The Conman

by Mike Murphey

  “It’s not my fault!”

  “Yeah, you might suggest to some of your friends . . .” Conor said.

  “Brad’s not nervous because my friends use it,” Basil said. “He’s nervous because I sell it.”

  “You . . . what? I . . . thought you didn’t do drugs.”

  “I don’t. I just sell ’em. Hey, don’t look so shocked. This is the wild west. Almost everybody uses. How do you think they get through the winter? And someone’s gonna sell it. Might as well be me.”

  “You could go to prison . . .”

  “No, I can’t. I sell to local cops. They won’t arrest me. And there’s no one else around. Besides, the money’s too good. When I started, I made $60,000 a year. I can make $60,000 a month selling coke.”

  “You still work every day.”

  “Yeah. I like work.”

  Basil called Conor in San Carlos only a week later.

  “I think,” he said with a shaking voice, “that I may be going to prison.”

  We all had our wakeup calls. Mine was the prison girls’ thing that made me realize how much I wanted and needed Kate in my life. A.J. struggled with gambling and alcohol, leading to a failed marriage which cost him millions before he found his way.

  Basil’s was the scariest.

  Some guy got pissed at him for fooling around with his girlfriend and snitched about the drugs. If the locals weren’t going to do something, the source said, he’d go to Anchorage and tell the state police. Nobody wanted state troopers poking around the wide-open slope.

  Officers explained the situation when they arrested Basil. They had no choice. I made a panicked phone call to Brad. Help us find the right attorney.

  “How good can an attorney be if he’s practicing in Palmer, Alaska?” Brad said.

  Because he hadn’t been admitted to the Alaska bar, Brad couldn’t officially represent Baze. But he could assist whoever we hired and make sure Baze was represented competently.

  Brad flew to Palmer. He advised Baze that the feds offered him protection in exchange for names. Baze said no. Brad spent a couple of long days negotiating with local police and prosecutors. Baze didn’t go to prison. He received two years’ probation and community service with the tacit understanding he would maintain his silence. A second negotiation satisfied the Internal Revenue Service. The third negotiation was most worrisome.

  The guys who fronted the drugs wanted their money.

  “The bikers sent a guy to tell Basil he has to pay up or else,” Brad told Conor.

  “Or else what?”

  “They left that to his imagination.”

  “How about the Palmer attorney?” Conor asked. “Can’t he reason with them?”

  “No, he lives there. He wants to have as little to do with bikers as possible. I can’t say I blame him.”

  “Well, I don’t have $80,000 to spare,” Conor said. “A.J. does but Basil would never accept it.”

  “Yeah,” Brad said. “I think the only option is for me to go talk to them.”

  “I’ll go, too,” Conor said. “I can’t let you sit down with a bunch of bikers by yourself.”

  “No, Connie. You’ve got a career. You can’t be consorting with known criminals. I’m sure that’s against some major league rule. Maybe A.J. could—”

  “Yeah, he probably could and I’m sure he would. But you and I both know the risk. Do you really want A.J. to get into a fight with a dozen outlaw bikers?”

  “So, it’ll have to be me,” Brad said.

  “Yeah, well, I’m going, too.”

  The Gypsy Bandits operated out of a double-wide located at the end of a long gravel road, way out by the pipeline. Situated in the middle of a flat prairie, they could see anyone coming from a long way off.

  Angry that he couldn’t accompany Brad and Conor, Basil grudgingly gave them directions.

  “You can’t go,” Brad insisted. “That would be stupid from both legal and health standpoints. I’m hoping you’ve resolved to put stupid things behind you. Give me a name and phone number so I can make an appointment.”

  Basil wrote a number on a piece of paper. “Ask for Shovelhead. He’s kind of the appointments secretary.”

  A guy holding a shotgun greeted them as they pulled through a gate in the chain link fence surrounding the trailer. A row of a half-dozen motorcycles decorated the yard. The guy made a motion to roll down the driver’s side window.

  “You cops?”

  “Um, we’re here to see Shovelhead,” Conor said through a dry throat. “We called earlier.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” the biker said.

  “No,” Brad said from the passenger side. “We aren’t law enforcement officials of any kind.”

  “You wired?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Conor didn’t understand.

  “Are you wearing a wire? Do you have hidden recording devices?”

  “God, no,” Conor said.

  The biker escorted them into the trailer where they saw a man with at least a foot-long beard sitting behind a desk. A second man, whom Conor estimated at eight feet tall and about six hundred pounds, stood off to one side. The man behind the desk didn’t seem to take any notice of their entry. The giant’s eyes bored into them.

  “Sit down,” said the desk guy, indicating a pair of folding chairs with an absent wave of his hand.

  They sat. Desk guy studied a document. The giant growled. The man with the shotgun farted. “Beg pardon,” he said.

  “Um . . . Mr. Shovelhead . . .” Conor said, hoping to break the silence.

  “Shovelhead’s holding the shotgun,” said desk guy. He nodded his head slightly to his right. “This is Grinder.”

  “I see. And you are . . .?”

  “Percy.”

  “Percy?”

  “Yeah, Percy.” Now the man glanced up. “You wanna make something of it?”

  Conor most certainly didn’t.

  Grinder growled.

  Brad cleared his throat. “Percy, I’m Brad Grady, an attorney acting on behalf of Basil Doan.”

  “Who’s this other guy?”

  “I’m Conor Nash. I’m a friend of Basil’s.”

  Percy stared at Conor. “Conor Nash? The baseball player?”

  “Yeah.” Conor felt a glimmer of hope that they might escape alive.

  “We get Mariners games on TV,” Percy said, nodding again toward the giant. “Grinder’s a big fan. He loves Ken Griffey Junior.”

  Grinder growled acknowledgement.

  Brad brought the conversation back into focus. “We want to discuss some resolution concerning the money Basil owes you.”

  “Eighty thousand dollars,” Percy said.

  “Yes. Well, as you undoubtedly know, the IRS took most of his assets so he’s short of cash right now.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Well, do you have a suggestion as to—”

  “Yeah, pay us the eighty thousand.”

  “We can’t,” Brad said. “I would think you’d give Basil some credit for his silence. He turned down deals offered him to name names.”

  “Yeah,” Percy said, “Basil is a standup guy. Very responsible. Was a pleasure doing business, for once, with someone who isn’t a criminal. But business is business. We won’t eat eighty thousand. Word will get around. Some of our other franchisees might get ideas.”

  “There must be some wiggle-room in that figure,” Brad said. “I’m sure a significant portion of the eighty thousand is profit. Can we just find a way to make you whole on out-of-pocket expenses?”

  “For instance?”

  “Basil has a Harley and two snowmobiles the IRS missed. He owns them free and clear.”

  Percy tugged at his beard. “That Harley’s a sweet ride. What condition are the sleds in?”

  “If you know Basil, you know the snowmobiles are pristine, top-of-the-line. I can bring you titles this afternoon.”

  Percy looked at Grinder. Grinder growled.

  “Two oth
er conditions,” Percy said. “First, Grinder wants an autograph.”

  Conor quickly agreed.

  “And the second?” Brad asked.

  Percy told him.

  Grinder produced a new major league ball. Conor signed it, Grinder, thanks for everything, The Conman.

  “Anything else?” Conor asked.

  “Yeah,” Grinder said, his voice rumbling through a bed of gravel. “Why the fuck can’t you get Dave Parker out?”

  “That’s it?” Basil asked. “The Harley and the sleds, and I’m off the hook?”

  “One other thing.” Brad told Basil, “Percy says you have to stay away from Grinder’s sister.”

  “I can’t believe,” Conor said, “you were dating a biker gang girl.”

  “Not so much dating,” Basil said.

  “Well, in any case, Grinder’s pretty pissed off.”

  “Hey,” Basil said, “that wasn’t my fault.”

  Basil still likes women and scotch, but he never again antagonized either bikers or the law.

  Yes, in one way or another, without hesitation and asking nothing in return, Fat Brad rescued each of us. I’ll never understand why he didn’t allow us to do the same for him.

  Conor relented and drank from the champagne bottle.

  Here’s to you Brad, you inconsiderate SOB.

  thirty-eight

  Phoenix

  October 1990

  “Connie, have you talked with Brad recently?”

  A.J. phoned Connor from San Francisco to relay his concern.

  “No, A.J. Maybe a month or so, which is a little odd. He usually calls once a week.”

  “Same here,” A.J. said. “But he hasn’t called me, either. I’ve tried to reach him a couple of times this week. Something’s going on.”

  “I figured he was just busy with the judge thing, and now the possibility of working on whatshisname’s campaign.”

  “That’s not it,” A.J. said. “I’m no expert, but both times we talked, I heard a seriously depressed man. I mean go-see-a-therapist-depressed. Something dark is happening.”

  “Have you asked Millie about it?”

  “She’s weird, too. Like, angry weird. I think he needs our help.”

  We intended the week as Brad’s reward for a lifetime of unselfish, unwavering support, as well as a celebration of his professional achievement. He’d taken a couple of important steps toward his ultimate goal of a federal judgeship. He’d been named night court judge for the city of Fresno. A promising California gubernatorial candidate had invited Brad to become an advisor to his campaign.

  We flew Brad and Millie to Phoenix and Basil down from Alaska. We got Brad a suite at the Biltmore and decreed that he could pay for nothing. He clearly did his best to pretend everything was okay. He laughed. He joked. As we recalled various outrageous moments of our lives, he extracted his teeth and agreed that, “Yeth, thir, that wath a good one.”

  He had an edge, though. Completely foreign to his nature. He displayed a lack of patience with cabbies and bellhops and waiters. We were accustomed to a Fat Brad who kept a careful rein on himself in social situations, who cringed at acts of inconsideration and guided us away from toxic situations.

  Conor tugged at Brad’s elbow, steering him past the restroom, through a door by the kitchen, out to the parking lot.

  “Hey, man, what’s going on? This isn’t you. Are you telling me, after all these years, A.J., Baze and I have finally rubbed off on you?”

  Brad closed his eyes, wobbling a little as Conor steadied him.

  “Connie, I’m sorry. It’s been . . . A lot’s happening. I . . . I apologize. I’ve had too much to drink . . .”

  While Brad and I talked, his wife, Millie, stormed away from the dinner table, took a cab to Sky Harbor and flew home. Kate followed Millie out, but got no explanation as they waited for the cab.

  Spouses weren’t invited the next night as Conor, Basil and A.J. sought to get Brad to open up. He steered conversation away each time they approached an uncomfortable shoal. With each drink he became a little louder, a little more obnoxious. When two men at a nearby table took exception and asked Brad to tone it down, he stood and took a menacing step forward.

  “Yeah? You want to take it outside?”

  Confronted by this paunchy belligerent, the men might have been more than willing to accept Brad’s offer. Brad was quickly flanked by A.J., Basil and Conor, though. The men shrank away.

  Conor watched Fat Brad disappear into the boarding tunnel at Sky Harbor’s Terminal Four the next afternoon.

  “Something’s really wrong,” Conor said. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

  “Yeah,” A.J. agreed. “I’d better go after him. I’ll book an early flight.”

  Fresno, California

  Sgt. Jorge Leal considered his assignment the worst a police officer could draw.

  He respected Judge Grady, even liked him. Their paths had crossed on several courtroom occasions, before the judge was a judge. He represented petty criminals, affording them their constitutional rights. Grady fought for his clients but wasn’t the kind of attorney who constantly sought to scapegoat police.

  And now that Grady worked night court, they saw each other more frequently. The judge seemed fair in his approach to both sides.

  And these charges . . . shit, anyone could claim anything. This kind of allegation, though, true or not, killed a career. Still, the charge had been filed. Leal had no choice.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the cab was already pulling away. He jumped from his cruiser and crossed the street at a quick walk. The judge stood in a wash of light spilling through an open front door.

  “. . . I’ve got a restraining order.”

  The woman inside—Leal recognized her as the judge’s wife—said, “You can’t come in. You can’t even stand in the front yard.”

  “Judge! Judge Grady!” called Leal. “Step away from the door, sir. Come to the sidewalk.”

  The judge’s head snapped around. His expression startled Leal to the extent that his right hand dropped reflexively to a leather thong securing his sidearm.

  Seeing the uniform, the judge’s shoulders slumped. He dropped his suitcase where he stood. Eyes downcast, he shuffled trance-like across his lawn.

  As he stopped a few feet from Leal and slowly raised his eyes, the police officer saw a defeated man.

  “Judge, I’m sorry, I have to place you under arrest.”

  The judge said nothing, just stood, his eyes empty.

  “Sir, the charge is rape of a minor. You have the right to remain—”

  The judge waved a palm. “I know my rights. You don’t need—”

  “Yes, Judge, I do.”

  Leal completed his recitation.

  The judge raised his eyes again and nodded.

  “Judge, I need a verbal response.”

  “I understand my rights. I . . . I don’t need an attorney.”

  “Are . . . are you sure? I’ll be glad to make a call . . .”

  “Do you have to handcuff me?” The judge’s voice bore a hollow ring, as if he was vacant inside.

  “Um . . . no, Judge. No, I don’t. You will need to ride in the back, though.”

  The judge raised his head again. Now a light snapped on behind his eyes. The assertiveness with which Leal was familiar returned. “I need to ask one thing.”

  Leal held open the passenger side rear door of his cruiser and raised his eyebrows, inviting the judge to continue.

  “I need to get into my office.”

  “No, sir, we can’t go to the courthouse. We have to—”

  “No, my private office here at home. I have papers. If the wrong people see them, confidentiality of several former clients would be severely compromised. I have to be sure—”

  “Judge, I can’t let you do it. Think about it. Suppose those papers are germane to this case? Plus, the restraining order . . .”

  “They are completely unrelated
,” the judge said. “These people relied on me to keep them . . . Look, I’ll let you inspect the papers so you can ascertain they don’t pertain to anything I might or might not have done. We’ll put them in an envelope. I’ll call my bailiff. Please. I can’t let these people down. I have to get into that safe. At least ask my wife if I can get into the office for just a moment.”

  Under any other circumstances, Leal would ignore a suspect’s plea and simply drive to the jail. But . . . the judge. He liked this man. He believed this man.

  He asked the judge to remain at the curb while he knocked. The wife answered, accompanied by a man she identified as her brother. Officer Leal explained the judge’s concern. When she balked, he heard the judge call, “Please, Millie. It’s not enough you’re helping to destroy me? You want to damage these other people, too? They aren’t related to any part of this.”

  The woman, glared, nodded, then said, “I want him gone as soon as possible.”

  Leal beckoned.

  The house sat among a neighborhood of ranchers and sprawled over its lot. The office was a converted bedroom. The judge hurried through his office door, as if achieving entry provided some sort of victory. He flipped the switch on a green-shaded banker’s lamp, casting a square of light across a polished, wooden desk. He took a deep breath.

  “The papers are in the safe,” he said, waving to a wall painting.

  The judge’s wife and her brother followed Leal into the darkened room, waiting just inside.

  “I think we should turn on the overhead light,” the judge’s brother-in-law said. “We just want to be sure he doesn’t take something that belongs to Millie.”

  Millie bowed her head. She would not meet her husband’s eyes.

  “Good idea,” the judge said, his voice cold, on the edge of menacing. “Turn on the light. I wouldn’t want you to miss anything.”

  As light flooded the room, Leal said, “I’ll have to open the safe, judge.”