by Scott Turow
You probably know it already, U You, but I really am crazy. Saying that, I mean what people usually do, not that I act without reason, but that my reasons, lined up with each other, don't make too much sense. Contradictory, you'd say. In conflict. I'm such a smart-guy who has all the answers, then I whistle in the dark with all these fears racing inside me and, worse yet, pull stunts like breaking into hotel rooms and apartments that would give the heebie-jeebies to the daring young man on the flying trapeze. But now and then even a knucklehead like me gets a wake-up call from reality and without warning I felt, in the radiance of Pigeyes's usual aura of menace, that I was in danger. Somehow with all my preoccupations, my good-time visions about what I'd do when I caught Bert, I hadn't recognized the opportunity I'd handed Gino. I'd known he'd vet me, give me a proctoscope, the third degree. But I had touched a lot of things in Bert's apartment. Doorknobs inside and out. The mail. Homicide was there now, taking lifts off every surface. My sworn enemy, Detective Gino Dimonte, finds a dead body, my prints, and evidence of a lot of peculiar behavior on my part. Guess what comes next? The panic arrived with the same sudden welling power as tears.
'I told you, the guy's my partner. I go to his place all the time.' Gino knew just what I was up to. If I admitted I was in the apartment recently, I'd give him the break-and-enter cold, a forcible felony, and a leg up on the murder, since I put myself close to the body. If I denied it, I'd have no way to explain my prints.
'Bull,' Pigeyes said. 'You're such a pal of his, you know his friends? You know a bookie named Vernon Koechell?'
'No.'
'Never heard of him?'
'Don't know him.'
'That's not what I asked, Malloy.'
I'd been down at the Russian Bath talking about Archie, and it would not take too much bullying to turn somebody's memory around about who'd brought up the name. Pigeyes could monkey with a lot of things, in fact, the evidence techs and the path reports. The people who owed him and played his way were all over the department, and I'd broken their code. A lift off the doorknob could be identified as coming from the refrigerator or the vegetable crisper. My hairs found in the kitchen might eventually appear on Mr Koechell's lapel. I suddenly knew why there'd been no news flash about Archie's body. It would be easy to mum this in the papers, for a few hours anyway, if the coppers needed time to lay hands on the killer. In the folds beneath my chin, I could feel a slick of telltale dampness beginning to gather.
'This bird Koechell - I been looking for him. Did you know that?'
'No.' I was relieved to give one honest answer.
'Some questions I need to ask him about his buddy Kam Roberts.'
In the midst of all this sensation, mixed up and intense, I suddenly knew what Pigeyes was investigating - at least what it had been to start. It came into clear view like a birdie flapping through a cold sky as I recalled my conversation with Toots. Fixing games. Kam Roberts and Archie. That's why it was being looked at out of Financial Crimes instead of Vice. 'Kam's Special - U five.' Bert maybe had been in on this too.
'I got lucky, sort of. One of those good news, bad news things. Run into some rummy asshole I used to know, sort of sweat him a second, and bingo, this guy gives me the name of Robert Kamin, tells me go look for this dude, seems he knows Kam Roberts. And I do. I even take a look round Robert Kamin's place.'
'With a warrant?' I asked. It was a question, an obstacle. The fear was still all over me now, like a brick on my heart.
Pigeyes sneered. 'Listen, jagbag, a warrant for his apartment don't make any difference for you.' We both knew he was right. 'Here. Show him the warrant.'
Dewey reached for a briefcase next to the passenger's seat. I closed my eyes briefly, in spite of myself.
'Now I'm asking you again, Malloy, you didn't happen to be in that apartment, did you?'
I was a copper during those years when it was starting that the police had to give somebody arrested Miranda. I never saw the point. It was a nice idea, I recognized that, put everybody on the same footing, rich guy and poor, they'd all know the same rules. But the problem was human nature, not social class. Because a man in a corner is never going to shut up. If he shuts up, if he says what I knew I should say, call my lawyer, then he's going to the station, he's going to get booked, he's going to court. For a guy in a jam, there's only one way out, to keep explaining, hoping that somehow bullshit buys liberty.
'Pigeyes, what do you think I did?'
'I asked if you were in that apartment.' He pointed at Dewey to make a note. 'That's twice he's not answering.'
'Gino, I'm the guy who gave you Bert's name and told you to go shag him. Write that down,' I said. Dewey, of course, didn't move. 'What kind of sense does that make, if I'm hiding something?' He knew where I was going - if I killed Archie, why would I suggest they go looking for Bert? But I knew the cop answer: If everybody didn't do dumb things, nobody'd get caught.
'Malloy, nothing with you makes sense. You're not a sensible guy. You tell me why you send some punk with pimples on his ass to run all over the city with that fucking credit card? You tell me why the guy I'm looking for and the guy you're looking for got the same names inside out? You tell me why you're looking for this Robert Kamin in the first place? Or how come you don't know nothing about his asshole pal Vernon Koechell? You tell me why you're fronting for this fucking homo?'
Homo. I wasn't making the reference. I didn't know if he meant Archie or Kam or Bert.
'Now maybe,' said Pigeyes, 'third time's the charm. We'll try it again, and listen up. Yes or no. Last few days, were you in that apartment?'
I felt like he'd shoved his whole fist into my throat.
'Pigeyes, do I need a lawyer?'
'Hey, I thought you were a lawyer.' All three of them laughed. The black guy covered his face with his hand. My, my, my. He was wearing a square diamond ring that was bright on his fingers. 'See, here's why I ask. Cause I looked all over that place, Kamin's. Checked the dust on the window ledges, postmarks on the mail. I opened the fridge to see any food spoiled, pull date on the milk carton and orange juice. Know what I found?'
'No,' I said. Without looking away from me he pointed at Dewey to make another note. I tried to be resolute but he was drilling holes in my peepers, reading every thought in my head. He knew he had me. He'd seen me frightened before. He knew the look and he savored it. And I knew him too. I'd watched him drag these poor kids into the station for questioning and go put on a stained butcher's apron he kept in his locker, knowing there was nothing these young bloods wouldn't believe about the Kindle police. He had the same expression. He was going to deliver the rabbit punch now, the body, and how the path report, the hair samples, the digestive track enzymes, somehow spelled Malloy. He bent close, he put his harsh face right back in mine. Mr Stranger Danger in person.
'Not a fuckin thing,' he said. 'That's what I found: not a goddamn fuckin thing. This guy's gone two weeks at least. And if you ain't been in that apartment, you tell me how you come up with a credit card that the bank says they only mailed twelve days ago?' He took a real bite on the words and smiled a little bit as he did it. And so did I.
B. He Looks Like Kam Roberts
I felt mostly cold in the wake of my panic. I might have belched or sung a song. I felt a little like I could fly. Gino had said, distinctly, that there was nothing in the refrigerator, and so far as I could see, he was having too much fun intimidating me to bother to lie. Who had moved the body and why were questions for later.
Satisfied he had nailed me, Pigeyes stumbled back through the divide between the front seats and sat to have a chuckle; he laughed so hard he held on to his hat. He'd had a great time. His buddies here, Dewey and the black guy, they were smiling right along. Nobody was feeling sorry for Malloy.
Pigeyes finally wiped his eyes. 'Let's be straight guys, okay? I don't give a flying foreign fuck what you're up to, Malloy. Robert Kamin? I don't care if he diddled the senior partner's wife - or the senior partner, for that matter. All I
want is this guy Kam Roberts, whoever he is. You gimme that, he gimmes that - Go have your fucking little life. Sincerely.' Gino touched his chest. I thought he was wearing the same shirt he had on the other day.
'You gonna tell me why you need him?'
'You gonna tell where I find him?'
'Gino, I don't know.' He weighed that, the doubt hinged in his eyes. 'I never met the guy in my life. The card gets billed at Kamin's place. Don't ask me why. That's all I know.' That, and Infomode, one or two little things. But they were my business. Besides, who knew better than Pigeyes that sometimes I lie? 'That's it. Okay? You did a great job breaking my balls.'
Pigeyes motioned to Dewey. 'Show him.'
Dewey went for the briefcase. They had a sketch. It was on mat board, done with pencil and stored in a little plastic sleeve. Surveillance van. Police artist. Pigeyes had a lot of support. Dewey handed the drawing to me.
A black guy, late twenties, nice-looking, receding hair.
'Ever see him?' Dewey asked.
And this was the strangest goddamn part. I had.
'I'm not sure,' I said.
'Maybe?'
Where? I would never remember. Not now anyway. If it was coming, it would hit me when I was half asleep, or scratching my fanny, or trying to recollect some clever gambit I had meant to include in a losing brief. Maybe he was the guy at the cleaner or a fella on my bus. But I had seen him.
I kept shaking my head. 'This is him? Kam?' Pigeyes rolled his tongue over his teeth. 'Who is he?' he asked.
'Gino, I swear to God, it beats me. I see him on the street, I'll make a citizen's arrest. You're the first guys I call.'
'Would Robert Kamin know?'
'I'll have to ask Robert Kamin next time I see him.'
'When would that be?'
'No telling. He seems to be somewhat indisposed.'
'Yeah, he seems to be.' He shared looks, a smile, with the two other coppers. Finding Bert, I suspected, had recently occupied a lot of their time. 'What about Koechell?'
'Honest to God, I never met him.' I raised a hand.
'Honest. And I have no idea where he is now.' That was true too. Pigeyes contemplated all of this.
'Which one's the homo, by the way?' I asked. 'Koechell?'
Pigeyes put his hands on his knees again, so he could get up in my face.
'Why ain't I surprised that's of interest to you?'
'If you're trying to disparage me, Pigeyes, I'm going to have to call the Human Rights Commission.' We were heading back to where we had been. Fun and games. Gino's bladder had run dry on the hot piss of vengeance for only a moment. The reservoir was filling and he was ready again to lower his fly. It came back to him as the lodestar of his universe: he really did not like me.
'Suppose I tell you,' he said, 'that you could fit a Saturn rocket up Archie Koechell's hind end, you gonna tell me how come you're so curious?'
'I'm just looking for clues to Bert's social life. That's all. Guy's out of pocket. You know that. My partners are worried and asked me to find him.' I gave an innocent little shrug.
'You find him, I wanna know. He talks to me about Kam, he can go home. But you screw around, Malloy, it's the whole load: break and enter, credit card fraud, false personation. I'll fuck you up bad, big guy. And don't think I won't enjoy it.'
I knew better than that. Dewey opened the van door from inside and I stepped down to the street, enjoying the daylight and the cold, the greatness of all outdoors. Twice now, I thought, two miracles. I spoke words of thanks to Elaine. Pigeyes had let me go.
XV. BRUSHY TELLS ME WHAT SHE WANTS AND I GET WHAT I DESERVE
A. Brushy Tells Me What' s on the Menu
For our luncheon on Friday, Brushy had chosen The Matchbook, a quiet old-line place that tried to preserve some atmosphere of leisured sanctuary for the business class. You walked down from street level into a feeling of soft enclosure. The ceiling was low; the lack of windows had been obscured by little puddles of light projected onto the faux marble wallpaper from the top of the plaster columns dividing the room. The waiters in black waistcoats and bow ties did not tell you their first names or get so chummy that you started hoping the meal might be on them.
Following my adventure with Pigeyes, I'd had an uneventful morning, ruminating periodically about the body vanished from Bert's fridge. I wanted to believe that its disappearance had nothing to do with my visit to the apartment, but I was having a hard time convincing myself.
Eventually I tracked down Lena in the library. She had her feet up on her oak carrel and was absorbed in one of the heavy gold-bound federal reporters as if it were a novel, giving off the fetching aloof air of all brainy women. I asked if she had a passport and a free weekend and still wanted to work on that gambling case, the one where she'd cracked the bookmaking code on Infomode. She was enthusiastic. I did the usual law firm delegating, shit always rolling downhill, and told her to call TN's executive travel service, pull strings if need be to get us on a plane to Pico Luan Sunday and a decent hotel, the beach if they could. She took notes.
'So,' I said, when Brush and I were seated side by side in a booth at the back. The maitre d’ had greeted Brushy by name and took us to a rear corner on a raised terrace of the room, with a column and a plant buying a little more privacy. The table was adorned with big linen napkins and a splendid anthurium, looking like a priapic valentine, and a huge cloth, stiff and white as a priest's collar, that ran to the floor. I looked about and marveled. For Center City, The Matchbook was a great place. A few years ago I would have pleasantly surrendered to temptation and had a drink at lunchtime, which would have been the end of my day. I asked Brushy when she was here last.
'Yesterday,' she said. 'With Pagnucci.'
I'd forgotten. 'How was that?'
'Strange,' she said.
'What did he want? Groundhog stuff?' 'Just a little. Basically I think he was trying to figure out why I keep having lunch with Krzysinski.' 'Jeez, I hope you slapped his face.'
She squeezed my knee with a grip strong enough to cause pain.
'He wasn't being like that. It was business.'
'Pagnucci? What a surprise. What did he want to know?'
'Well, he said it's a turbulent period for the firm. He wondered how I viewed things, my practice. He made it sound like a management review.'
'Sort of checking you out for a mid-life crisis?'
'Sort of. I thought he was trying to set a context. You know, for Groundhog Day. Points. But the way he ended up putting it was, did I think that my personal relationship with Tad was strong enough that TN would remain a client of mine, come what may?'
' "Come what may"?'
'His words.'
I took a moment. Brushy and Pagnucci would make a great team, a litigator and a securities guy, two up-and-coming Italians.
'Did he actually say it? That he was thinking of leaving the firm and taking you with him?'
'Mack, we're talking Pagnucci here. He barely gets a word out. He made it sound, you know, like some remote curiosity.'
'Like a dinner party game. Who Would You Be If You Weren't You?'
'Exactly. And I cut him off. I told him I was fond of my partners and proud of the work we do and that I didn't spend my time thinking about questions like that.'
'Good for you. Leotis couldn't have done better. Was he abashed?'
'He completely agreed. He fumpfered around. "Of course, of course." He tried to act as if it was nothing to him.'
'Carl obviously thinks I'm not finding Bert, the money's not coming back, TN's going bye-bye, and the firm is too. Right?'
'Maybe. He's probably just being cautious. Considering all the angles. You know Carl.'
'Maybe he knows I'm not going to find Bert.' 'How would he?'
I couldn't figure much that made sense. Especially after Carl had blessed my voyage to Pico.
The waiter came and we ordered iced teas, then Brushy on second thought asked for white wine. We looked over the menus, a foot and h
alf if they were an inch, oldfashioned, with vellum pages and a tasseled binding. I remained puzzled by Pagnucci's game, but Brushy cut me short when I returned to the subject.
'Mack, do you really think I wanted to have lunch so we could talk about Pagnucci?'
I told her if I had, I probably wouldn't have come.
'I want you to try to be serious about something,' she said. 'You hurt my feelings yesterday.'
Within, I recoiled. Some ancient retractile mechanism set in. Another lecture from another woman about how I'd disappointed her. We were going to have feminist reconstruction of my spicy remarks about her wandering loins.
'Hey, Brush, I thought we went past that. It's me, us, you and me. Pals forever.'
'That's the point.' She faced me in a casual way, so that we were more or less knee to knee. Her back was to the adjoining wall and she propped an arm on the top of the banquette and leaned her full face and her soft hairdo against a hand in an appealing fashion. She looked frank and friendly, like a teenager in her rec room. 'I thought the next time you danced the hokey-pokey, Malloy, it was going to be with me.'
That one took me a sec.
'You did?' This was apparently one of those male-female understandings that so often eluded me. 'Yes, I did.' She pouted. Cutely.
