Outlaws (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard)

by George V. Higgins

  “Including the bedroom,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. She hesitated. “That was a lot of the reason I had to go and see him again,” she said. “Before I decided, I mean. When I stopped seeing him, and keep in mind this was almost eleven years ago, long before I met you, but when I stopped seeing him, it wasn’t because I wasn’t attracted to him anymore. That I still didn’t, that he wasn’t still fascinating to me. Because he was. It was because what I’d seen him becoming was frightening. Because I was scared of him. That if I stayed with him, he’d not only destroy himself but everybody else. And I was afraid. But that magnetism he had, that he still has, like a power supply he can turn on any time, on anyone he wants — that was all still there. So I had to find out …, before I did what Jimmy asked, I just had to find out myself whether I could do this to a man I really loved.”

  “Spare me the suspense,” Gleason said. “What did you find out?”

  “That night we went to this hotel,” she said. “The Hotel des Isles. We were late, and there was only one other person in the dining room. It’s on the second floor with these big windows, and you can look out across the boulevard at the beach, and the ocean, and there’s this big pink fort that guards the harbor. And there was only this one old woman eating dinner in there. She was European. German, I think. Wearing one of those silk dresses with lots of flowers on them, and lace at the bodice. And she had this napkin tucked in her collar and she was eating cracked crabs. Dipping the meat in mayonnaise and chewing so you could hear, and every so often putting her fork down and sucking her teeth, picking out the meat from between them with her nails. When she finished, she burped. And there were these three wizened old waiters, all pruned up — from the sun, I suppose — and they served us our dinner in silence. Then we walked out and along the beach in the evening. And he said to me: ‘Why did you come?’

  “That was the first time he asked,” she said. “It was the only time he asked. Here I’d flown across the ocean and traveled all these miles to see him, after almost eleven years, and he waited until the second night to ask me that. I said: ‘I’m not sure.’ Because, what could I say to him? That I was coming, I’d come to see if I could turn him in like this? Like Jimmy wants to do?

  “And he said: ‘Don’t you have memories? Can’t you refer to them?’ And I said: ‘Yes. But some of them frighten me, you know? They really frighten me. And I needed to know if you’ve changed.’

  “He said: ‘What have you decided?’ And I said: ‘Well, I haven’t, you know? I really haven’t yet.’ And he said: ‘When do you think you will?’ And I said: ‘I don’t know that, either. You’ve got to give me some time.’

  “He said: ‘I can’t. I can’t give you too much. I’ve got to be in Tangier the day after tomorrow. I’ve got to take you back to Casa tomorrow.’ And I said: ‘Why? I can fly from Tangier. I don’t care where I fly from. Why can’t we just stay here?’

  “He wouldn’t answer me,” she said. “I thought it was probably because he was either meeting someone there that he didn’t want me to see, or going somewhere from there that he didn’t want me to know. But it was probably the passport thing, like you said. He probably didn’t want me to see who he was going to be when he took off from there. Security.”

  “John Richards,” Gleason said, “John Richards thinks, or Alton thinks, he’s with the PLO. Or one of its affiliates, one of its splinter groups. He’s still involved with that.”

  “That could be,” she said. “I asked him that, when I was there: ‘What are you doing, now?’ Because he never could stand to be, you know, just idle. And he was very secretive. But I know, ’way back when we were together, he really did mean what he said about financing the revolution with the money from the trucks, the armored cars. And he made a lot of connections that he’s probably still got. Those that aren’t dead by now.”

  “You know who they were?” Gleason said. “Who any of them were?”

  “Some of them,” she said. “There was a man on Long Island that was supposed to be, he was in NORAID, the Northern Ireland Aid thing? And Sam was helping him buy guns. I know he went to Ireland, to the Republic, with him, and they went across the border into Ulster. But I don’t know what they did there. I didn’t go with them. And I know, he let it slip once in Morocco that he’s got this friend named, he called him ‘Kiri,’ but that’s about all he said. And that Kiri’d been with him in Casa when my message arrived, and told him not to see me because I’d be ‘dangerous.’ Which was why they made me wait two days, and had me watched, and then had me drive myself to Marrakech — to be sure I was alone. I asked him what he meant by that, by ‘dangerous.’ I said: ‘I never hurt you.’ But he wouldn’t tell me. Just said, you know, that Kiri thought a man who’d disappeared, and wanted to stay disappeared, wouldn’t take unnecessary chances. But that was all. Then he said: ‘I told him, when a man gets to be forty years old, he starts to slow down a little anyway. Gets nostalgic, maybe. Takes a little gamble that he wouldn’t’ve at twenty. Kiri did not like that. He said I should play safe.’ ”

  “Uh huh,” Gleason said. “Kiri was right, there. That’s why Consolo’s bugging you — ’cause Sam’s been playing safe.”

  “I don’t follow,” she said.

  “Badger ran the extradition codes through his machines when he found out where you’d been,” Gleason said. “Morocco and this country haven’t got a treaty. What they’ve got, what we have got, is a sort of attorneys general accord, where we say and they say that we’ll do our best to help each other get our evildoers back. But it hasn’t been ratified, and it’s mostly for hijackers and drug-traffic guys. So there’s a real question whether Consolo can get him out of Morocco even if he does make his case, and get him charged with murder.”

  “So why is he doing it, then?” she said.

  “Two possible reasons,” Gleason said. “Either what he’s got in mind is catch him when he’s visiting some country that does have a treaty with us, or else he’s planning his own mission. Go abduct the guy.”

  “He won’t kidnap Sam,” she said. “Sam carries a gun, and he’s always watching out.”

  “That wouldn’t bother Cowboy Fred,” Gleason said. “That wouldn’t bother him.” He studied her. “Question is: It bother you? That Fred might knock off Sam?”

  She looked down. She worked her lips against her teeth. “I don’t,” she said, “I don’t think so.”

  “Now that you’ve seen him,” Gleason said, “now that you’ve made love again with him, you’re satisfied you can betray him? Even to the point of getting him, maybe, killed?”

  “I think so,” she said.

  “Well,” he said, “that worries me some.”

  “Terry,” she said, “this is hard for me. I’ll keep my word, really.”

  “Oh,” he said, “I know that. What worries me is not your word. It’s that you had to see Sam again to decide whether to hand him his hat. And you did, and you are. And now you’re seeing me — again. Hope there’s no pattern there.”

  JULY 24, 1985

  38

  At 4:15 in the afternoon, Det. Sgt. Frederick Consolo presided at a meeting in the offices of the Norfolk County District Attorney’s office on Main Street in Dedham. He rested his haunches on the front edge of his grey steel desk and braced himself with his hands. Cpl. Peter Kelly sat at his desk to Consolo’s immediate right. Cpl. Molly Dennis sat at her desk, to Consolo’s immediate left. Tpr. Walter Davis sat behind Dennis. The chair behind Kelly was vacant and the desk was clear.

  “I have some announcements to make,” Consolo said. “The first is that Fitzy’s been transferred, effective immediately, to the office of the District Attorney for Bristol County.”

  “We knew that, Sergeant,” Dennis said. She nodded towards the empty desk. “He was in here this morning, cleaning out his gear.”

  “I know you knew that, Molly,” Consolo said. “What you may not know is that Trooper Fitzroy was transferred against my wishes.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, come on,” she said.

  Consolo held up his hand. “One the problems you have,” he said, “not by any means the only one, but certainly among the more serious, is your tendency to presume facts not in your possession. Without considering the possibility that reality may not square with your presumptions. Which is the case in this instance.”

  “Enlighten me,” she said.

  “I shall,” Consolo said. “Trooper Fitzroy was transferred upon receipt of my report at Ten-ten Com. It described his gross dereliction of duty yesterday. ‘Sleeping at the switch,’ was the old railroad term I used. My wishes, though, were that he be transferred to North Adams, assuming there was no opening at Ultima Thule, and that policy continues to frown on firing squads. Those wishes were not heeded, and that is why I say to you today that he is in New Bedford, against my preferences.

  “Trooper Fitzroy,” he said, “is an asshole. You, Corporal Dennis, have been something of an anus yourself. Corporal Kelly has nothing to boast about, so far as I’m aware. The result is that I spend my days trying to shine shit. I can’t do it.

  “Therefore,” he said, standing up, “we are going to have a new birth of freedom here, is what we’re going to have. Today, after this meeting, you, Pete, will drive me to Waterford and as soon as we know she’s out of that apartment, we’ll pull out the bugs and yank the truck.”

  “Good,” Kelly said. “We haven’t gotten a goddamned thing out of it since we put the damned thing in.”

  “That is correct,” Consolo said. “It is also one small part of reality. The rest of reality is that the reason we haven’t gotten anything is that you, and Fitzy, and you also, Brother Davis, have been inattentive, lazy and stupid. You’ve nonchalanted this project from the beginning, proceeded on the idea that it wouldn’t produce anything — and therefore it has not.”

  “Does that mean it’s over, then?” Dennis said.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Consolo said. “It doesn’t mean that. As war is the continuation of diplomacy by other means, so this investigation will continue. By other means. In which none of you will be required to participate.”

  “Same thing, then,” she said, “as far as we’re concerned.”

  He shook his head. “You keep doing it, Molly,” he said. “While your participation will not be required, it will be very much allowed. In other words, if your commitment to this project should for some reason improve to the point at which you think you might actually like to contribute something to its success, where it should have been all along, I’d appreciate your help.”

  “Are you serious?” Kelly said. “Are you actually serious, Sarge?”

  “Certainly am,” Consolo said. “I’m always serious. I’m not as hopeful as I’d like to be, that you’ll think things over and decide to be serious too, but it is a possibility and I don’t want to rule it out.”

  “Why,” Davis said, “why, the way you’ve treated us, would we do a thing like that?”

  Consolo pointed his right index finger at Davis. “Good point,” he said, “good point. You have a good point there. It’s time for an attitude check. Mine as well as yours. I think you’d want to pitch in, where you were holding back before, because I’ve been doing some serious thinking of my own about this investigation, and I’ve concluded — and this maybe will surprise you — but I’ve concluded some of your reluctance, just going through the motions, that I may have caused it. Some of it, at least. At least a part of it. Not intentionally. Not on purpose. But when you find yourself in a snafued situation like this, and you’re the one supposedly in charge, one of the things you have to think about is whether you’ve communicated your goals clearly to the people you want to carry them out.

  “Basic principle of management,” he said. “You’ll never get successful management if you don’t analyze mistakes of unsuccessful management, especially your own, and see if you can find out what brought them about.

  “Now,” he said, rubbing his chin with his left hand, “I have tried to do that in this case. And that’s what I came up with: that Fitzy’s carelessness; that your chronic insubordination, Pete; and your mediocre handling of the Simone interrogation, Molly; that all of those events happened because I failed initially to articulate clearly exactly what I wanted to do here, and why I wanted to do it.”

  “Hey,” Davis said, “does that mean I’m off the hook?”

  “Inflate the life raft, Pete,” Dennis said. “Ship must be sinking if the rat is getting off.”

  “Cut it out,” Consolo said. “No, Walter, it doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. It only means that your responsibility for the lack of success so far is probably attributable to some omission to act at a time when you should have, so I don’t know what you could’ve come up with if you acted properly.

  “Anyway,” he said, “this is what I’m going to do. I called Osgood down on the Cape this morning.”

  “I’ll bet June loved you for that,” Dennis said. “You know how she feels about Dave being interrupted on his vacation.”

  “Yes I do,” Consolo said. “He hates it, and she hates it, and right now all they’re thinking about’s going to the beach today and then to the races next month. And that’s why I did it. Why I called Osgood direct — so he’ll do what I want when I want it, just to get rid of me. I said: ‘Look, I’ll make this quick. Our guy is moving around. If I get a chance to grab him, I want to be a position to take it. I don’t want to be in a position where I have to ask Interpol to shadow the son of a bitch for two weeks until I can locate you somewhere for approval, and schedule some grand jury time, and then have to scrounge up some spare assistant DA somewhere that doesn’t happen to be doing much of anything, and isn’t on vacation, so I can present the case. By which time the bastard will’ve moved on somewhere else. I need to be ready to move out with a warrant in my hand, and take my prisoner.’

  “And he pissed and moaned, of course, but not for very long — because he wanted to take June to the beach with their shovels and their pails, and their delicious picnic lunch. So, Fern Schofield’s presenting the case on Wednesday morning, which is the thirty-first and later’n I’d like, but that’s the first day we can get the grand jury in. And we’ll go with what we’ve got and hope to get more later. But we’ll at least have a warrant, if we do stumble over the guy, and that’ll be an improvement.”

  “Have we got enough to indict?” Davis said. “Have we actually made the deal? Cut the bargain with Walker?”

  “We’ve got enough,” Consolo said. “If I can’t cut a deal with Walker by then I’ll throw his buddy’s statements in, and go the hearsay route. If I can cut a deal, then we’ll put Walker in, get him immunity, and put him on the record, under oath, before we ask him the first question. Every single syllable, down on the record.”

  “He’ll want to see his lawyer,” Dennis said. “The first thing he’ll say is that he won’t talk until he sees his lawyer. He picks the wrong one, Tibbetts’ll get a telegram, and he will go to ground. We’ll have our warrant, maybe, but nobody to catch with it.”

  “It’s a chance we’ve got to take,” Consolo said. “We’re not getting anywhere this way, proceeding as we have been. Time to try something new. He knows, most likely knows by now we’re chasing him again. If he doesn’t know exactly what for, or how we’re going to prove it, if he thinks about it long enough he probably can guess. And Walker’s not going to get anything out of it until he testifies at trial, so we lose nothing by making his deal now. Might even gain something, as a matter of fact — once he knows the only thing between him and the front gate at Cedar Junction’s us capturing Tibbetts, he’s going to be a lot more alert for any scraps of information that’ll tell us where Sam is.”

  “Yeah,” Davis said, “but once that word gets out, you know, won’t Sam try to reach in there, and make Mister Walker dead?”

  “We’ll isolate him if we have to,” Consolo said. “Put him in the infirmary. But I don’t think Tibbetts can pull that off. Not now.
Too long’s gone by. All his people’ve dispersed. He hasn’t got the guns.”

  “Who’s gonna try this blinger, Fred,” Dennis said. “Assuming we do catch this buzzard, who is going to try it?”

  Consolo shrugged. “I dunno,” he said. “Haven’t gotten that far yet. Catch him first, then worry.”

  “Fern’s a nice kid, Fred,” Dennis said, “but she ain’t no Gleason.”

  Consolo showed a crooked smile. “Yeah, Moll, you’re right,” he said, “but Dave Osgood used to be, and if we grab this SOB, he’ll be chomping at the bit.”

  “Okay,” Dennis said, “where do we fit in, if you join this new campaign?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Consolo said. “As I’ve said, this is, we’re entering a new phase. To a degree we’re going to have to improvise, make it up as we go along. But one of the things we know — if we don’t know exactly how we’re going to have to react, we do know that we’re going to have to react. So for now it’s a matter of keeping our eyes open, staying plugged in to our sources around town, and being prepared to respond instantly if something starts going down.”

  “I see,” she said. “I think that’s great.”

  “I thought you would,” he said.

  “You know how I lie,” she said.

  JULY 26, 1985

  39

  James Walker’s skin was the color of strong coffee mixed with a little light cream. He had a closely trimmed, black goatee, and he had shaved his head. His features were even. He wore rimless bifocals with stainless steel bows and he sat on a grey metal chair in the visitors’ room with his arms folded at his waist. He spoke in a soft voice. At 8:13 in the evening, he told Gleason on the opposite chair that they could not talk there.