by Steve Brewer
“I’m with you so far.”
“O.K. Well, that gives us a nice little picture. Here’s this guy, sitting here. He’s not guilty. He presumably has nothing to hide. And yet he’s a clam. He won’t tell us anything. Why is that? Only one reason. He’s protecting someone. Who? A client.”
“Naturally.”
“So, take it a step further. If the witnesses are mistaken, and he’s protecting a client, then there’s only one thing left that makes sense: the client that he’s protecting is a man who looks enough like him to be mistaken for him, and that man is the man who hired Steerwell and the man who ran in and out of Steerwell’s house.”
Preston looked at me. “Anything to that, clam?”
I blinked. I opened my mouth, closed it again.
“He’s not talking,” Preston said.
“You really expect him to?” Barnes said.
“I suppose not.”
“Well, that brings us back to the original problem. What do we do with him?”
“This is a problem,” Preston said. “What do you think we should do?”
“I don’t know,” Barnes said. “I leave it up to you.”
Jesus Christ. Here they were, playing dibbsies with my freedom as if they were discussing who went first in a game of marbles. And Barnes had just deferred to Preston, leaving my fate in Bad Cop’s hands. Bad Cop would fry me.
Preston yawned and stretched. His hands brushed the ceiling. He looked like some giant bird, flexing its wings before swooping down on its prey.
He frowned and pursed his lips. “I say we let him go.”
28.
THE REVENGE OF BAD COP.
They’d done it again. Preston had just one-upped me in the game of “You can go.”—“Then I’ll stay.”
And this time I wasn’t ready to go for the win by saying, “That’s all right, let’s talk.” An incredulous, “Huh,” was the best I could muster.
“That’s interesting,” Barnes said. “And now, why would you say that?”
Preston shrugged. “Well, the problem, you see, is motive. Now, I know we got the theft of the pictures, we got the fingerprints on the wallet and we got the three eyewitness identifications and all that. But the problem still is motive. I just can’t fathom why a douche-bag ambulance chaser from New York City who’s never been here before should come down here and kill two people. It just doesn’t make any sense.
“Whereas the bit about protecting a client I can buy.”
“You’re saying you believe him?”
“Well, no, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying the explanation could be plausible. And, of course, we have to consider the alternatives.”
“Such as?”
“Well,” Preston said. “We’ve got enough to arrest him on suspicion of murder. We could hold him on that. But the prosecutor isn’t going to be too happy. Because we don’t have enough to convict. Because we don’t have the motive. And we’re not going to get it, ’cause the guy’s a clam.
“And then we have practical matters to consider. If we arrest him for murder, then we gotta lock him up in the county jail way the fuck out in Mays Landing. And then we gotta run out there every time we wanna talk to him or have some witness I.D. him or whatever.”
“Oh, you’re always griping about the county jail in Mays Landing.”
“Well, it’s a real pain in the ass. I suppose you like going out there. And another thing is, if we charge him with murder, that asshole lawyer will come roaring back in that fucking stretch-limo and start screaming at everybody until we won’t be able to think straight.”
“I hope Mr. Hastings didn’t misunderstand you,” Barnes said. “What Sergeant Preston meant to say, was that he would certainly hate to inconvenience your estimable attorney by making him come all the way back from New York.”
“Certainly,” Preston said. “My sentiments exactly.”
Barnes turned back to me. “Well, Mr. Hastings. I think Sergeant Preston’s made a pretty good case. The only thing is, letting you go is going to get us some awfully bad press. I mean, what with there being so much evidence against you, and all. But we aren’t out to win any popularity contests here. What we are concerned with is the administration of justice. A very corny thing to have to say, but there you are. The point is, we don’t really give a shit what people say about us, as long as we’re doing our job. We can take the flak.”
Barnes looked at Preston, nodded, then looked back at me.
“So you can go.”
29.
THIS TIME I KNEW they were following me.
I didn’t see them, of course. I’m no good at that. But I knew. It was the only thing that made sense. The only reason they could have released me this time. Oh, a lot of what Barnes and Preston had said was true. And a lot of what they surmised was deadly accurate. But still, I would have been willing to bet you that releasing me would not have turned out to be the prescribed course of action written in the police procedural. No, they had to have a reason.
They were following me for sure.
And if that was true, I had a lot to consider.
As I’ve said, I couldn’t lead them to Harold and Barbara.
But where could I lead them?
I figured I had twenty-four, maybe forty-eight hours at the outside, before the whole thing blew up in my face. By then, one of a number of unpleasant things would have happened. The cops would have got a lead to Harold and Barbara. Or Barnes and Preston, for all their bravado, would take so much heat they’d have to pick me up and charge me.
Or I’d crack up.
The third possibility seemed the most likely. And it wasn’t necessarily going to take any twenty-four to forty-eight hours, either. If you can’t understand that, then you probably (1) have never been arrested for murder and (2) are thinking of TV detectives who get arrested for murder every week and are used to it so it doesn’t faze them.
Don’t judge a man till you’ve been standing in his shoes. Madonna sings that in one of the songs on her True Blue album. Shit. Do I have to confess to listening to Madonna? Well, I’d rather do that than confess to murder. Why am I saying this? I’ve got confession on the brain. Why? I’m not guilty. At least not of murder. Grand larceny, well, that’s another matter. God, how often can I say that? Yes, I’m guilty of grand larceny. How glamorous. I bet that could get me laid in the singles bars. “Hi, I’m guilty of grand larceny. Wanna fuck?” Jesus, what a line. No, I can’t handle it. Maybe I should just confess. Confess to the murders, too. Then they’d leave me alone. Then I wouldn’t have to think about it. Then—
Shit.
I am cracking up.
I lay in the bed in my hotel room, drenched with sweat and torn with doubts.
What the hell should I do?
I got up, took my clothes off and took a shower. When in doubt, take a shower.
When I got out, I felt cooler, if not more clear-headed. I put on fresh clothes and combed my hair. I looked at myself in the mirror. Damn it, I didn’t look a thing like Harold Dunleavy. Not that I wanted to. As far as I was concerned, the only thing I envied about Harold Dunleavy was Barbara MacAullif Dunleavy.
Somehow I had to help her.
And him.
I picked up the phone and called MacAullif. I was hoping he might have some advice, seeing as how I was sort of at wit’s ends, myself.
He was out. Just my luck. The one time I wanted to talk to him.
I called Alice. She was glad to hear from me. It had been a while. In all the excitement I’d forgotten to call home. I told her I’d been busy.
She asked me how the case was going. I told her things were coming along.
I shaded the truth a little. Alice asked me how I was, and I told her I was fine. I saw no reason to alarm her.
I didn’t lie to her. I just didn’t mention that I’d been indicted for grand larceny and was suspected of two murders.
A sin of omission.
I hung up the phone. I felt awful. I’d need
ed to talk to somebody. MacAullif wasn’t there, and this was something I couldn’t talk over with my wife.
I was on my own.
All right, asshole, what are you going to do?
I realized it didn’t matter. I just had to do something, anything, or I’d go nuts.
I went out and got in my car. I pulled out of the parking lot, headed for Atlantic City. I didn’t know where I was going, I was just going. That was the ticket. Don’t think about it. Just do it.
I knew the cops were following me. It was amusing. I wondered what they’d think if they realized I didn’t know where I was going.
This signs assaulted me again. The signs for the casinos. They were like sirens, calling to me. Luring me.
I succumbed to the lure.
Fuck it.
Let the cops follow me.
I’ll lead ’em somewhere
To the casino.
To Tallman.
30.
HAROLD DUNLEAVY WASN’T in Tallman’s Casino. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had been. The cops wouldn’t have been able to single him out from the other few thousand people there. And he didn’t know me, so there was no chance of him rushing up to me and saying, “Hey, you son of a bitch, what you doing messing around in this case?”
It would have been reassuring to see him, actually. Particularly since I couldn’t risk driving by his house anymore. It would have been nice to know he hadn’t skipped town. It also would have been nice to know that he was still alive. So many of the people I’d been following lately had been winding up dead. But Harold wasn’t there.
M. Carson, the blonde, nimble-fingered blackjack dealer wasn’t there, either.
Neither was Tallman, for that matter.
All in all, it looked like a pretty unprofitable evening. Well, I’d left the hotel with low expectations, so it wasn’t that surprising to see them fulfilled.
One good thing: this would sure keep the boys from Major Crimes guessing.
I figured I’d hang out for a while and see if anyone showed up.
I dug the change out of my pocket. I had five quarters. Well. Big spender. What the hell.
I walked over to a slot machine and fed the quarters in one at a time.
On the fourth one I hit a ten-quarter payoff
Hot damn.
I celebrated by playing two quarters at once.
I hit a twenty-quarter payoff. Right after that, another payoff for eight.
Jesus Christ. I was getting to where I could use one of those plastic cups.
I hit another twenty-quarter payoff.
Christ, I was smoking. At this rate, I might hit the jackpot. Two thousand quarters. Let’s see, divide by four, that’s five hundred dollars. I could imagine the phone call to my wife: “That’s right, honey, I went in there with a buck twenty-five, and guess what?”
My last quarter came up zilch.
I smiled wistfully, returned my plastic cup to its former place.
I looked at my watch. My entire trip through exultation into bankruptcy had taken a whopping fifteen minutes.
I looked around. Still no sign of Harold and M. Carson. But some men that looked vaguely familiar were threading their way through the tables at the end of the room. As they drew closer, they dispelled all doubt. It was the King and his Court.
Well, fuck it. I wanted to lead the cops to Tallman, and there’s Tallman. So what did I do now?
I felt like looking behind me, whistling, and pointing, “There he is!” Somehow that didn’t strike me as being very wise. What I had to do was go up to him and speak to him. The thing was, I couldn’t think of a fucking thing to say. You see, I didn’t want to say anything that would be even remotely connected to the case.
That was largely because of the King’s Court.
Now, I am admittedly not the best judge of character in the world, but it didn’t take a genius to see that these guys were most likely not the King’s financial advisors. In fact, if their average I.Q. was over a hundred, I’d have lost another bet.
I didn’t know if Tallman was mob connected and these guys were mob, or if these guys were local talent he’d just hired himself, but either way, they looked like muscle, not brains. So, under the circumstances, murder didn’t seem like a good subject to bring up.
So what was I gonna say? I didn’t know. But I was winging it all the way, anyway, so what the hell.
I stepped away from the slot machine right into the path of a waitress with a tray of drinks. She stopped short, martinis and breasts both jiggling and threatening to escape the confines of their containment. She started to flash me a dirty look, then, apparently remembering the customer was always right, converted it into a lopsided smile, and skipped nimble-footedly around me.
I sidestepped too, then strode out into the middle of the floor and headed straight for Tallman.
As I approached, the hands of two of the members of the King’s Court strayed inside their jackets. I wondered why. Then I realized. I was wearing a suit and tie, and so were they, and so was almost no one else in the casino. After all, it was Atlantic City in the summertime. Short sleeve shirts were the order of the day.
I tried not to notice the hands in the jackets. I strode right up to Tallman.
“Hey, Tallman,” I said. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
The Court tensed.
The King afforded me a regal, condescending look.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. These waitresses you got working here. In the skimpy costumes with the boobs pushed up and jiggling like Jell-O. That’s bullshit, man. That’s bush league. I come in here after a hard day’s work. I’m gambling, I’m dropping some money. You think I want to see that shit? All tease and titillation? I can get that on TV. You think I want to see push-up costumes? Hell no! Bare breasts, that’s what I want to see. Bare tits.”
One of the King’s Court took a step forward.
“You want I should get rid of this bird?”
The King raised his hand and stopped him.
“No. Let him talk. The guy has a point.”
Good lord. The man was a total moron. I had a point.
“Damn right I got a point,” I said. “And it’s a big one. In fact, it’s two big ones. I’m talkin’ boobs. Jugs. Hooters. Look at the flight deck on that waitress over there. That’s something huh? But the damn costume. I don’t want to see fabric, I want to see flesh. Topless waitresses, that’s what I’m talkin’ here. Look, you go to any casino on the strip, and you see the same thing. Friggin’ Playboy bunny costumes. You can be different. The King of the bare boobs. You’ll pack ’em in.”
Tallman nodded. “I’ll think about it,” he said.
Then he and his entourage moved off.
It was great. It was so great. There couldn’t have been a cop close enough to hear what I was saying. But they were there all right. They could see me. They could see me talking to the King. And they could see shoving my finger in his face and making my points. And they could see his boys starting to move on me, and the King stopping them with his regal gesture. And then the King nodding and moving off.
What would Barnes and Preston make of all that?
I went back to the garage, got in my car and assessed my performance. I realized my rap to Tallman had been both puerile and manic, but that didn’t matter.
It had also been fun.
I realized I shouldn’t be having fun. I was in probably the worst fix of my life, and my chances of getting out of it were incredibly slim.
The fact I was having fun meant only one thing: I was over the edge. I’d lost it. I’d snapped.
But that didn’t stop me from having it. Hey, life was a ball.
So what should I do now, I thought? I had no idea. But I realized it didn’t matter. Whatever I did, the cops would go with me. Follow the leader. And I got to lead. What fun.
It was a merry chase.
31.
“MINTON.”
I was calling on an old frien
d. I figured, hell, if I was having fun, it was time to renew old acquaintance.
Sallingsworth inspected the bottle of bourbon.
“You want a lot for a pint of whiskey.”
“Hey,” I said. “Give me a break. It’s not like I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you. I mean, think about it. A private dick comes down from New York, you think, ‘Shit, more competition. Someone else gonna take away more of my business.’ But what do I do? I bring you business. I bring you business and I bring you bourbon. What’s more, I eliminate the competition. Hey, Steerwell’s dead, ain’t he? Give me a little ammunition to shoot and I’ll take down Minton. It won’t be long before you’ll be the only game in town.”
Sallingsworth cocked his head and looked at me narrowly.
“Are you all right?”
“I wouldn’t think so. I have two murder raps hanging over my head, not to mention one grand larceny.”
“That’s not what I mean. You’re acting rather strange.”
“That’s only because I’ve lost my grip on reality. Aside from that, I’m fine.”
Sallingsworth looked at me as if he’d just I.D.’d the escaped psycho half the county had been looking for.
“I see,” he said.
“Aw, drink up, drink up,” I told him. “Whether you talk to me or not, the bourbon’s yours. I don’t drink the stuff, and I’m certainly not taking it back. So go ahead. Knock yourself out.”
Sallingsworth broke the seal and opened the bottle. He took a pull from the neck. He wasn’t standing on ceremony enough to bother getting a glass. He also wasn’t leaving this lunatic alone in the room.
“That’s better,” I said. “Now tell me about Minton. He’s a fine man. You’ve always admired him. When he was coming up in the business, you said, ‘Hey, this one’s gonna be tops.’“
Sallingsworth looked at me. “Jesus Christ,” he said. He took another pull from the bottle.
“Hey,” I said. “No one’s quoting you on this. I’m not doing an article for True Detective. And I’m not running to Minton to tattle. He won’t be showing up here tomorrow saying, ‘Hey, you told that New York dick I was a dipshit.’ It’s just you and me having a little chat.”
