by Earl Emerson
“It’s not something I talk about,” I said.
“Stone tells me the investigation’s gone off on a tangent.”
“I don’t know where he’s getting his information.”
“Is it going off on a tangent?”
“We’re doing what needs to be done.”
“Sometimes a man thinks something has to be done, and later it turns out it wasn’t right. It can haunt you.”
“Are you speaking from experience?” I said. The room grew silent. There were just the three of us, and we all knew I was referring to what had happened in the San Juans all those years ago. “You’re not going to talk about it, are you?”
“Talk about what?”
“About why I was booted out of the family.”
“We all know why you left. You left the family because I made a deal with my business partner to keep you out of jail.”
“There was a lot more going on, and you know it.”
“Can’t we let this go? For your sake, can’t we?”
“For my sake? I’ve already done my suffering. I thought it was time we spread it around a little. You ushered me out of that house like somebody sweeping a dead mouse out of a closet. Couldn’t get me out fast enough.”
“I wanted you out of Harlan’s sight. He was getting madder and madder, and I was afraid of what he might do.”
“I told you I didn’t touch Echo, but you didn’t believe me.”
“No, I didn’t. Because…” Father’s voice was beginning to tremble. “Echo convinced us otherwise.”
“Did she?”
“I didn’t believe it at first, but I couldn’t let you get away with it, either.”
“Who could you let get away with it?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Sure you do. Echo’s phoned you by now, right?” Father was quiet. “Right?”
“I may have spoken to her.”
“Oh, come now. How could you forget Echo calling to tell you she lied about who raped her, telling you the wrong son got pilloried? Or maybe it wasn’t news to you.”
“She’s been under psychiatric care for years. I’m not sure if anything she says can be believed.”
“You still don’t want to admit you made a mistake, do you?”
“I made the best decision available to me at the time. It was a confusing night. If there were mistakes made, they were honest ones.”
“You and I both know that’s a crock of shit.” The maid, who’d been heading into the room with a tray of lemonade, turned and scampered away. “There was nothing confusing about it at all. If there were, you would have come to find me after a year or two. But you didn’t.”
“You seemed happy where you were.”
“How did you know where I was, and how could you possibly know whether I was happy or not?”
“I saw you playing ball.”
“It was convenient, wasn’t it? You had two sons left. One white and one black. One of them had to get booted out of the family or your fortunes were going to wane. You had too many deals going with Harlan not to be worried about his reaction. And he wanted the black kid thrown out, didn’t he? So out I went like a bucket of trash. Without letting me confront my accuser.”
“You have to remember the alternative was prison.”
“The alternative was a fair hearing.”
“Echo said you did it.”
“And nobody’s ever been falsely accused before? What killed me was you believed her over your own son.”
“But why would she lie?”
“You know why.” We stared at each other for a few moments. “Kendra, did Echo call you?” I asked.
“She left a message last night. I haven’t gotten back to her.”
“It’s your lucky day, old man. You get to tell her. Go ahead. Tell your daughter what really happened.”
“Tell me what?” Kendra asked.
Father coughed. “It was…confusing at best.”
“A couple of nights ago Echo admitted to me that she lied,” I said. “She called him and said the same thing. She’s going to tell you, too.” I glared at Father until he looked away. “They railroaded me. I got thrown out of the family so that the real perpetrator could run the family businesses and get elected to public office.”
“But you said that night…” Kendra said. “You said you had…relations out at the cottage.”
“With India.”
The room was suddenly full of silence and autumn sunshine, the gas fireplace burning as it always did when Father was home. “I was only doing what I thought was right,” he said.
“You knew the truth that night, didn’t you?”
“There was so much going on, and Overby was crowing for blood. We had all those land deals intertwined, millions of dollars, and if he’d backed out just then it would have gone bad for us. Stone was thinking about asking India to marry him, and Harlan and I were like brothers back in those days. Helen and Elaine were best friends and had been for years. The whole thing was going to split the families apart like a suicide bomber.”
“Wouldn’t want to break apart the big happy family, would we? For a while there, you and I were almost like father and son.”
“At least let me apologize.”
“I’m listening.”
But he didn’t apologize. It wasn’t the Carmichael way to admit having done anything wrong. Deny, obfuscate, and accuse others; but to apologize was bad form. Instead, he said, “I never look at Stone without thinking about that night. I knew he was lying when he was telling us about it by the little tic in his eye. Echo wasn’t acting right, either.”
“Oh, no!” Kendra said, apparently without meaning to open her mouth.
Father continued, “My life went to hell after that. We lost all those state contracts. Then Helen was gone, and our net worth went down by almost half.”
“Could slice it up a few more times and still have more than most people see in a lifetime,” I said.
“Don’t worry. We’re doing better now. You’re in my will, Trey. I never took you out of the will. You can rest assured of that. I never took you out of my heart, and I never took you out of my will.”
“You can take me out now.”
“Some day a third of this and a third of what I’ve got in the market will be yours.”
“Somebody say it,” Kendra whispered. “Say it out loud. I need to hear it in words.”
The room grew quiet, motes of dust swirling slowly in the sunlight near Father’s head. He said, “You’re going to have to tell her, Trey. I’ve done too much accusing to do any more.”
I turned, looked at Kendra, and said, “India and I were lovers. Stone and Echo went out to the cottage that night and found us, but they didn’t make their presence known. After we left, Stone attacked Echo. Father knew it all along.”
Kendra turned to Father and stood over his chair. “This is the real reason you never let anybody mention Trey? Because you felt guilty? You let Trey take the blame for what Stone did?”
Shelby Carmichael looked a hundred years old now, silent, staring into the plaid blanket on his lap, biting the inside of one cheek. If he didn’t have so much money and so many creature comforts, I might have felt sorry for him.
“You’re getting a third,” Father said.
“I don’t want it,” I said, heading for the doorway.
“Can you at least understand there was your mother to consider? She knew who your mother was. And who your father was. And we’d already lost one son that summer. Can you at least understand that?”
“What I understand is that you sacrificed your innocent son for her guilty one.”
58. RICKIE CARTER ERRS ON THE SIDE OF CAUTION
RICKIE CARTER, SOLDIER OF FORTUNE>
We’re riding in the back of the van, me and two guys I’ve never seen before, a couple of pugs from one of the boxing gyms. One of them has half an ear missing. I get the feeling they’re from California because of somethin
g they said and because of the faded gang tattoos on their arms. Click and Clack. That’s what they told us. They’re going to do the work. Me and Jerome are the holders. Jerome’s driving. Jerome’s the only one I know. Was in Walla Walla with me on an armed robbery beef. Jerome’s good people. He’s the one who knew the fat man who’s following us in the stolen BMW, the only one of us who is not a brother. Had to be brothers, Jerome said. All four of us had to be black.
Jerome’s getting three big ones, and I’m getting two. Once we get the bike down, we jump out the back and we hit him so hard he don’t know which way is up. Jerome says this guy on the bike is bad, and even the fat man is planning to err on the side of caution. I heard that phrase on the TV. Err on the side of caution. First I thought it was about basketball: “air on the side of caution.” Then somebody told me.
The main thing is to make it look like he got caught in these riots. People see a bunch of brothers pounding somebody, they automatically associate it with the club burning down, ’stead of four hired soldiers of fortune. That’s what Jerome calls us. Soldiers of fortune. I like that.
Ordinarily, I don’t go around picking on strangers unless they’re fronting me, but the fat man told us all about this guy. Seems he raped a kid. Got away scot-free. Laughed about it afterward. Jerome and I figure this guy deserves what we’re going to give him and maybe a little more. Little white girl, he said, so scared afterward she hid in a closet for a week. Damn. Nothing I hate worse than a rapo.
It’s just getting dark, and the fat man signals Jerome that the bike is here. We’ve been parked across the street from the Douglass-Truth Library, which been standing since I was a kid. I ain’t never been inside, but someday I’m going to see what it’s about.
The motorcycle flashes by and the fat man pulls out fast and flicks his hand as a signal for Jerome to follow. We’re heading up Yesler, and I can see the BMW following the bike, turning left down one of the residential streets. Jerome swerves hard, following the BMW. In an instant the beamer has the bike tipped over and the rider is down. Musta tapped his rear wheel with his bumper.
The two Cs bail out before we’re done rolling.
By now Click and Clack are walking over to him like they’re offering to help. Nice touch. The fat man is sitting in his BMW with the engine idling, like he’s waiting for his insurance agent.
They’re walking toward the biker dude, asking if he needs help, and before the dude can answer, Click hits him in the face and he’s on the ground and there’s blood all over. I mean, all over. And for the first time I realize he’s a brother. We’re hustling over to get in on the action when I say to Jerome, “Hey, man. I thought he would be white.”
“He’s white enough, man. Let’s get him.”
“Man, I thought this was supposed to be some sort of riot thing.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“How do we know we got the right guy?”
“The fat man picked him out, didn’t he? It’s him.”
They must have really smacked him, because he’s not moving. Jesus, Clack hits him with those brass knuckles, he doesn’t see it coming, and now he’s probably dead. I mean, he’s not moving a muscle. I’m not going up for Man One. I’ll flip for the prosecution. Hell, I wasn’t even near the guy.
The two Cs circle the downed man from either side, and Click rears back as if he’s going to kick the dude in the thigh, maybe test how bad he’s hurt, but before he can kick him, the dude does some sort of break-dance move and boots Click in the nuts. Click goes down so fast he falls on the dude, but Clack is already working it and he’s got his boot in the air coming down on the dude’s helmet. Only for some reason I never quite figure, he misses, and then he’s reaching down and there’s blood coming out through his jeans, but if the dude’s got a knife in his hands, I can’t see it. I don’t know where the blood came from.
With Click and Clack temporarily out of commission, Jerome and I glance at each other. We move around real quick, and Jerome goes in and there’s a tussle, and the guy isn’t even off the pavement yet, but they’re wrestling, Jerome and this cat. Jerome lets out this squawk and I move in and all of a sudden my mouth closes like a clamshell and I’ve bit off half my tongue. No shit, my tongue is flapping.
I’m on my knees on the pavement, and my teeth hurt and my tongue is killing me and there’s blood all down the front of my jacket. The bastard kicked me in the mouth. And then before I can get up, Jerome is lying on the ground real still, and the dude is up and kicking Clack in the head—Clack the only one of us still standing—with those motorcycle boots, kicking up high over his head like a dancer or something, and Clack goes down like a sack of steer shit. The dude turns, kicks down hard on Click until I know Click isn’t going to be breathing easy for months. Just as the BMW tears out of there, he turns to me.
He takes a step forward, but I’ve been in brawls before and I have a length of pipe with me and I whip it out, but he’s moving like a bird, and the next thing I know the bike has crushed my back. Like somebody threw it on top of me. Only I think it’s the other way around. I glimpse a piece of the sky as it’s happening, but it still takes a second to realize he’s somehow thrown me over himself and I’ve landed on the bike, and damn, I think my back might be broken.
I hear sirens in the distance.
This was supposed to be a cakewalk. Easy money. Half an hour of work. Damn that Jerome.
Then the dude has hold of my jacket and is hauling me off the bike, dragging me away. I smell something burning and wonder if my clothing was touching the hot pipe on his bike. I don’t feel burned. But then, I don’t feel anything. The dude is looking at me like he feels sorry for me.
A moment later they’re cuffing his hands behind his back.
As I lay there trying to figure out what happened, I know I’m headed for the hospital and from there to stir. There’s no way around it. On the other hand, maybe if we get a good lawyer, maybe…
And then the fire department people are here. Two of them are putting something stiff and uncomfortable around my neck, and one of them says, “Is that Captain Brown over there? Hell, that is Captain Brown.”
“One of these guys tagged his bike with a car. The rest was some sort of road rage thing, I guess.”
“You’re shitting me. Brown did this himself? There’s four patients here.”
“Brown’s been studying martial arts since he was a kid. I heard he’s even been to Brazil to study.”
In the hospital they give me some dope and I am X-rayed, and then somebody comes in and tells me I have a spinal cord injury, and then some cops try to tell me Jerome already answered all their questions so I better answer, too, but I know that is bullshit because Jerome wouldn’t turn over on me. And then I wonder if we’re ever going to get paid.
59. BIKER CHICK STRIKES TERROR IN HEART OF SEWARD PARK NEIGHBORHOOD
TREY>
When the phone rang at ten A.M>., I was still in bed, nursing a fractured cheekbone and twelve stitches. My face had swollen so that I looked like a Frankenstein creature, but at least I hadn’t needed surgery. I skipped the pain meds, but now that my head was clear and the junk they’d given me at Harborview had worn off, I wanted a hit of Vicodin so bad I could taste it. Still bandaged himself, Johnny had stayed over to nurse me—it made him feel important. The phone had been busy all morning and I’d been letting the machine pick up until I heard Estevez’s voice.
“You all right?” she asked.
“More or less.”
“What happened? You sound funny.”
“A mouthful of stitches is what happened.”
“Stone called here last night, but I was out. He’s wondering why I haven’t reported to him in three days. What happened to your mouth?”
“I had a little discussion with a few guys last night. Remember Renfrow? I think he was there, but the windows of his car were smoked over, so I’m not sure.”
“Oh, my gosh, Trey. How badly did they hurt you?”
> “I’ll tell you about it later. There’s one last interview I think we should do.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“I thought we’d go over on my bike. Is that okay? Wear something comfortable. A warm jacket.”
“In an hour? I’ll meet you at your place.”
“Better make it an hour and a half. I have to bang some dings out of my bike.” I gave her my address.
Ninety minutes later I was on the sidewalk in front of the house with a rubber mallet and a large chunk of metal when a motorcyclist rode across the parking strip onto the sidewalk and shut the motor off, walking a Harley-Davidson Sportster toward me with a leg on either side. The rider wore a white helmet and full leathers.
“You ready?” Estevez asked, removing her helmet and shaking out her voluminous hair.
It took me a few moments to believe what I was seeing. “You never told me you had a bike.”
“You never asked. Does that hurt? You should be on medication.”
“I’m saving the meds for later.”
It was almost noon when we left. We took nonarterials. Estevez handled her bike well. I wanted to ask her how long she’d been riding, but as long as we were moving, neither of us could hear the other over the sound of the bikes.
I’d spent the morning on the phone and on the Internet, trying without success to track down any public information on Silverstar Consolidated. I couldn’t find anything, but I knew who to ask.
Chester McDonald was in his driveway washing his Benz when I roared up the slope, skidding to a halt in front of him. I tipped the bike on its kickstand and shut off the motor. Behind me, Estevez shut off her bike. “You got some answering to do, Chester.”
“I want my attorney. What right you got to come—”
“Talk, you bastard.”
McDonald dropped his head, and I knew the combination of fear and being cornered had finally gotten to him. “You get me my crutches?” Estevez picked up the crutches and handed them to him. Once he had them under his shoulders, he said, “I sold it to Silverstar Consolidated last February. After that, all I did was manage the place. Before the fire they didn’t want me to make it public that they were buying up property, and after the fire they didn’t want people to know they were squeezing nickels out of the place. All they cared about was bringing in a few more bucks. Nobody thought it would hurt anything to skip some stupid regulations.”
