I can't be hearing you right."
From behind him, Hunter heard the angry shout. "Are you crazy or what?" bellowed the Reverend Scrafield. He strode across the office. "Did Freeberg pay you to do this?"
Hunter remained calm. "On the contrary. I paid Freeberg to put me together, and he did."
Scrafield had his hands on Hunter's lapels. "You back off, play turncoat, and I'll have your neck, I swear it!"
"Let go of him," ordered Lewis. The district attorney studied Hunter. "Chet, this may have been a momentary aberration on your part. I don't know what's behind it, but you deserve another chance. Are you going to stick to the script and be my witness?"
"No," said Hunter. "I absolutely refuse to testify for you."
"You can't refuse to testify," said Lewis evenly. "That's a crime in itself. If you won't testify voluntarily, then I'll have you subpoenaed to stand as a witness."
"You can do that, and I'll comply," said Hunter. "But the one thing you can't do is make me be a friendly witness for the prosecution. In fact, I'd be a very bad witness for you. The defense would be happy to have you put me on the stand. Need I say more?"
The district attorney sat silent and fuming in his chair. "I guess that's all there is to say," concluded Hunter. "I'd better go now. Hope to see you again one day—but it won't be in court."
With that, Hunter turned and left the office.
As Hunter entered the city hall corridor outside the district attorney's office, he felt a vast sense of relief. He had not known how he would stand up under the pressure from Hoyt Lewis and the Reverend Scrafield, and now he felt that he had stood up quite well. He had not been craven. He had shown courage. He suspected, as Suzy had suggested, that he owed Gayle more than merely his repaired sexuality. In restoring his manhood, Gayle had somehow restored his morality and his confidence in his future. He was pleased he had not sold her out.
Proceeding up the corridor, he thought that he heard his name called out. He halted, then whirled about to see if either Lewis or Scrafield was calling to him.
The person leaving the men's room, who was trying to get his attention, was neither Lewis nor Scrafield but someone else he had not expected to see again.
"Chet," said Otto Ferguson, approaching him, "I've been waiting for you."
"Waiting for me?" said Hunter with surprise.
Ferguson came before him. "I wanted to have a few words with you. I tried to find you and then guessed you probably came here. When I verified with Lewis's secretary that you were indeed here, I hurried straight over to stand by until you came out. I suspect you were having a heavy meeting in there."
"You're right," said Hunter, still confused by the editor's presence, "it was a very heavy meeting."
"What happened?" asked Ferguson, his gaze fixed on Hunter. "Did you tell them you'd be their witness, or did you change your mind?"
Hunter blinked at the editor. "I changed my mind. I refused to cooperate with them."
"I'm mighty glad," said Ferguson. "If you hadn't I wouldn't be here speaking to you."
Hunter was now thoroughly bewildered. "What are you talking about, Mr. Ferguson? You're the one who got me into this whole thing in the first place."
"That's before I knew what Dr. Freeberg and his surrogates were really up to," said Ferguson. He pulled a roll of pages out of his jacket pocket and waved them at Hunter. "Now I know."
"What's that?" asked Hunter.
"Your own pages. The journal you sent over to me earlier today. Chet, when all this started, naturally I was suspicious of Freeberg's operation, but still I thought your story might be too raunchy for family reading. That's why I advised you to make it into a political issue. I felt that as a political issue it would be valid for me to run all the sex stuff, especially if the D.A. brought up charges of pandering and prostitution. But I was wrong. I was misguided by my lack of facts."
Hunter's bewilderment was total. "What do you mean?"
Ferguson shook the story under Hunter's nose. "I mean this. I read every word of it, and it really shook me up. You come through sounding like a decent, compassionate creature who desperately needed help, and Gayle comes out like an angel of mercy."
Hunter stared at Ferguson with disbelief. "You—you liked what I reported on the surrogate treatments?"
"I loved it! It has all the elements of a perfect story—a suffering hero filled with inner conflicts and defeat, a beautiful heroine who will do anything to save him, then boy meets girl, and after weeks of suspense, the boy is saved and we get a happy ending." Ferguson paused. "It's all true, isn't it?"
"Every word, Mr. Ferguson."
"Well, there are thousands and thousands of people out there, silently and secretly suffering from sexual disabilities, and your personal account could give them a chance for happiness."
Hunter's mouth had gone dry. He found breathing difficult. "What are you saying, Mr. Ferguson?"
"I'm saying I'm going to run your surrogate story almost in its entirety as a series of articles under your own byline. I may ask you to edit out a bit of the overt sexuality—some judicious cutting, a few euphemisms, might make it more acceptable without distorting or compromising the honesty of your narrative."
"You're going to let me edit it?"
"Of course, once you're behind your desk at the Chronicle." He grabbed Hunter's hand and shook it. "Congratulations, Chet."
"I can't believe it."
Ferguson winked. "As you grow older, my son, you'll learn that virtue is sometimes rewarded. Be in my office at ten tomorrow morning. We'll discuss your salary." He started away, then stopped and turned. "I hope you have someone who's going to benefit from all your newly acquired sexual wisdom."
"I have! We're getting married!"
"I hope Gayle gets to catch the bouquet thrown by your bride."
After Ferguson had left, Hunter stood in the corridor, dazed by the turn of events.
Then he started to run in search of a phone, to let Suzy Edwards know that they could now get married as soon as possible.
Inside the district attorney's office, Hoyt Lewis sat bent over, his elbows on his desk, his hands holding his aching head, a picture of utter dejection.
Only an hour before, he had never been happier. After reading what Hunter had uncovered and was ready to stand witness to, Hoyt Lewis's wildest dreams of his glorious future had seemed close to reality.
And now, because of a mushy-headed witness who had refused to testify for him, Lewis's ambitions had all gone up in smoke.
&n
bsp; "Disgusting, absolutely disgusting," he muttered.
The Reverend Scrafield, who angrily continued to stride back and forth in front of Lewis's desk, agreed.
"I could kill that dumb sonofabitch," Scrafield growled.
Lewis took his chin off his hands and tried to straighten up. "Well, there's nothing we can do. Hunter's got us by the balls, so to speak. We'll have to call it quits."
"What about your press conference?" Scrafield wanted to know.
"I'll go through with it but make only a brief announcement stating that we were misinformed about Dr. Freeberg's operation and that we are dropping our charges. I'll have to say that although Freeberg and Gayle Miller are presently under arrest, we will drop the charges against them immediately."
Hoyt Lewis realized that Scrafield had stopped abruptly before his desk and was looking down at him. "Wait a minute," said Scrafield slowly, "I think I've got an idea that can resurrect our case."
"Yes?"
"You reminded me of something," Scrafield said, "that Gayle Miller is still under arrest for prostitution. She is under arrest, isn't she?"
"Of course, but we can't proceed against her. Without a witness, we have no case."
"Hold it," Scrafield said. "I have an idea. What if I came up with a perfect witness, a witness twice as good as Hunter might have been?"
Lewis became alert. "Meaning whom?"
"Meaning none other than the little whore herself, Gayle Miller."
"Gayle Miller? I don't get it."
"You said that she's still under arrest for prostitution. She doesn't know you're not going to put her on trial."
"She'll know tomorrow after my press conference, when we drop charges."
"This is today," insisted Scrafield, "and she still doesn't know. I've seen your file on her. I remember one thing. She's applied to UCLA for a graduate scholarship. If word gets out that she's being tried for prostitution, she'll lose any chance of getting that scholarship. That girl's got a lot at stake in being tried."
The Celestial Bed Page 26
