Simple Intent

by Linda Sands

  “Can’t do that, man.” Ray adjusted his grip on the books and glanced over to see that the third con had slipped away. Noises came from the room behind Skunk, a string of commercials that meant nothing behind these walls: a guy talking about the pleasures of driving a luxury car, a child excited about learning to read, a woman confessing her allergies to an audience more interested in the size of her breasts.

  Ray tipped his chin to Skunk, “How did that plea work out? You gonna get some time off?”

  Skunk shook his head, his eyes on the floor. When he looked up, he seemed to be weighing something in his mind. He pushed off the wall, approached Ray and fixed his gaze just above Ray’s head as if he were talking to someone behind him, someone tall. Skunk tapped the law books with a long dirty fingernail and accented each word, “You…lied…to…me.”

  Ray said, “What do you mean?”

  The missing guy took him from behind, locked his arms in a vise-like grip. Books and files fell to the floor. Ray lunged forward trying to break the grasp. He felt something rip in his shoulder. Pain shot down his arm. Skunk stepped out of the range of Ray’s flailing body and kicking legs and gave Nester the nod. Nester waited for the big guy to control Ray’s legs and came in low, like a junkyard dog.

  Ray screamed as the shank pierced his skin. Nester looked into his eyes as he drove the sharpened spoon under Ray’s rib cage. The thrust forced Ray up on his toes. Nester twisted the crude weapon until it broke then pulled back, the dull, bent bowl of a soupspoon in his bloody fist.

  Ray felt the pain behind his right eye, like a flashcube spinning and burning on an old camera. Pop. Sizzle.

  Then it was over.

  Ray didn’t feel himself falling, but knew he was on the floor. He had nothing left but words—syllables that weren’t strong enough and vowels that bled. He lay there, moaning in a language only pain understands.

  A shout from the end of the hallway was like a switch that sent the three men scurrying. Ray saw rapidly approaching black shoes and heard someone say, “Dear Jesus,” from very far away.

  She fell, unafraid. Maria Rosarita Conchetta had made atonement, paid in full. She was dead before her robed body smashed onto the empty metal cage and crushed the sign that asked passers-by to free the innocent creatures and give from their heart.

  In the hotel room fifteen floors above, glass tinkled out of the window frame, joining the fragments on the carpet below. Three cops stood over Deluca. One knelt, put two fingers to the jugular then shook his head, his lips in a tight line.

  Paris pushed past the news camera and approached the body of Fast Eddie Deluca, Esquire.

  “Is he dead?”

  The kneeling cop stood. “Yes, Ma’am.” He grabbed her elbow as she turned white, then called to another cop, “Porter!”

  They sat her in a low suede chair facing the open bathroom door. A gust of wind from the broken window rustled a paper soap wrapper on the floor, pushing it up against the wall. She closed her eyes, felt this same breeze brush the back of her neck and shivered from the tickle of air and the siren screams of the approaching ambulance.

  Halfway across the state, fire companies from Third Mountain, Peters Mountain and the Susquehanna Reserve Paramedic Squad answered the call. There were helicopters and Humvees, TV news vans and a scrappy group of Vegetarian Environmentalists from New Buffalo who passed a jug of carrot juice and chanted, “Woods and bombs don’t mix, no! Woods and bombs don’t mix!”

  Though the night air was warm, Sailor took the blanket the EMT offered. She held it around her shoulders with one hand and rubbed her head with the other. The bump felt like a quail egg.

  As her hearing came back, she watched Banning with the reporters and the cops. He looked good, younger somehow, confident again. He had protected Reilly and Sailor from the verbal barrage and acted as their attorney during the police questioning. Now he stood in front of three cameras giving a concise yet veiled statement. He would come out of this fine, better than before. If that were possible.

  Sailor was beginning to think nothing was impossible, as if they were caught up in a Hollywood production. The director would call “Cut!” any minute and the backdrop of woods, trees and smoldering fires would be rolled away and stored in a warehouse in Lomita while a clean-up crew swept away the undergrowth to reveal a cracked concrete floor and a bunch of trick wires.

  But when the uniformed men lifted black-bagged bodies into an ambulance without lights and flew Berger off the mountain in a helicopter, there was no denying it was real.

  Reilly sat beside her. “I was just talking to the city reporters and there’s something you should know. Deluca’s dead.”

  Sailor wrapped the blanket tighter around as she fought back tears. “What happened?”

  Reilly told her what he knew. How Banning had asked Maria to come to Philly and give testimony, tell the whole story of what happened twenty-four years ago. How Paris offered to help, wanting to bring down Montgomery. How Deluca sung like a canary before he shot Maria Chetta with a gun that backfired and killed him too. How it all took place in a swanky hotel room on live TV.

  Then there was Gallo.

  Sailor held up a hand and shook her head. “Wait.” How had something so simple gotten so out of hand? All she’d intended to do was free a wrongfully convicted man. “Shit! The meeting with the judge. Did you get my message?”

  But the way Reilly was looking at her said it all. He had no idea what she was talking about. “Doesn’t matter,” she whispered, “we’ll never make it. I’m sorry, Ray.”

  Sailor stood, dropped the blanket and began walking, then stopped. She didn’t know where to go.

  She turned around and Reilly opened his arms. Sailor began crying and he came to her and held her, wrapping his arms around her and closing out the world.

  After a while she said, “Reilly?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What the hell am I doing?”

  “Shh.”

  “God, this is so messed up, you know?”

  “I know.” Reilly lifted Sailor’s chin, stroked the tears from her cheeks with his thumb then kissed her tenderly. “It’s supposed to be messed up. That’s how real life is.”

  EPILOGUE

  There’s Got to be a Morning After

  RAY heard the squeak of a window opening, a door close and latch and a second later caught the light scent of fresh-mown grass worn like perfume on the laughing women passing below. He almost smiled then moved his swollen tongue in his mouth against the sharp edges of broken teeth, tasted coppery blood and opened his eyes to a room that was too bright, too large, too white. Not Graterford white, but the white of the free world.

  There was a blur across his right eye—a strip of bandage hung loosely from his wrapped head. He wanted to reach up and brush it away. He wanted to sit up and order ham and eggs and sip a cup of hot black coffee. Or did he prefer tea? He wanted to look out the window and see a patch of grass that went on forever with no fences in sight. He wanted to say, “Thank you,” to the sleeping girl, the beautiful girl who held his hand and rested her head on his hospital bed. The girl who had been talking to him in his dreams.

  And he wanted to ask what day it was and why he was here and would there really be sweet potato pie on Sunday? Maybe he’d ask her all those things. Later. He exhaled deeply, his breath fluttering the stray strip of gauze, and then he closed his eyes.

  Gallo threw the last suitcase in the trunk and rested his hand on the Caddy as the hydraulic lid lowered itself with a whisper. He jogged around to the driver’s side and got one leg inside before the black car pulled up.

  “Motherfucker.”

  They parked at an angle, blocking the Caddy. Three men took their time getting out, buttoning their suit jackets, smoothing them, grinning in Gallo’s direction.

  One said, “Where you going, Lou?” and waved a folded piece of paper in Gallo’s direction.

  Shazad argued with the tough day nurse. “I am telling you, Miss. He is my b
rother. Ray will say to you. He has been calling me.”

  “Sir, you aren’t on the family list. I can’t let just anyone into Mr. Bentley’s room. He’s still in critical condition, and I’m sure he didn’t make any calls.”

  “I know this to be so.” Shazad touched her arm and caught her eyes with his. “Miss, he requires me.”

  The nurse fought the brown eyes, felt the heat of the man’s skin on her arm, soothing and warm. She pulled back, flustered, and glanced back at her empty station. Something melted inside her when she said, “Ten minutes,” and walked away.

  Shazad stepped into Ray’s room. There was a vase of daisies on the bedside table. A slim black girl was reading a poem about trees and noise and reckless choices. Her head was bowed over the thick book, her fingers tucked under the page ready to turn. Shazad closed his eyes and felt the energy in the room. If he had been an artist, then he would have painted this canvas with a broad brush loaded with sunny yellows, vibrant blues and just a touch of red, a small circle off-center. When he opened his eyes, the girl was looking at him. She had Ray’s eyes.

  “Are you here to see Ray?”

  Shazad smiled at her. “He is pleased you are here, to be reading to him.”

  Sailor closed the book, held it on her lap.

  She looked harder at Shazad. “Do I know you?”

  “Only when you dream.”

  “Wait, this is so bizarre. Are you sure we haven’t met somewhere before?”

  “Never on this plane, Miss.”

  “On a plane? Was that it?” Sailor set the book on the bed as she stood up.

  “No, no.” Shazad shook his head. “Never mind. You are hungry. Go and eat. I will be with Ray.”

  Sailor wondered how the guy knew she was hungry. Did she look hungry? And it was the weirdest thing, she felt like she knew him. And not from her dreams. Somehow, she trusted him. Besides, what harm could he do to a comatose man?

  “Maybe I could use a little something. Thank you.”

  “I am Shazad.”

  “Sailor,” she said, extending her hand.

  He took her hand, held it gently between his and nodded.

  His fingers were slim, his hands warm and smooth like the lining of a mink coat. She could have left her hand there forever and was disappointed when he let her go.

  Flustered, she said, “How do you know Ray?”

  “He was my cellmate.”

  “Oh.” Sailor looked at her shoes. “Maybe I will, you know, just go grab a little something to eat.” She started toward the door, thinking she wouldn’t be long.

  Shazad smiled. “Take as long as you will be needing. Everything will be okay.”

  Sailor raised a brow then glanced at Ray and left.

  Shazad waited until the door shut then approached the bed. He skimmed his hands over Ray’s body, his eyes unfocused.

  “There is not much time.” Shazad’s hands made small circles over Ray’s heart, moved to his face, fingers parting as his hands opened, palms up.

  “Hello, Ray.”

  Ray opened his eyes and blinked twice.

  Sailor tried to see through the plastic lids. Not much of a choice. A squashed tuna sandwich, a limp green salad, or a turkey club stacked with pink tomatoes. She slid her tray down the rails and paused at the soup. Minestrone. Her Mom used to make minestrone.

  “Smells good.” Reilly pushed an overloaded tray next to hers.

  Sailor glanced at his choices; coffeecake, turkey club and lime Jello. “Look at you. Brave one, eh?”

  “The breakfast of champions.”

  Sailor laughed.

  “Thanks for coming, Reilly.”

  “Anytime.”

  They paid the cashier and sat at a small table near the entrance. They ate in silence, unsure of what to say. Reilly wanted to joke, but was afraid his words would come out wrong.

  Sailor pushed the soup away and wiped her lips on a paper napkin. “I have to get back.”

  Reilly nodded, then held up a finger as he chewed a bit of sandwich and swallowed.

  “I’ll come with you. Just a sec.” He started to pile his garbage on the tray.

  “No. I mean, finish your Jello. I’ll meet you up there. Ray’s got a visitor, anyway.”

  “A visitor?”

  “Yeah. A little guy named Shazad. He’s a bit strange.”

  Reilly snorted, “Shazad’s more than a little strange. The cons I talked to at Graterford said he was magic.”

  “Magic?”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Got me.” Reilly shrugged. “I just like the dude’s name. Shazad.”

  “Sounds like a really fast sports car.”

  “Or a venereal disease.”

  They laughed.

  Sailor was still chuckling when she left Reilly. She took the stairs back to Ray’s room, preferring the smell of Lysol and cigarettes to the claustrophobic elevators stinking of sickness and despair.

  It had been five days of watching and waiting. Not sure what she expected, she knew she had to be there.

  The doctors weren’t encouraging. Between the head trauma and the knife wound, complete recovery wasn’t an option. The word rehabilitation never came up. Sailor asked her father to help. Dr. Beaumont’s name went a long way, and the best doctors gave Ray the best treatment. Sailor wouldn’t give up.

  She’d talked to Ray while he lay there in his self-imposed prison. She’d read Tolstoy to him, and when that grew too grim, she’d switched to Faulkner, and when her throat closed around the long sentences and pieces of a past she’d never seen, she opened a volume of poetry and let the masters say the things she longed to say—clear, concise, condensed.

  She’d have to go back to Connecticut soon. There were things to pack, decisions to be made. But for now, she was here.

  Sailor left the stairwell and wandered down the white hallway. Someone had abandoned a stretcher in the corridor; drops of blood stained the white sheets. She rolled it against the wall and tried not to think about the blood and the deep indentation where a head had once lain. She paused outside his door, took a deep breath and went inside.

  Berger lay propped up in the bed with his eyes closed, one hand on the TV remote. The picture was clear, the sound muted.

  Taylor Dunne jostled for her shot in front of the Courthouse as people and reporters ran around behind her with cameras and microphones and steno pads.

  Sailor watched the lines scroll at the bottom of the screen. Philly mob going down…long-time insiders make deal…Don Louis Michael Gallo takes some of Philly’s finest with him…Deluca funeral tomorrow…coverage at noon…

  It would be a while before it all died down.

  Berger said, “I keep dreaming of deer.”

  Sailor turned around.

  He hit the bed control button, raising himself as she turned her way. “Why do you suppose that is? They have these big eyes, and they’re so quiet, you know, like they’re watching me.” He laughed. “Guess I’ll have to ask the Doc about that.”

  “How’s that going?” Sailor asked, approaching the bed and pulling up a chair.

  “We’re trying some new meds. With that and therapy and time.” He shrugged. “We’ll see.” He slid his eyes to the TV screen and pointed.

  Sailor saw Len Banning standing next to Taylor Dunne. Berger turned up the volume.

  “…The Alliance. The people of Philadelphia deserve the truth. They deserved it in 1977 when their streets were being run by crooked cops, their courts ruled by greedy judges, and they deserve it today, when we see the rich and powerful use their influence to control and disrupt our daily lives. The whole country—no—the world will be watching what happens here, in this court.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the imposing building behind them. “When the good citizens finally get to hear the truth, the whole truth—”

  Taylor Dunne’s red glossy lips finished the line, “So help me God.”

  Berger clicked off the TV.

  “Wh
at a circus.” He lowered his bed a little, looked at Sailor. “What are you gonna do, kid?”

  Sailor shook her head. “I’m not sure. My dad wants me to come home, but…”

  “Did Banning ever tell you that you look like her? Your mother?”

  “How do you know about my mother?”

  “Reilly told me everything.” Berger stared at Sailor. “Yeah, you look like Tara, but I can see Ray in you, too. You got his fire.”

  Sailor smiled. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

  “Listen, I—” Berger cleared his throat, looked out the window. “You tell him I’m sorry, you know? I was a real asshole back then.”

  He turned back. “I ain’t using this as an excuse or nothing, but the Doc says it’s the disease—that maybe I didn’t know, didn’t have a choice.”

  His fingers worked at the blanket threads, plucking the cotton, worrying a hole into the weave. He stopped suddenly and sighed.

  “Shit. I did know. I got off on the power, tripping on the badge. And Gina. Sweet Gina. Christ. I really fucked up.” Softer then, “Who am I kidding? I’m still an asshole.”

  Sailor reached for his hand. “You can’t change the past, Berger, but maybe you can pay off the future.”

  Shazad smiled at Ray, into eyes like dull pennies, then pulled the lids down.

  “Goodbye, my friend. I will never forget you.”

  Reilly waited on a plastic chair, watched the nurses flirt with the interns. He imagined a new comedy skit, a gay nurse with a thick accent and a limp. He smiled, felt his pockets for paper and pen.

  “You didn’t have to stay.”

  Reilly looked up. Sailor stood over him.

  “How’s Ray?”

  “He didn’t make it.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you want to sit down?” He motioned to the seat beside him.

  She hugged herself. “No. Actually, I’d rather go.”

  “Sure.” Reilly stood, tucking the paper and pen in his pocket.

  Sailor pulled a worn notebook from her purse. “Shazad gave me this.” She handed it to Reilly. He opened it carefully. Tiny precise handwriting covered the page, every page.