It Happened at Two in the Morning

by Alan Hruska

  “That’s not much of a bit,” Julian says.

  “Okay. The guy they’re sending to interview you is Sammy Riegert. He’s in the trial division. Works for Foster Donachetti. Pretty high up.”

  “Which my secretary could have found out when she scheduled the interview.”

  “So now you have it sooner.”

  “I don’t even know yet that it’s true.”

  “Trust me.”

  “I thought the point of this exercise was to earn it.”

  “And what would you like? I keep feeding you information until you tell me at the end you know nothing?”

  “We’re wasting time, Teddy. The fact is I don’t know anything. I can only guess why Robbie was shot, as can you, but I don’t know. Likewise, I don’t know who shot him. And since I wasn’t there when it was done, I’ve little idea how it was done.”

  “It’s pretty clear the daughter did it.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “With a male accomplice.”

  “If you say so,” says Julian in a bored tone.

  “Okay, I’ll give you this, gratis. You know the accomplice is a lawyer. In fact, he works for the firm that’s your outside counsel. And what the DA is interested in is whether they were acting alone or with some additional accomplice. Someone who might not have been there on the night, so to speak, but backed them in some way, was part of this. And they suspect that someone might have been you, Julian. That’s why they’re coming to see you. So you see, that’s pretty good information. I get paid a lot of money for information like that.”

  “Why gratis, then?”

  “Maybe, after all, you caught me in a festive, Christmassy sort of mood.”

  “It’s July.”

  “For me, Julian, the reality is … giving to one’s fellow man is always in season. Especially if the fellow in question is about to become CEO.”

  SEVENTEEN

  I want all your money, and I want she should take all her clothes off,” says the hobo to the frightened pair huddling in the far corner of the railroad car. He’s a short bearded man in a purple T-shirt that seems in the dim light to say “Beni” over the picture of a cleaver.

  “Forget it,” Tom says. “It’s not gonna happen.”

  “I want that!”

  “You can want all you like.”

  “You see this knife?” says Beni, thrusting it in their direction.

  “Yeah, I see it,” Tom says, shrugging out of his jacket and wrapping it around his arm. “But you come near us with that knife, and I’m gonna take it from you. You wanna know why? Because I’m bigger and stronger than you and not whacked out on drugs. And when I’ve got the knife, then what are you going to do?”

  The hobo thinks about that, his face furrowing in sunbaked grooves. “I’ll cut ya!” he says and jumps forward a step.

  “I’ll cut you worse!”

  Which seems to confuse him.

  “You get back, Beni!”

  The train rumbles on, farmland, woods. They’re out in the country, and it could be any country. The man lowers the knife. “You got any money?”

  “Not a dime,” Tom says.

  “What the fuck good are yer?”

  “We can give you a sandwich.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah. Pretty good too.”

  Elena says, “You’re giving him your sandwich?”

  “I thought we might split the other one.”

  “While this bum gets a whole sandwich just ’cause he has a knife?”

  “He’s obviously starving.”

  “That wasn’t his first thought.”

  “You’re right.” Tom turns back to the hobo. “Okay, new terms. I’ll give you half of my sandwich for information. Like where’s this train going?”

  “You said a whole sandwich.”

  “Sorry. We don’t like your manners, so the terms have changed. Half a sandwich and you’re lucky to get that.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Life is a bitch,” Tom notes, “but it’s a lot easier if you’re nice to people. And you’d better hurry. That offer could be withdrawn any time.”

  “Kentucky.”

  “This train’s going to Kentucky?”

  “Damn straight. Ashaway.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s there?”

  “Never been. Steel mill, I think.”

  “Okay. You give me the knife, I’ll give you this delicious half sandwich.”

  “Hey! I ain’t givin’ you no knife! You said nothin’ about that.”

  “That’s the deal, mister. You give me the knife, I’ll give it back to you when we get off or you do.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “As you wish,” says Tom, handing a full sandwich to Elena, taking a half for himself and laying the other half within its wrapping on the floor of the car.

  They start eating, the hobo squatting, looking on.

  “Hey, this is really good,” says Tom. “Ham and cheese, butter and mustard!”

  “Sure is,” sings out Elena.

  Beni watches the sandwich being consumed.

  Some small town rattles into view, then disappears out the corner of the open car door.

  Beni rises and comes toward them with the knife extended. Elena gives a start. Tom, grasping her upper arm, squeezes it slightly. He goes on eating; the hobo approaches. Eye to eye, Tom and Beni, with Tom finishing his half sandwich, Beni standing there, staring, still holding the knife. As Tom reaches for the other half on the floor, Beni grabs his wrist with one hand, lays the knife in front of him with the other, then swoops the treat up for himself.

  At least Tom gets a good look at the man’s T-shirt close up. It says not simply Beni, but Benihana. How such a man comes upon such a shirt is one of those mysteries, Tom thinks, that will simply have to go unsolved.

  The man trundles off with his prize, squats once more, and in three bites consumes it. Elena picks up the remaining half sandwich, breaks it in two and hands half of it to Tom. He gives her a look of new appreciation.

  EIGHTEEN

  Sammy Riegert scares most people. He’s a no-necked, large-shouldered young bull of extreme intensity, barely contained by a conference room or his cheap blue suit. Yasim, by contrast, presents an exterior of calm. If he seems ruffled at all, it’s by the presence of Rashid, who insisted on being there for the interview and now stands menacingly at his back.

  “So you knew Mr. Riles personally?” Sammy asks.

  “Of course,” says Yasim. “Most of the work on these loans was done by his subordinates and lawyers, but he made occasional appearances, and we had reason to talk from time to time.”

  “Just you and him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And can you tell me what these conversations were about?”

  “They were confidential.”

  “The man’s dead,” Sammy notes.

  “Quite so. But the obligation of confidentiality is one I owe to his company.”

  “So you’re not claiming any sort of diplomatic privilege.”

  “Possibly. Such privileges do exist.”

  “Let me understand your position here, Mr. Maktoum. You’re not the UAE Ambassador to this country.”

  “That would be Mr. Adoub,” Yasim says. “He’s in Washington.”

  “You’re—”

  “Vice-consul, in charge of the consulate here in New York.”

  “But you’re also an employee of Istithmar, the investing arm of Dubai.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “There’s no conflict in those positions?”

  “On the contrary. What’s good for Istithmar is good for Dubai and hence for the UAE.”

  “But in your discussions with Mr. Riles, you were acting in your business capacity.”

  “And in every other capacity I possess.”

  Sammy wonders what he’s doing there, interviewing this guy. And he’s not the only ADA with that concern. Just before leaving his office he was button
holed by Joe Cunningham, who, when told where Sammy was going, shook his head with rueful disdain. “What the fuck,” said Joe. “It’s a goddamn waste of time. You ever see a cold-cocked case like this. Prints on the murder weapon? Eyewitness? I mean what the fuck we doin’?”

  “I’m just following orders, Joe.”

  “Yeah, you do that, man. And you come equipped with a mind of your own, right? So what’s that good brain tell you?”

  “I’m wasting my time interviewing this guy.”

  “Right. So you’d better get on with it.”

  Sammy pushes himself to do just that. “Reports were circulating, were they not, that Mr. Riles was unwilling to give a further extension on his companies’ outstanding loans to Dubai?”

  “There were stories, yes.”

  “Were they accurate?”

  Rashid steps forward. “Is Mr. Maktoum a suspect in this matter, officer?”

  “You can call me Mr. Riegert, or ADA Riegert, but ‘officer’ doesn’t quite fit. I’m not a cop. And no, Mr. Maktoum is not a suspect. He might be a witness. That’s what I’m trying to ascertain.”

  “Obviously,” says Rashid, “the daughter did it. With an accomplice, it appears.”

  “You must know I can’t comment on that.”

  “Look,” says Yasim. “It’s public knowledge Robbie Riles was threatening to call his loans, which would have triggered defaults under all the Emirates’s loan agreements, so that every other lender would also have called. It’s all been in The Wall Street Journal.”

  “And this would have been bad for Istithmar, Dubai, and the UAE?”

  Yasim laughs. “Ruinous.”

  “So after you talked to him, to Riles, what was your impression? Was he about to pull the plug?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “You know, it really doesn’t matter what he said. Any more than if we’d been sitting around a poker table. The question you should be asking is whether his personal best interests were served by calling the loan. If yes, he would have done it. Not otherwise.”

  “And?” Sammy asks. “Were they?”

  “I couldn’t possibly know that. I don’t have nearly enough facts. His affairs were more complex than most governments’. And far less transparent.”

  NINETEEN

  Excuse me, sir,” says Tom to a passing senior citizen with a wild tuft of white hair. “Where’s downtown Ashaway?”

  The older man stops, readjusts his glasses, and gives a laugh that sounds like a shout. “You’re standing on it, son.” And then takes off.

  Elena says, “He thinks we’re stupid.”

  “He’s probably right.”

  “Hasty judgment,” Elena says. “At least as to one of us.”

  “Let’s see,” says Tom, “because I brought you here, and I think this town may be perfect.”

  They look out upon a small square park of brown grass, scraggly trees, and a couple of benches. In the middle of the lawn stands a large copper plaque, mounted on granite. It memorializes the fact that Ashaway, Kentucky, was the birthplace of a not terribly famous left-handed pitcher for the Cincinnati Reds. The four surrounding streets look mainly residential but do contain one storefront bank, two shops, one small restaurant, a diminutive courthouse and, on closer inspection, a town hall. Indeed, on still closer inspection, some of those residences appear to be lawyers’ offices. But, if there’s any activity in this town, it isn’t going on in the square. At least at this time, which is mid-afternoon.

  “So what’s our next move in this brilliantly conceived plan of yours?”

  “Take a bench?” Tom suggests.

  She nods, they head for one and plunk down, then look around at their surroundings from this different perspective. Doesn’t change a thing.

  “I’m hungry,” she says. “I’m tired. I need a bath, and I need to sleep.”

  “In other words,” Tom says, “we need money. Now that we’re in an actual town, do you have any way of getting some? Like in the next half hour?”

  “Now that I’ve lost my cards? And without tipping off somebody as to where I am? No.”

  “Nobody you can trust?”

  She thinks. “Not really. You?”

  He thinks, shakes his head.

  “What about your girlfriend?”

  “Puh-lease,” he says.

  “Wire transfer from your friendly bank?” she asks with a bright false smile.

  “First thing they’ll be checking.”

  “S’wat I thought,” she says.

  “S’way it is.”

  “So we’re fucked.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “But there are options.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “We rob the bank?”

  “That’s not amusing.”

  “No,” he says. “It’s not. But it is an option.”

  She turns on him, and he laughs. “There’s nothing funny about this,” she says.

  “You’re right. So. Only one option, which was the plan. Risky as hell, but doable.” He gets up and starts moving. “We should walk,” he says over his shoulder.

  She pops up after him and hustles to catch up. “Where the hell you going?”

  “Around the square.”

  “That’s a contradiction in terms.”

  “Don’t be so literal,” he says.

  “If you were coming back to that bench, what’d you need me for?”

  “For your judgment.”

  “About what?”

  “The best law office.”

  “You want a lawyer? From Ashaway, Kentucky?” she says in tones of mounting incredulity.

  “No. I’m hoping to find a lawyer who wants a lawyer. An associate. Someone to do his thinking, research, and writing for him. I’m highly credentialed.”

  “As a fugitive, right. And nuts. A lawyer is the most likely kind of guy to turn us in.”

  He stops in front of a four-story town house bearing a plate on its door that reads, “Law Offices of Magnan, Magnan, Dickstein, and Angelino.”

  “What do you think?” he asks her.

  “Too many names. And I think this whole idea is crazy.”

  “Desperate times, desperate measures,” he says. “We have no place to sleep, as you just pointed out. We’re hungry and it’s not even dinnertime. We need baths, new clothes—”

  He starts walking again. “We should keep going,” he says, and she jogs to keep pace.

  Another brownstone, another plated door, but paint peeling everywhere.

  “What do you think of this?” he says, stopping again. “Only two names.”

  “Too shabby. Too little business to need help.”

  They move on.

  She says, “You know what the odds on this are?”

  “It doesn’t matter. We get turned in, we get turned in. We are not equipped to live off the land, eating grass and finding the right kind of mushrooms. At least I’m not.” He turns toward her.

  “Don’t look at me,” she says.

  “Didn’t think so. And if we go door to door, asking people if we can wash their cars or cut their lawns, the chances of getting reported are even higher.”

  He stops at another plated door. Law Offices of Horatio Downs. “How ’bout this one?”

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  “Relatively fresh paint. Single practitioner.”

  “I don’t know, Tom. It may actually be less risky if we try calling someone.”

  “I’m going in.”

  “Shit. And what am I supposed to do?”

  “Come in with me.”

  “What?” she says. “Why?”

  “You’ll see. Let it play out.”

  TWENTY

  Horatio Downs is dictating a brief to his secretary, Josephina. They are both in their early seventies, he but a year older than she. She is the only secretary he’s had during the past forty-two years, and while he’s always called her Jo, she still calls him Mr. Down
s.

  “You know, Mr. Downs, most lawyers these days type their own briefs, letters, and such on desktop computers or laptops.”

  “I’m aware of that, Jo.”

  “And have you considered developing that facility?”

  “I have, indeed.”

  “Would put you right up there with modern-day attorneys.”

  “That it would.”

  “So?”

  “So, if you’re ready, Jo, shall we get started?”

  “Of course, Mr. Downs.”

  He makes a harrumphing sound, sorts out the notes on his desk, puts his head back in thought, in composition mode, when two people suddenly appear in his doorway: a lanky young man in an open-collared shirt and rumpled suit, and a petite young woman in a white blouse and blue denim skirt that look dirty and slept in.

  “If this is a bad time,” says Tom.

  “For what?” says Horatio.

  “You see,” says Jo. “Every proper law office has a receptionist. If you did your own typing, and I were sitting out there….”

  Horatio waves this off. “If you’re looking for a lawyer,” he says to Tom, “I’m awful busy right now. Pretty booked up.”

  “Could you use the help of a magna from Yale who was editor-in-chief of the Law Journal?”

  “Ha!” says Horatio. “And that’s you? Or is it she?”

  Elena says, “No, I’m a receptionist.”

  “It is I, sir, yes,” Tom says.

  “Then I couldn’t afford you.”

  “I’d work cheap.”

  “Not cheap enough.”

  “Room, board, and pin money?”

  Horatio squints. “That’s pretty cheap.”

  “As I said.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “We’re wanted for murder in New York, and would like to hide out in Kentucky.”

  A big grin spreads across Horatio’s mouth. “Now that’s original.”

  “I thought the best approach would be candor.”

  “No doubt.”

  “My friend here is Elena Riles. I’m Tom Weldon. Elena’s dad was shot two days ago. The police seem to think we did it.”

  “Did you?”

  “Certainly not,” Elena says.

  “Would I have read about this?” says Horatio.