‘Bingo,’ said Greaseball. He exposed the left inside pocket of The Man’s jacket and carefully pulled out a flat, transparent plastic bag full of white powder. He showed it to me, hefted it in his palm, then tossed it to Flat Cap. ‘I’d say that was a good six ounces.’
Flat Cap nodded, then grinned at me. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that your client’s in the bakery busines and that this is icing sugar.’
A real comedian.
What the hell could I say? If the lab tests proved the contents to be six ounces of uncut coke or heroin, we were in big trouble. It had to be a set-up. But how? Was it the black guy? Had he somehow palmed it off on The Man for friends to pick up later? And had the narcs seen the switch-play? Or had it been planted on him earlier? Perhaps in the store where he’d bought the jacket? Was this a ploy by ‘Brax to put The Man on the spot? It was the only answer that made sense – in which case, Flat Cap and Greaseball might not be undercover cops at all but agents for a much more sinister organisation. I was seized with alarm as my imagination began to run riot. If it were true, what could I do? I was helpless. How could I explain the situation to my friends in the D.A.’s office, and to the judge and jury?
My legs wanted to run, but the fear of a paralysing bullet in my back kept my feet glued to the side-walk. In any case, now that they knew who I was, escape was impossible. And so it was, that from out of my cowardice, I was forced to find the courage to commit myself to the defence of The Man.
‘My client’s name is Yale Sheppard,’ I said. ‘He’s an Israeli national who arrived today from Jerusalem. His passport, wallet and identification were stolen at John. F. Kennedy. As his legal representative, I wish to know if you intend to arrest him – and on what charge?’
Flat Cap showed the dope to The Man. ‘Do you deny ownership of this package and all knowledge that it was concealed on your person?’
The Man shrugged.
‘Cuff him,’ said Flat Cap.
Greaseball pulled The Man’s arms behind his back and clicked the bracelets shut over his wrists. I still couldn’t believe it was really happening. Once again, we were surrounded by a ring of blank-faced sensation seekers. I was chilled by a curious sense of déja-vu; the thought that I might be witnessing a re-run of that scene in the Garden of Gethsemane.
Flat Cap pocketed the dope, read The Man his rights, then turned to me. ‘We’re holding your client on suspicion until we get that package checked out. Start earning your fee, pal.’
He holstered his .38, then both of them grabbed The Man by the arms and walked him into the street between the back of the Volvo and the car behind. As I followed them, a banged-up brown, ‘78 Dodge Charger cruised up and stopped alongside us. It all happened so quickly, I didn’t get a proper look at whoever was behind the wheel. Greaseball got into the back with The Man. Flat Cap went in front.
I grabbed hold of his lowered window. ‘Hey, wait a minute. Let me ride downtown with you.’
‘Take a bus,’ said Flat Cap.
I held on to the window. ‘As this man’s lawyer, I have the right to know the names of the arresting officers.’
‘Your client has not been arrested,’ said Flat Cap. ‘But I’m Ritger, he’s Donati.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
‘Where are you taking him?’ I insisted.
‘Seventh Precinct,’ said Flat Cap. ‘Now let go of this fucking car or I’ll bust you for obstruction.’
I shouted to The Man through the window. ‘Don’t say anything until I get there!’ The car pulled away, breaking my grip on the window. I watched with a sinking heart as it disappeared down the street. The small crowd that had gathered began to disperse; looking for some new event to satisfy their idle curiosity. It was nearly a quarter of ten. Normally, in moments of stress, my brain works faster, becomes more incisive. That’s what makes me a smart lawyer. But not that night. I stood on the curb by the Volvo against which we’d been searched and fretted indecisively; torn between the desire to go immediately to the Seventh Precint, which was on the eastern tip of Manhattan, south of Houston, and the need to discuss the situation with somebody. I might have found the moral courage I lacked but this was definitely not the time to make any rash moves. I walked back to Broadway and took a cab to the Manhattan General.
Listen, even the best lawyers need to consult. Who else could I talk to?
Chapter 8
When I reached the hospital I found Miriam up to her armpits in human suffering of one kind or another. It was one of those nights. She was always telling me what a kick she got out of being a doctor but when she ducked out to see me after putting the last of fifteen stitches in somebody’s scalp her face looked as crumpled as her white coat.
‘Can we go somewhere and talk?’
As she led me through Emergency, I glimpsed some of the current crop of victims of life in the big city. Bleeding faces, broken limbs, burns, scalds; people who had been knifed or shot, in cold blood and in anger; zonked-out overdosed addicts with ulcerated arms; bewildered parents with taut, fraught faces, clutching kids who kicked and cried out of fear, or pain, and others who just lay there like rag-dolls, blank-eyed and unresisting.
We went into a small utility room. Miriam leant back against the door and held it shut. She looked as if she were trying to keep the whole world out. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Women. How is it they always know? I told her about the miracle on 42nd Street and the drug bust but left out our trip to the movies.
She bummed a cigarette off me. Her hands smelt of surgical spirit. ‘What are you going to do?’
I shrugged. ‘I can’t do anything until they charge him. Once they do that, we can get him out on bail.’
‘But he’s innocent,’ she insisted.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘You know that, and I know that, but that doesn’t explain away a six-ounce bag of smack. Or whatever.’
She eyed me reproachfully. ‘I just can’t understand what possessed you to take him there in the first place.’
I gritted my teeth. ‘He asked me to take him there.’
‘Leo,’ she said. ‘Come on. How would he know about 42nd Street unless you told him?’
I prefaced my reply with one of those ‘God-give-me-strength’ sighs. ‘I didn’t need to tell him. He’s been inside my head since day one. And yours too. So lay off me – and drop the Goody Two-Shoes act before you contract a terminal case of moral rectitude.’
Her eyes blazed. Hating me for having coaxed her into revealing some of her dark secrets and now throwing them back obliquely into her face. It’s funny how we all strive to get the goods on one another yet try to maintain our own invulnerability. Take a tip from me: never give too much away. For, in the battle with the opposite sex, it is the whispered secrets of the bedroom confessional that provide the unkindest cuts of all.
A couple of seconds later, her better half resurfaced. ‘Supposing he disappears while he’s out on bail? If he doesn’t come back, it could cost you thousands.’
‘That’s already occurred to me,’ I said. ‘There’s a strong possibility that I may have to hock the Porsche and the place up at Sleepy Hollow just to raise the money.’
‘You could leave him in police custody.’
I almost exploded. ‘Are you kidding?! You said yourself he was innocent. But that’s not the point. I don’t dare leave him there. If he disappears from a police cell…’
‘So what if he does?’ said Miriam. ‘That’s their problem.’
‘It is – but suppose he reappears on my doorstep? The law does not look kindly upon people who knowingly harbour suspected felons.’
‘Oh, yeah … I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said.
‘Well think about it,’ I replied. ‘The last thing we need is an APB on Jesus of Nazareth and his mug-shot circulated to every state in the nation.’
Now, of course, she was full of wide-eyed sympathy. Not that it solved anything. ‘What’s going to happen when he comes to trial?’
I waved the question aside. ‘That could take months. Listen. I don’t want to even think about that. I’ve been beating my brains out trying to figure out a way of stopping this before it gets to the D.A.’s office. If it was anyone else, I could at least have had a quiet word with Larry.’
Larry Bekker, a buddy of mine from law school was now Deputy District Attorney.
‘Can’t you have a word with him anyway?’ said Miriam.
‘What am I going to say to him?’ I snorted. ‘Larry, I’ve got a little problem. I was on 42nd Street with this client of mine called Jesus? Forget it.’ I gnawed at my thumbnail. ‘We’re really over a barrel with this one …’
‘Where have they taken him?’ asked Miriam.
‘Seventh Precinct …’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought 42nd Street came under Manhattan South.’
‘It does,’ I replied. ‘But the NYPD have dozens of different drug squads on the streets.’ I paused then let go with the double whammy. ‘Always assuming that these guys are with the NYPD in the first place.’
She frowned, then her eyes popped as she got it. ‘You mean – they may not be real people?’
‘Oh, they’re real enough,’ I said. ‘Well, let me put it this way: if they aren’t, you and I aren’t going to be able to tell the difference. What I mean is, they may be working for ‘Brax.’
Her eyelids stopped down to their normal aperture as she got used to the idea. ‘But … what do you think he’s trying to do?’
I exploded again. ‘How the hell do I know what his game-plan is? He could play it two ways: he could maybe force The Man to disappear and make sure that nobody knew he’d been here. In which case, you and I might find ourselves as popular as the people who made statements to the Dallas police after Kennedy’s assassination. We could open the closet and find ourselves face to face with an unknown assailant who just happens to be an expert in karate …’
‘Yukkk,’ said Miriam. ‘I don’t think I like that.’
I shrugged. ‘Listen. It could happen. The Man said that ‘Brax will do anything to stop the truth getting out. And, let’s face it, there are a lot of very powerful people around who’d be quite happy to help keep the lid on this. Think about it. I mean, we are involved, yet neither of us is exactly shouting the news from the roof-tops.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But only because we’re trying to protect our own skins.’
‘Very true,’ I replied. ‘And there are others who are equally anxious to protect much bigger investments.’ I quickly outlined some of the problems I’ve mentioned earlier in this account: the worldwide social and political repercussions that could follow recognition of his presence; the panic that might ensue because of the predictions that linked his next public appearance with the Apocalypse; the inevitable head-on collision with the power-centres of the Christian faith, and competing religions. Had not the Vatican recently threatened to run leading theologians like Schillebeeckx and Kung out of town on a rail? How were they going to react to the news that the Star of Bethlehem was a spacecraft spun from the dreams of Empire, in synchronous orbit over the manger housing the new-born child of the Royal House of David, and his princely Celestial lodger?
(Don’t look back, smart people. You did not skip a page. I put that bit together from what he’d already told me. We’ll get to it in greater detail later on.)
‘Anyway,’ I concluded, ‘those are a few of the arguments for Deep-Sixing The Man’s visit – and maybe us along with it. The incident with the elevator could have been a warning shot, to get us to back off. On the other hand, by having The Man arrested, maybe ‘Brax is trying to force him out in the open. To identify himself publicly as Jesus Christ, so that ‘Brax can expose him as a fake.’
‘But wait a minute,’ said Miriam. ‘He is Jesus Christ.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘But who’s going to want to believe that? Especially if he repeats some of the things he’s already come out with. The ones that aren’t foaming at the mouth will be rolling in the aisles.’
She looked perplexed. ‘But if you and I believe he’s Jesus Christ, other people will too. After all, we are not even religious.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘And neither is he, in the accepted sense. From what he’s told me already, this guy is taking on all creeds and all comers. First of all, The Man has to prove who he is. And that could be more difficult than you think. The college of Cardinals in Rome is not going to just roll over with its legs in the air. The Mormon Chapel Choir is not going to rush to sing serenades under his window. And the Scientologists and the Moonies are not going to shut up shop and share out the money. If he goes public, everybody with a corner in the market is going to be jumping on his bones.’
Miriam grimaced. ‘Ye-ess, I guess you’re right.’
‘By the way,’ I added. ‘You’ve got it wrong. I don’t believe he’s Jesus. I accept it. There’s a subtle difference.’
She eyed me. ‘Of course. I forgot. You’re a lawyer.’
I knew what she meant. In terms of the endless word-game, we were the verbal card-sharps; skilled in the artful interpretation of motive; the subtle shades of innocence and guilt. Doctors didn’t fool around with language in the same way. If they said you had cancer of the liver, it meant exactly that.
I checked my watch, then glanced over my shoulder and saw that the desk I’d been sitting on was equipped with a phone. ‘Can I use this to make an outside call?’
Miriam nodded. ‘The switchboard’ll get you the number.’
I called Larry Bekker. I’d thought of one question I could ask him. He gave me a quick run-down drug enforcement scene and from it I was able to extract the relevant piece of information. Besides the local precinct officers who were detailed to make ‘street busts’, there was a Narcotics Division team covering the Manhattan South Division. They were part of the Organised Crime Control Bureau, and were based in the Seventh Precinct. Which was where The Man had been taken. I thanked him, sent my love to his wife, learned that his daughter had had the braces removed from her teeth, accepted an invitation to bring Miriam to dinner but managed to fudge around the actual date.
‘So, what now?’ said Miriam.
I grimaced. ‘Better head down-town and see what the damage is … ‘
She looked anxious. ‘Supposing …’
‘You mean supposing ‘Brax is behind this and not just the fuzz?’ I shrugged. ‘We go on. What choice have we got? Our sweetmeats are already caught in the grinder.’
‘I wish I could do something,’ she said.
‘Stand by,’ I replied. ‘You may hear me scream for help.’
‘Okay. Good luck.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘Call me.’
‘Sure. Take care.’ I kissed the tip of her nose.
She opened the door for me. ‘Why are you doing this, Resnick?’
I looked back at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘What’s your angle?’
I shrugged. ‘Good question. Maybe, for once in my life, I don’t have one. Maybe it’s because whatever I’m getting into just has to be better than the Delaware Corporation versus Cleveland Glass.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘There’s hope for you yet.’
I let it pass. It never does any harm to let them score now and then.
On the way downtown, I rehearsed legalistic responses to various imaginary scenarios then suddenly got a flash of inspiration. I got the cabbie to pull up at a payphone, called Miriam and explained my provisional game-plan. At that moment I had no way of knowing if I would be able to engineer the opportunity to put it into effect, but she agreed to stand by in case I managed to swing it.
The address Larry Bekker had given me turned out to be an old brownstone station house. You’ve seen buildings like it a thousand times in movies and on TV but it’s a long time since the cops looked like Bing Crosby or Pat O’Brien. I paid off the cab and went in through the door. The Desk Sergeant was a florid
, overweight barrel of Budweiser with leg-of-mutton arms bursting out of short blue shirt-sleeves and fat, stubby-fingered hands that looked as if they could tear your throat out. I explained my business. He told me that Detectives Ritger and Donati worked out of an office on the third floor.
I went up the stairs, braced for the worst. What happened was totally unexpected. As I reached the second floor, I met Ritger and Donati on their way down. Both of them were a good three inches taller than I was. Flat Cap, under any other circumstances, could have been quite a nice guy. Hard-nosed, but with a good intelligent face. I couldn’t understand how he could work with such a slimer. Greaseball had donned a pair of orange shades. He swaggered down the stairs towards me with his elbows out; hands tucked in the front pockets of his bomber-jacket, and what looked like a coiled salami stuffed behind the zipper of his jeans. Someone must have told him he looked like Paul Michael Glaser. They should have pulled his badge for over-acting. Just to look at him got my back up.
If I hadn’t stepped in front of them, they’d have walked right past me. ‘We met on 42nd Street,’ I said. ‘East of Broadway. You’re holding a client of mine for illegal possession.’
Flat Cap eyed me and ran his tongue round his teeth. ‘Ohh, yeah …’ He glanced at Greaseball.
‘His name’s Sheppard,’ I said.
Greaseball jerked his head towards the floor above. ‘See Lieutenant Russell.’
‘What’s happening? Has he been charged yet?’
‘No,’ said Flat Cap. He went to move past me.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘I’m going to need a copy of your arrest report. Have you made that out?’
The question seemed to amuse Greaseball. ‘Slow down, friend. Nobody’s been arrested. Your client was pulled in on suspicion and strip-searched. That’s all.’
It still didn’t dawn on me. ‘What d’you mean – “That’s all”?’
Flat Cap laid a hand on my arm. ‘It means that your client was clean. He was not in possession of any unlawful substance. Do I make myself clear?’
Mission Page 14
