Blind Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “That does seem rather inefficient.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Do you realize some studies indicate parrots are intelligent?”

  Ben didn’t.

  “A recent Purdue University study indicated that to some degree parrots may actually understand the meaning of the phrases they are taught to say. They may be able to deduce and reason in response to their environmental conditions. And I’ll tell you something else. Parrots mate for life. As a result, they suffer even more from the loss of their mates.”

  “Amazing. Is there much money in parrot smuggling?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe. And the rarer the bird, the higher the price. Some go for as much as a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Ben whistled. “How much could a guy get for an Imperial Amazon?”

  Langdell smiled bitterly. “You’ve been to see Quinn Reynolds.”

  “Yeah. Nice bird.”

  “It’s a revolting situation. Quinn Reynolds is an ethical toxic waste dump.”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “Damn right I don’t approve. He keeps that bird in a cage every second of its life. It never gets a chance to fly free. If you must keep a bird in captivity, particularly one that size, you have a moral obligation to keep it in an aviary.”

  “Wouldn’t that be expensive?”

  “Reynolds can afford it. And if he can’t, he can send the bird here. The Tulsa Zoo takes exceptional care of its animals. That’s where the bird should be, assuming it has to be in captivity.”

  “You think it should be set free?”

  “At the very least, I think it should be set free of Reynolds. He doesn’t care for it worth a damn. Parrots need attention, care, grooming. Reynolds doesn’t provide any of that. That bird gets the same oilseed to eat every day, and virtually no attention. The last time I was in his office, the poor thing had started feather-plucking.”

  “Feather-plucking?”

  “Sounds horrible, doesn’t it? It is. It’s an aberrant behavior pattern brought on by monotony of diet, lack of companionship, and inability to bathe. In the tropics, parrots bathe themselves in the frequent rains. That never happens in Reynolds’s eighteen-inch cage. So the bird begins yanking its own feathers out, trying to clean itself. Sometimes they bite off their own toes. Unless some change occurs, the bird will continue mutilating itself until it’s plucked out every feather it has. And then it will die.”

  Ben felt a churning sensation in his stomach. “Aren’t there any laws restricting traffic in rare birds?” he asked.

  “Oh yes. The Imperial Amazon is an endangered species. We’re not even sure they exist in the wild anymore.”

  “Can’t you turn Reynolds in to the authorities?”

  “He claims he hasn’t done anything illegal. That’s the problem with lawyers. They can talk their way out of anything. The 1973 Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species forbids trade in certain species, including Amazona imperialis. But, as Reynolds is quick to point out, he isn’t engaged in the parrot trade and the Convention does not forbid ownership. Lombardi claims his bird was a gift. Damned expensive gift, if it was.”

  “If this bird is so controversial, why would Reynolds want one in his office?”

  “Ego. The hotshot collector with his one-of-a-kind rare bird.”

  A sudden shriek pierced the aviary. Ben whirled back toward Christina.

  “I’m under attack!” she cried.

  Ben ran across the aviary, Langdell close behind. A large bird was hovering over her head, pulling Christina’s long red hair with its beak.

  “It’s just like the movie!” Christina screamed. “What is that monster, a vulture?”

  “A buzzard,” Langdell said, smiling. “And it’s not attacking you. It’s trying to build a nest. Your hair looks like prime nesting material.”

  “I don’t care if it’s trying to save the universe,” Christina said. “Make it let go of my hair!”

  Langdell picked up a stick and gently inserted it into the buzzard’s beak. The bird released Christina’s hair and flew away.

  “Bless you,” Christina said. “I think you just saved my life.”

  “I doubt it,” Langdell said. “But I may have saved you some hair. Did you have any other questions, Mr. Kincaid?”

  “Yes. What happened when you went to see Lombardi the night he was killed?”

  “Nothing. The security guard let me up. I knocked on the door. No one was home, or if they were, they didn’t answer. After a few minutes, I left. The next morning, I read in the World that Lombardi was dead.” He was silent for a moment. “My God, do you think Lombardi was already dead when I was there? Or”—he swallowed—“that the murderer was inside?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.” Ben took a step toward Langdell. “You were determined to put an end to Lombardi’s parrot trade, weren’t you?”

  “Now wait a minute, counselor. If you’re trying to twist my concern for the rights of other living creatures into a motive for murder—”

  “I’m just asking questions. I have to explore all the possibilities.”

  “It’s true I wanted to shut down Lombardi’s parrot operation,” he said cautiously. “But I wouldn’t kill the man. I knew his death wouldn’t accomplish anything. Lombardi had an assistant who worked on everything with him. For all I know, he’s going to follow in Lombardi’s footsteps. No, it made no sense for me to try to kill Lombardi. I could be much more productive pursuing the tried-and-true paths of political activism to effect change.”

  “I guess that’s all I need to know at the moment,” Ben said. “I might come by again later if I think of something else.”

  “I have a lot more information about parrots.” Langdell reached inside his coat pocket. “Here, take some brochures.”

  “No thanks, I have other—” On the top brochure, Ben saw a photograph of a beautiful Amazon parrot, with regal green wings and penetrating orange eyes. Langdell was right. They did look intelligent.

  “Well, perhaps one or two,” Ben muttered, He took a fistful of brochures and left the aviary.

  18

  DESPITE HIS TECHNICAL INCOMPETENCE at most fundamental secretarial chores, Jones still managed to impress Ben from time to time.

  “How did you ever get me an appointment to see Albert DeCarlo?” Ben asked.

  Jones just smiled. “I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

  There was no denying it. Ben was definitely nervous as he strode into the offices of Intercontinental Imports. The place looked legitimate enough—very high class, very corporate. It reminded Ben of the days when he visited Sanguine Enterprises, when he almost became their in-house counsel. Unfortunately, by the time Ben had finished investigating them, most of the officers were facing securities fraud charges, and the whole corporation went into receivership. Which might explain why Ben hadn’t been getting those high-tone corporate clients lately.

  Ben introduced himself to a gorgeous receptionist who directed him to the top of the building, the twentieth floor. He mentally noted the omnipresent security cameras in the lobby, the elevator, and the hallways. He wondered if the place was wired for sound as well. Probably.

  When Ben arrived on the twentieth floor, he faced a comely woman announcing that she was DeCarlo’s personal secretary.

  “I’m Ben—”

  “I know who you are,” the woman interrupted, “Please go on in. Mr. DeCarlo just arrived himself.”

  The woman pushed a button, and the wood-paneled double doors swung open. Not bad.

  Ben stepped into the inner office. He faced a huge bay window; practically the entire back wall was window. The adjoining walls were lined with bookshelves, and the shelves were thick with books of all kinds and sizes. The furnishings were contemporary and utilitarian. The one exception was the heavy oak desk in the center of the room, with Albert DeCarlo standing behind it.

  DeCarlo extended his hand. “I’m Albert DeCarlo,” he said. “My friends call m
e Trey. I hope you will, too.”

  Almost like a statue, Ben shook the proffered hand. DeCarlo was not at all what he’d expected. Among other things…he was young. He was Ben’s age, maybe a few years older, but not many. He was tall and lean; his jet black hair was pulled straight back and tied in a ponytail. He was wearing his trademark outfit: dark sunglasses, dark muffler, and white overcoat.

  He removed his scarf and coat. “Won’t you have a seat, Mr. Kincaid?”

  Ben took the indicated chair. DeCarlo returned to his nest on the other side of the desk, and Ben immediately realized why. There were two large, dark-haired men positioned on either side of him, both with bad complexions and suspiciously bulging jackets.

  “These are my vice presidents,” DeCarlo said. “Johnny and Antonio. They’re in charge of security.”

  I’ll bet they are, Ben thought. He noticed an extremely large man with long blond hair standing in the corner. “Another of your vice presidents?”

  “On the contrary,” DeCarlo said. “Vinny is my executive officer. He makes sure everything gets done smoothly.”

  “No doubt.” Ben examined Vinny carefully. “I had a scuffle with a big man with long blond hair outside Christina McCall’s apartment the day she was released from jail.”

  “Is that a fact?” DeCarlo said. “Surely it wasn’t my executive officer.”

  “The man was wearing a black motorcycle helmet,” Ben said, “so I can’t say for certain. Quite a coincidence, though, wouldn’t you agree?”

  DeCarlo raised an eyebrow. “That two men in all of Tulsa have long blond hair? Hardly. And you surely can’t blame me for wanting to be surrounded by friendly faces. There have been some inexplicable threats against my company and myself. It’s trying, but some extra precautions are required.”

  He placed his hands upon the green desk blotter. “Anyway, that’s not why you’re here. Your secretary indicated that you had a business proposition for me. Something that would turn Intercontinental Imports upside down, I believe he said.”

  Ben vowed to have a heart-to-heart with Jones about how big he lied—and to whom. “That may be somewhat inaccurate, Mr. DeCarlo.”

  “Trey. Call me Trey.” He chuckled. “Let me see if I can help you out, Ben.” He glanced down at a sheet of paper on his desk. “You’re an attorney, graduate of the University of Oklahoma College of Law. Your office is at 462 North Abilene Drive; your home is at 2080 North Eleventh Street, second floor flat. The building is owned by a widow, a Mrs. Harriet Marmelstein. You have a mother living in Nichols Hills and a sister living in Edmond.” He looked up. “Am I right so far?”

  Ben nodded slowly.

  “You drive a Honda Accord, 1982 model, license tag XAU-208. Not in good shape; hard to start. You have a male secretary you call Jones. Somewhat eccentric, but who are we to judge? You were fired last year by Raven, Tucker & Tubb under unusual circumstances. Your solo practice is…not exactly flourishing.”

  “I get the message,” Ben said coldly. “There’s no need to show off.”

  “Not at all,” DeCarlo replied. “You misunderstand my intentions. I’m trying to expedite matters. You’re currently representing Christina McCall, the woman who has understandably been charged with the murder of my business associate and friend, Tony Lombardi. I assume that’s the real reason you’ve come to see me today.”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “You realize I’ve already spoken to the FBI.”

  “The FBI is not currently sharing their information with me.”

  “I can sympathize. I, too, have found the law enforcement community less than cooperative on occasion.” He pressed his fingers together, forming a steeple. “So tell me, Mr. Kincaid. What would you like to know?”

  There was no point in dillydallying. The man held all the aces. “Why did you go to Lombardi’s apartment the night he was killed?”

  DeCarlo returned Ben’s gaze calmly. “I didn’t.”

  “Mr. DeCarlo…” He saw DeCarlo about to interrupt. “Trey. The security guard on duty has already said he let you up that night. He even made a contemporaneous written record.”

  “Spud is a nice old man, but he has a tendency to imbibe rather substantial quantities of alcohol while on duty. I wouldn’t be surprised if he saw pink Albert DeCarlos.”

  “Spud seemed quite certain when he spoke with me.”

  “Nonetheless, Ben, he is mistaken. I have certainly been at Tony’s apartment on other nights: Perhaps he was confused.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Ben, I have numerous eyewitnesses who will testify that I was right here that entire night.”

  “Really. How many?”

  DeCarlo smiled. “How many would you like?”

  Ben thought a long time before he spoke again. There was no point in trying to pressure DeCarlo. The best Ben could do was take a step back and learn what he could about the subtext, if not the murder itself.

  “All right. You say you’ve been to Lombardi’s place on previous occasions. Why?”

  DeCarlo looked at Ben as though he was explaining higher mathematics to an infant. “Tony and I were business partners.”

  “Meaning partners in his parrot business?”

  “Exactly. Tony brought in the parrots, Intercontinental Imports handled distribution and retail sales.”

  “That seems an odd business for you to be involved in.”

  “Not at all. It’s very profitable.”

  “I’ve been talking to Clayton Langdell about the parrot trade, and—”

  “I know Mr. Langdell,” DeCarlo said. “I donated ten thousand dollars to his organization last year.”

  Ben’s mouth worked wordlessly for several seconds. “I’m…surprised.”

  “That he would accept money from a suspected mobster? Of course, the donations are all made in the name of Intercontinental Imports. It’s possible he doesn’t know who owns the company. Or more likely that he just prefers not to focus on that issue.”

  “I’ve been told parrots are often used as a front for drug smuggling.”

  The pleasantness drained away from DeCarlo’s face. “Just what are you suggesting, Ben?”

  “Well, I would hardly be the first person to link the DeCarlo family with illegal drugs.”

  “Those allegations have never been proven.”

  “Your name was mentioned repeatedly during the Abello trial.”

  A small but detectable edge crept into DeCarlo’s voice. “That was my father.”

  Of course. Ben knew this guy was too young to be Tulsa’s top crime boss.

  “My father, God rest his soul, was Albert DeCarlo the second. I’m Albert DeCarlo the third. Hence the nickname Trey. I inherited this business from my father, just as he inherited it from his father.”

  “A dynasty,” Ben remarked.

  “True enough. But I am not my father, Ben. Times change. I received my MBA at Princeton. I have a different approach to business. I’ve restructured the family operations into a more traditional corporate format. I’ve been attempting to redirect our activities into more legitimate enterprises.” He paused. “Not that they weren’t before. Only now, more so.”

  “Sounds like the old mob with a new cover.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Everything is changing. It always has. The organization you call the mob was originally a secret society formed to protect poor and oppressed Sicilians from the French Angevins in power. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Somewhere along the way, the focus changed. And now it will change again. The truth is, the old businesses are dying out. We needed a new profit center. In this ever-so-liberal society of ours, prostitution is becoming an increasingly unnecessary commerce. And a dangerous one. Gambling is an overcrowded market—even the governments are players now.

  “Do you realize various companies make tiny computers a gambler can hide under his pant leg to help him count cards at the blackjack table? The readout
appears on an LED screen disguised as a wristwatch!” DeCarlo shook his head with disgust. “Games of chance perverted for personal profit.”

  Ben found it hard to be sympathetic.

  “And the drug trade, although lucrative—I’ve heard—has become too competitive. Now there’s the Japanese Yakuza, the Chinese Triad, the Jamaican Posse, the Colombian Cali cartel—all squabbling over the same territory. Soon it will be impossible for anyone to make a profit.”

  “Seems like the most logical plan for a Princeton MBA is to work a joint venture with the South American cartels.”

  “You are not a stupid person, Ben.” DeCarlo opened a desk drawer and removed several files. “But let me assure you that I intend to engage in entirely legal business activities. Feel free to examine our portfolios. Securities, banking, real estate, entertainment. These have been part of the family business for some time, perhaps more as a mask than a genuine pursuit. But that is changing.”

  “Well, if so, I wish you the best of luck.”

  “Thank you.” DeCarlo’s eyes became tiny embers. “Regardless of the nature of the activities in which we are engaged, however, I would take very seriously any threat to my business or to my personal liberty. That, too, is a family tradition.”

  Ben felt an involuntary shiver creep down his spine. He saw the bodyguards on either side of DeCarlo twitch, then take the tiniest step forward. Message received and understood.

  DeCarlo rose to his feet. “But I like you, Ben, and I’m confident we won’t have any problems.” He walked around his desk. “Tell you what. My sister is getting married soon. Please accept my invitation to the wedding reception.”

  “No thanks,” Ben said. “I’ve already seen The Godfather. I’d be bored.”

  DeCarlo laughed. “It’s going to be a huge party, Ben. At the Twelve Oaks country club. There’ll be music, dancing, food, drink—after all, it’s not every day my baby sister is married. It might give you a better opportunity to see what Intercontinental Imports, and the new DeCarlo family, are all about.”

  “I don’t think—”