Damage Control

by Michael Bowen

  “We need to talk now.”

  “Well, okay, if you feel it’s important.” Chewed my lip, wondering how long I had before I’d have to drive Matt home—because neither he nor Rafe figured to be up to that chore. “How much time do you think we’ll need on the phone?”

  “Five more seconds. We’re at Reagan National Airport. We need you to come get us. ASAP.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Dropping Matt at home sort of on the way complicated ASAP, but I got to Reagan National well before they had any right to expect me. All set to give the both of them a royal chewing out for just showing up out of the blue. But then, in my Fusion’s bright dome light, I got a good view of Uncle D.

  He looked like death warmed over. Mouse under his right eye. Stitches in his upper lip and the point of his chin. Big bandage on his forehead, right underneath where that scraggly hair that he wears over his neck starts. Overall skin tone kind of gray. He’s a big guy—well over six feet and weighs close to two-fifty—and that made it seem worse. I noticed a featherweight cotton hospital pajama-top sort of peeking out from underneath the tie-less tan dress shirt he was wearing.

  “Uncle D, what in the world—?”

  “Later,” Mama snapped. “We need you to get us to your place pronto. We’ll talk there.”

  I managed that without too much trouble. Rafe, God bless him, doesn’t get drunk often and when he does he’s a neat and gentlemanly drunk—no getting sick on the kitchen floor or anything like that. He had gotten himself to bed by the time I got home with my unexpected company, so that took care of one complication. By around ten forty-five I had the four of us—me, Mama, Uncle D, and Jim Beam—installed around the glass-topped table on our deck.

  “Denver Health Medical Center called me last night to tell me that Darius was in the emergency room.” Mama had battleship-gray hair now, pulled back into a bun, and it bounced a little bit as she spoke. “I flew out there as fast as I could, praying just as hard as I know how all the way. Had to connect through Dallas, and that wasn’t any picnic. Not something I would have done for anyone but kin. After Darius and I talked, I decided we’d better get face-to-face with you in a big hurry. So here we are.”

  “What in the world happened?” I asked.

  “The chair recognizes Darius Zachary Taylor Barry,” Mama said.

  “Well, I did a little poking around, just like you asked me to. Turned up something interesting. It seems—”

  “I meant the stitches and the bruises,” I said.

  “First things first,” Uncle D said, sounding just a mite cross. “You see, that first part was easy. That conference was just crawling with folks who’ll never send fan mail to Sanford Dierdorf. They say ‘crony capitalist’ a lot when they hear his name. They have lots of stories about him.”

  “Maybe you could tell us one.” That would be Mama in no-nonsense mode.

  “Well, it seems that the po-lice came to Mr. Dierdorf not too long ago because they’d found a firearm registered to him on the body of that fella got his brains blown out while he was strolling with you.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Dierdorf is just as breezy as you please about it. Says someone must be fiddling with serial numbers, because he carries his weapon whenever he legally can and he has it right now and here it is, take a look at it if you want. Well, turns out the weapon he showed those jack-booted fascists with badges had a different serial number than the weapon he’d been registered as buying and licensed to carry.” Clearly enjoying himself despite the discomfort of his injuries and the numbing effect of whatever painkiller he was taking, Uncle D leaned back and sipped whiskey. “Even more curious, the weapon he produced was bought by someone else, many states east of Colorado.”

  “Holy sh—”

  “You watch your mouth, young lady. Remember whom you’re talking to.”

  “Sorry, Mama.”

  “So Dierdorf says the gun must have been switched somehow without his knowledge and he just hadn’t noticed the trade. The jack-booted fascists are not overwhelmed by the plausibility of this speculation, but Dierdorf says that’s my story and I’m sticking to it and you can talk to my lawyer if you don’t like it. Or words to that effect.”

  I caught myself in time to say, “My word,” instead of the first exclamation that came to mind.

  “I heard this account, or something awful close to it, from three different gentlemen,” Uncle D said. “And two of them weren’t drunk.”

  “So looking at it from this Dierdorf cat’s point of view,” Mama said, “you can understand him wanting to get his hands on the file y’all had on what’s-his-name, the decedent.”

  About now I expected Mama to pull out one of her mango-flavored Phillies Blunts and ask me to help her with it. They weren’t exactly my cup of tea even before I quit smoking—nothing like as smooth as Rafe’s Monte Cristos—but Mama doesn’t smoke unless she’s with other people who are also smoking. So, you know, filial duty, solidarity, all that stuff, I would share one with her, like Rafe had mentioned. When she didn’t do it now, I figured Uncle D had been ordered off tobacco and Mama was abstaining so as not to rub his face in it. That’s Mama.

  “Okay, Uncle D,” I said. “That dope about the handgun is serious stuff and I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you dug it up for me. Now, tell me about how you got beaten up—and don’t say you got up to relieve yourself in the middle of the night and walked into the bathroom door, ’cause I’ve heard that one before.”

  “Well, it was my own fault. In a way. You see, when I found it prudent to drop a name here and there while I was feeling these chatty gentlemen out, I would stick with one of my old favorites, Patti SuAn.”

  I groaned inside. ‘Patti SuAn’ is an anagram for ‘Pantsuit.’ Back before he went away, Uncle D actually managed to convince a reporter that it was the Secret Service codename for—well, you go ahead and figure it out. He ginned up a memo supposedly written by the President’s chief of staff about something-or-other involving Patti SuAn, and then ‘leaked’ it to the reporter. By the grace of God it didn’t go anywhere, but he’s always been way too proud of it anyway.

  “Uncle D, please tell me you didn’t put out some cock-and-bull—”

  “No, I didn’t.” His eyes twinkled for just a second. “That isn’t my point.”

  “Get to what is your point,” Mama said.

  “I fouled up one time. Somehow let your actual name slip out. I’m awful sorry, honey. Can’t think how I made a mistake like that. Guess I’ve lost a step.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I let your name out around eleven o’clock Thursday morning. You know how conferences are. Word gets around real fast. By two o’clock Thursday afternoon I found myself in the company of a guy who wanted to chat with me about you. At length. A little rude about it, even for a Yankee. I realized what I’d done, so I begged off.”

  “And he insisted?”

  “Not in the middle of the afternoon in the Denver Marriott City Center’s bar, he didn’t. But later that night, he or someone who smelled a lot like him, broke into my hotel room in a very insistent mood. Twenty-five years ago I could have mopped the floor up with him, but I’m afraid he got in more licks than I did.”

  I gulped. Is this one on me too?

  “Uncle D, I don’t want you to take this question the wrong way, because I realize the fix you were in—”

  “Oh, you want to know how much I told him.” Uncle Darius chuckled. “Can’t blame you for that. Fact is, though, I didn’t tell him a blessed thing.”

  Didn’t see how that could possibly be true, but I couldn’t think of any decent way to say so. Lucky for me, Uncle D just kept on talking.

  “You see, at the time this happened I was entertaining a young lady from Denver’s adult entertainment sector. The guy who came after me made the mistake of breaking i
n before this sweetheart had been properly compensated. Real spitfire. Plus, she had a pig-sticker that Jim Bowie himself would have admired. She sprang into action in time to chase this gent off before he’d done any permanent damage.”

  “Well, thank the Lord for that.”

  “Amen,” Mama said. Then she turned toward me. “I take it you understand now why we had to get to you right away about this—and why we didn’t feel comfortable doing it on the phone.”

  “I do understand, Mama, and I am properly grateful.”

  “Now, seems to me we have to assume that this Dierdorf has a strong and unhealthy interest in you, just like Darius said. So we need to decide what we’re going to do about that.”

  “Go to the authorities, for example,” Uncle D said. “Or the jack-booted fascists, as I sometimes call them.”

  “I’ve already given the FBI a hint about him, but that was general. I don’t feel right telling them that I’m a Dierdorf target until Rafe is cleared.”

  “I can see that,” Mama said. “That Rafe of yours is a good man, and whether he did it or didn’t do it, I don’t want to see him fry for it.”

  “For sure.” I thought that would be a more constructive response than telling Mama that her capital punishment metaphors are a bit out of date. “Unfortunately, I’m fresh out of ideas about anything else to do except keep my eyes open.”

  “I do have one idea,” Uncle D said, after draining his glass.

  Red flags. Alarm bells.

  “What’s that?”

  “You make friends in prison, if you know how to do it. The friends you make have made friends in other places, and those friends have made friends. Know what I mean?”

  “I’m afraid I do.”

  “Now, some of the friends I made have called me to see if I could help them out with this or that, and in several cases I have been able to do so. I’m betting that there’s someone crooked who knows things about Dierdorf which no one at this table knows. I’m thinking you have a name or two in that category that you haven’t shared with me yet.”

  “True.”

  I could feel myself blushing. Uncle Darius didn’t have to spell it out for me. If I’d trust him with a name, he’d start going through his big-house alumni contact list and see if he could find someone who knew someone who knew someone who’d arrange an introduction. I looked Uncle D right in the eye.

  “Danny Klimchock.”

  Damage Control Strategy

  Days 10 through 16

  (the second Saturday through the third Friday after the murder)

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  I get a warm glow when I think back on the next week. Over the weekend Rafe and I did the hospitality thing for Mama and Uncle D while they rested up from their cross-country jaunt. That meant Josie going to Mass for the second week in a row, because the last thing I needed was some Mama drama. On Monday we got them on a plane headed back to Baton Rouge, so that Uncle D could start calling ex-cons from a phone that didn’t belong to us.

  Tuesday’s highlight was Seamus taking me to a studio in Arlington, Virginia, to record our little skit on how Spunky-Josie needs to pack heat. Turned out to be a lot harder than I’d expected. I had the script cold, and the bit we were shooting wasn’t supposed to run more than forty-five seconds, but we needed rehearsal and revisions and then take after take until Seamus and the digital video guy were happy at the same time. Finally got it done, though.

  The idea was to post the thing on YouTube—not right away, but the next week if D.C. was still dragging its feet on my concealed-carry permit application. Get enough hits from gun lovers and Seamus could go to the NRA with his big pitch. Couldn’t help feeling a little excited about it, even with all the drudgery. YouTube isn’t exactly the big time—even if you go viral, you’re doing the same thing dancing cats do every day—but humpty-thousand people were going to see my name and face and hear my voice so, hey, why not be happy?

  Wednesday I started to get a little traction with the America-back-into-space thing. Got calls from the Congressman and the potential donor, both pretty upbeat. I started scratching out some ideas for a commercial that could be slapped together in time for the next primary season. I’d have to run the thing by Seamus, once I had something to run, but I already had visions of a modest six-figure score.

  On Thursday came the call from Uncle D. He had good news.

  “You should expect a contact from one Daniel Klimchock by early next week, sugar. Not sure what his angle is, but this is favors from, like, three guys. So if he’s not what you were hoping for, let me down gently, okay?”

  “Got it, Uncle D. Can’t thank you enough.”

  “All right, sugar. Stay good, now.”

  Then came Friday. Epic day. Glorious day. A day to press in my memory book, or whatever the digital equivalent is.

  First thing Friday afternoon I called Glencora Robinson, the hardworking D.C. civil servant who had reluctantly filed my application for a concealed carry permit, and asked for a status report. Made the call from Seamus’ land-line, with him on an extension. He had a handkerchief over his mouthpiece, and worked so hard at keeping quiet that his face turned ripe tomato red.

  “Your application is pending, Ms. Kendall.”

  “Well, it’s been a week now and I’ve been coming to work blue-pencil scared every day, because of what happened and me being defenseless and everything. How much longer is it going to take?”

  “I am very sorry about your fears, but I cannot give you an estimate for final action on your application.”

  Seamus broke into a gape-mouthed grin and pumped his fist in the air like the Redskins had just scored a touchdown to put them nine points ahead of the point-spread with two minutes left in the fourth quarter of the Super Bowl.

  “Is there someone else I could talk to, then?” I asked. “You know, to try to explain why this is so important?”

  “You’re welcome to call anyone you wish to ask for an appointment, but the civil service officers in this area are very busy with pressing affairs.”

  Seamus silently mouthed “pressing affairs” as his face lit up like a leprechaun’s on St. Patrick’s Day. He flashed an enthusiastic thumb’s-up at me.

  “Okay, I guess. Whom would I call, then?”

  “I am not able to identify the particular civil service officer who has responsibility for your application at this point in time. That is a matter of internal deliberation and therefore is not subject to public disclosure.”

  I thought Seamus might wet his pants as he broke into his happy dance.

  “Well, is there anything at all you can tell me, or am I supposed to just sit here and wait for this hoodlum to come back and take care of unfinished business?”

  “I can only advise you to be patient as your application is considered in due course. You will be informed promptly upon final disposition. Please feel free to call at any time. We are here to serve the public.”

  She hung up. I hung up. Seamus let out a whoop they could have heard on Farragut Square.

  “Did you get all that?” he asked, almost panting with eagerness.

  “Every word.” I gestured toward a computer screen with my telegraphic transcription of her answers underneath each of my scripted questions.

  “‘Pressing affairs.’ ‘Internal deliberation.’ ‘Here to serve the public.’ That couldn’t have gone any better if I’d written her lines as well as yours.”

  “Just out of curiosity, why didn’t we record the whole call on tape? Then we could have laid an audio track on the clip with her actual voice.”

  “That might have been illegal. Taping a call without both parties’ consent is a felony in Maryland, and who knows whether D.C. has a law like that as well?”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, this will work just as well. Maybe even better.” Seamus used both hands to frame
an imaginary shot, and then put the first two fingers of his right hand on the thumb and ran it along the bottom of the make-believe frame. “We’ll have a shot of you talking on the phone, with an audio track of you reading your lines and someone else reading this woman’s. We’ll make the audio track sound kind of wind-tunnelly, as if it really were a tape recording. We’ll run a super along the bottom of the picture with a transcription of what’s being said. In little tiny type we’ll put, ‘Actual conversation. Government employee’s words read by paid performer from contemporaneous notes.’ Have to take the time to do it right, so we’ll spend Monday on the recordings and go live first thing Tuesday morning. Bet we get ten-thousand hits in the first eight hours.”

  And that was just Friday’s opening act. The feature attraction came that evening, a little after six, as Rafe and I were just getting into our cocktails. Rafe’s lawyer called. Rafe put him on speaker.

  “The forensic audit of your accounts is complete,” he said. “Bottom line: nada. Dry hole. Unless you spent the last twenty years accumulating ten gold bars that you’ve had stashed in a safe and you somehow got those to McAbbott, there is simply no way you could have paid him off.”

  “So I’m no longer a target of the investigation?” Rafe asked.

  “Not a target. You’ll be a possible suspect until the cops actually convince themselves that someone else did it, but every lead they had on you has brought them to a dead end. They’re not going to spend any more taxpayer dollars going after you unless they just stumble over something new on their way to lunch.”

  “That’s great news, Mike. Thanks for calling with it. Nice work.”

  In an instant, Rafe looked happier than I’d seen him in weeks: unforced smile and a relaxation of his upper body, as if he’d just unbuttoned a vest that was two sizes too small. Gave me a thrill just to look at him. Not sexual. I was just so happy for him.

  As Rafe punched the OFF button on our phone console, I noticed a red light blinking. We had apparently gotten a call while Rafe and his lawyer were talking. Lightheartedly, with some happy-go-lucky, what-the-Hell body language, Rafe pressed the button to play back the recorded message.