Hell Bent

by William G. Tapply

  “Are you?” I said.

  “What? Holding out on her.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “So what about the photos? Do you have them?”

  She shook her head. “After Ms. Langley called, I went and looked. They’re not where I put them. I looked everywhere in the house that I thought Gus might have hidden them, and they’re not here. I don’t know where they are.”

  “Gus probably took them,” I said. “To keep them safe.”

  “To keep us safe, I think,” she said. “He was very paranoid.”

  “But he never mentioned the photos, never gave a hint about what they showed?”

  Claudia shook her head. “Not to me. Not a word.”

  “I’ll be happy to talk to Anna Langley, if you want,” I said.

  The timer dinged, announcing that the second batch of cookies was done. Claudia took them out of the oven. She came back to the table a minute later with a plate piled with the first batch.

  I took one and bit into it. It was still warm and soft, and the chocolate chips were half melted. “Oh, my,” I whispered.

  She smiled. “Pretty good, huh?”

  “You better not leave that plate in front of me.” I finished my first cookie and took another.

  “If you can talk to Ms. Langley,” said Claudia, “please tell her that I’m sorry I was rude to her, which I think I was. She was kind of pushy, but I’m sure she’s nice and competent and everything. Gus always seemed to like and trust her. Tell her I’d be happy for her to continue to manage Gus’s business affairs.” She hesitated. “And that you’ll be watching out for my legal rights in the process. Is that okay?”

  I wiped my cookie-eating hand on my shirt, then held it across the table to Claudia. “A deal,” I said.

  She shook my hand and smiled. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll talk to Anna Langley,” I said, “and see where it goes from there.”

  “What about the photos?”

  “We’ll just have to see what we can do about finding them,” I said.

  Claudia smiled. “It’s a big relief, having somebody else to worry about this for me. Now I understand what Alex sees in you.”

  “That,” I said, “makes one of us.”

  FIFTEEN

  I had client meetings all Monday morning, and then a work lunch with another lawyer at the Union Oyster House, so it was close to two in the afternoon before I had a chance to call Philip Trapelo from Gus Shaw’s support group.

  When his voice mail told me to leave a message, I said I was Gus and Claudia Shaw’s lawyer and needed to speak with him on a matter of some urgency. I left my office, home and cell phone numbers and asked him to call me back at his earliest convenience.

  The number Claudia gave me for Anna Langley, Gus’s agent, was a 617 Boston area code, and it also yielded only the opportunity to leave a voice mail message. I said I was Augustine Shaw’s wife’s lawyer and needed to discuss some photographs.

  Since I was making phone calls, I tried Alex’s cell phone. Got her voice mail, making it three for three in that department. I figured she was either in her room at the Best Western hotel in Concord wrestling with her novel or prowling the streets of the South End looking for apartments.

  Our agreement was: Weekdays are for work, weekends are for fun. See you Friday at suppertime.

  When the beep came after her voice mail inviting me to leave a message, I said, “It’s me. Friday seems quite a long distance into a murky future. What if we got together for dinner tomorrow night? Tuesday? Your neck of the woods or mine, either way.”

  An hour or so later I was fooling around with some paperwork when Julie rapped on my door, then pushed it open.

  “Please enter,” I said.

  “I already did,” she said. She stepped into my office, shut the door behind her, and looked at me with a bemused smile. “Mr. and Mrs. Epping are here.”

  “They don’t have an appointment, do they?”

  She shook her head. “They just showed up. They insist on seeing you. They’re both wearing warm-up outfits. Matching sweatpants and sweatshirts, white sneakers. I told them you were busy, of course, and they should make an appointment. They said they were willing to wait however long it would take for you to come up with a free moment. They seem quite fired up, as if they’re getting psyched up for a track meet. I told them I’d check with you on your schedule.”

  “Fired up,” I said.

  “They can’t sit still,” she said. “Pacing around, smacking their fists into their hands. It’s hard to say whether they’re bubbling with enthusiasm or anger. Both, I’d say. Bubbling, for sure. Steaming, actually.”

  I smiled at the image of round little gray-haired Mary Epping and bald storklike Doug, both retirees in their early seventies, being fired up. “You know my schedule,” I said. “As much as it goes against your grain to let walk-ins just walk in, let’s not keep them waiting. Bring them in.”

  “Right.” Julie snapped me a salute and left my office. She was back a minute later with the Eppings in tow. “Mr. Coyne,” she said. “Mr. and Mrs. Epping are here to see you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I can see that.” I stood up, went around from behind my desk, and shook Doug’s and Mary’s hands. “Let’s sit.” I waved the back of my hand at the sofa in my conference area.

  “I don’t want to sit,” said Doug.

  “Come on,” I said. “Relax. What can I get you to drink?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I don’t want to drink, either.”

  “Water would be nice,” said Mary. She sat on the sofa.

  “Water?” I said to Doug. “Coffee? Coke?”

  “He’ll have a Coke,” said Mary. She tugged on Doug’s sleeve, and he sat beside her.

  Julie, who was standing in the doorway, said, “I’ll get it.” She looked at me. “You want anything?”

  I pointed at the mug on my desk. “I got my coffee, thanks.”

  Julie was back a minute later with a bottle of Poland Spring water and a can of Coca-Cola and two glasses. She put them on the coffee table in front of the Eppings, flashed me an enigmatic little smile over her shoulder that seemed to say, “Lots of luck with those two,” and left my office, closing the door behind her.

  I took the armchair across from the Eppings. “You folks seem agitated,” I said.

  “He’s agitated,” said Mary. “He’s been agitated for a week, Brady, ever since I told him about our conversation. What you told me about the corporation dissolving. I’m not agitated. I’m calm.”

  “I want to be sure I got this straight,” said Doug. “You’re saying that we can’t sue that son of a bitch? You mean that prick Delaney is going to get away with what he did to our stuff?”

  “I explained that to you,” said Mary. “It’s not Mr. Delaney. It’s the corporation, and we can’t sue it because it doesn’t exist anymore.”

  Doug looked at me. “I understand about corporations, limited liability, all that. But this isn’t right.”

  “I agree,” I said. “It’s not right. But it is the law.”

  “What good is the law if it protects slimeballs like Nick Delaney?”

  I shrugged. “The law can’t do everything, Doug.”

  He suddenly smiled. “Exactly. I wanted to hear you say that.”

  “Huh? What did I say?”

  “You said the law can’t do it all,” he said. “You said that sometimes you’ve got to take care of things yourself.”

  “That’s not exactly what I said,” I replied.

  “Mary and I aren’t going to give up,” he said. “We tried the law. We tried it your way. Okay, so that won’t work. We’ve been talking about it all week. We just need a little guidance.”

  I looked from Mary to Doug and then back to Mary. “What exactly are you two up to?”

  “My choice is a .45 hollow point at close range,” said Doug.

  “He’s half serious,” said Mary.

  “Or a pipe bomb,” said D
oug. “I’ve lost my patience.”

  “Except we don’t want to get arrested,” Mary said. “Or at least I don’t. I don’t think Doug cares about that anymore.”

  “So we’re going to picket the sleazy bastard,” said Doug. “We’re going to march up and down the street in front of his place of business until Mr. Nicholas Delaney himself comes out and acknowledges us and talks with us and admits he wrecked our stuff and writes us a check. If that doesn’t work, then it’s time for the pipe bomb.”

  “Mary?” I said. “You, too?”

  “You bet,” she said. “It was actually my idea.”

  “So we just want to be sure we don’t break any laws,” said Doug. “I’d just as soon not get arrested. If I get arrested, it’s got to be for something worthwhile. Like murder. That’s why we’re here. We don’t want your advice. We don’t want you to tell us it’s stupid. We just want to do it the right way.”

  I leaned back in my chair and smiled. “It’s not stupid,” I said. “It’s your sacred right, and it’s a lot smarter than murder or arson. It’s free speech, whether you want to get on a soapbox or carry signs or write letters to the editor. Stay off private property. Don’t block traffic or pedestrians. Don’t cause any damage. You can hand out leaflets, you can talk to anybody who agrees to listen. Just don’t harass anybody. You’re going to carry signs?”

  “Right,” said Doug.

  “What will they say?”

  “We hadn’t got that far.”

  “Don’t use Delaney’s name,” I said. “That could be libelous. Don’t use swear words or vulgarity. Be sure anything you write is the truth. That’s about it. Be sure to keep me posted.”

  Doug and Mary both smiled and nodded.

  I stood up, and they did, too. We went out to the reception area, where Doug and I shook hands. Mary insisted on giving me a hug.

  “You kids behave yourselves,” I said. “Dress warm and be sure to wear sensible shoes.”

  After the Eppings left, Julie arched her eyebrows from behind her computer monitor and said, “Well?”

  “They’re going to picket that moving company in New Hampshire.”

  She smiled. “Picket. How high-school-civics of them.”

  “I think it’s pretty cool,” I said.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t rain,” she said. “Or snow.” She rummaged around on her desktop and came up with a Post-it note. “You had a call while you were conferring with them. A Mr. Trapelo, said he was returning your call?”

  “Shit,” I said. “I wish you’d interrupted me.”

  “I don’t know who this Trapelo is,” she said. “How am I supposed to know he’s a priority?”

  “Right,” I said. “My fault. Sorry. I’ll call him now.”

  I went into my office and dialed Philip Trapelo’s number. After two rings, a man’s deep voice said, “Trapelo.” He sounded like James Earl Jones.

  “It’s Brady Coyne,” I said.

  “How’d you say you got my number?”

  “Claudia Shaw gave it to me,” I said.

  “You’re a lawyer?”

  “That’s right. But—”

  “So what’s a lawyer want with me?”

  “As a lawyer,” I said, “nothing. As a friend of the Shaw family, I was hoping I could talk to you about Gus. Claudia said you were in his support group.”

  “He was in my group.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Your group.”

  “We don’t talk to outsiders about the group,” he said.

  “I understand. But you knew Gus. I’m just trying to help the family achieve some kind of closure.”

  “I don’t know what you expect out of me,” said Trapelo. “Gus Shaw killed himself. He betrayed all of us.”

  “I understand that,” I said. “I was just hoping I could buy you a drink and we could talk. Off the record, whatever you feel you can tell me. Gus’s wife and his sister are having a lot of trouble dealing with this, as you might expect. I am, too.”

  “You don’t think he committed suicide?”

  “The police say he did,” I said. “I’m still a little skeptical. It’s the curse of my profession.”

  He hesitated for a long minute, then said, “You want to talk about it, I don’t see why not. As long as you don’t expect me to tell you things that were said during our sessions. Gus was a good guy. You gotta feel bad for his family. You’re in Boston?”

  “I am,” I said, “but I can meet you anywhere you want. You name it.”

  “You know where the VFW hall is in Burlington?”

  “No.”

  “It’s on the Middlesex Turnpike a little ways past the mall heading west. You can’t miss it. How’s around eight?”

  I looked at my watch. It was a little after four. “I’ll be there,” I said. “How will I recognize you?”

  “Just ask for the Sarge,” Philip Trapelo said. “They all know me.”

  Henry was gobbling his dinner from his bowl, and I was just sliding a fried egg between two slices of oatmeal bread, when my kitchen phone rang. I ignored it. A conversation any longer than one minute would leave my egg cold and inedible.

  The inconveniently timed ringing phone reminded me of Evie, who suffered from a serious phone-answering compulsion. A ringing telephone to Evie was a dinner bell to Pavlov’s dog. She could be in the shower with her hair all soapy, or applying makeup to her eyes, or in the midst of painting her toenails, naked from the waist down except for the cotton balls between her toes. We could be making love, or dozing afterward. It didn’t matter. If the phone rang, Evie had to leap up and answer it. I teased her about it, told her that any worthwhile caller would leave a message, but she couldn’t help herself.

  A lot of things were reminding me of Evie recently. I figured it was spending time with Alex and my inability to resist comparing and contrasting their quirks and habits.

  So far I had managed to avoid ranking them against each other, at least.

  I let the phone finish ringing. I put my fried-egg sandwich on a plate, sat at the kitchen table, and took a bite. Then I picked up the phone and checked the caller ID window.

  It was Alex, calling from her cell.

  I finished my sandwich before I listened to her message. “Tuesday sounds lovely,” she said. “If you’d be willing to drive out to Papa Razzi, I’ll treat. Seven o’clock? I’ll make a reservation, meet you at the bar. We can pretend we don’t know each other. Who knows? If we hit it off, I might invite you back to my hotel room.”

  That made me smile.

  It was almost quarter past seven. I took my jacket out of the closet. Henry was sitting there with his ears flat against the side of his head, giving me that look that said, “You’re going to leave and never come back. Poor me.”

  “You want to go for a ride in the car?” I said to him.

  “Ride in the car” was one of the English phrases that comprised my dog’s extensive vocabulary. Most of the other words and phrases were variations on the word “food.”

  Henry loved to ride in cars. His ears perked up and he cocked his head at me, and when I nodded, he trotted to the door, pressed his nose against the crack, and whined.

  I pulled into the Veterans of Foreign Wars lodge parking lot a few minutes after eight. It was a low-slung, single-story building cut into some woods and surrounded by cracked asphalt where ten or twelve other vehicles were parked.

  I opened my car windows an inch for Henry and told him I’d be gone no more than an hour, and his job was to guard the car, although if he wanted to take a nap, that would be all right, too.

  Inside, the VFW hall was a big open pine-paneled room with a bar and some tables and chairs on the left and two pool tables on the right. A dozen or so men more or less evenly divided between bald and silver-haired sat at the tables with beer bottles and ashtrays in front of them looking at the giant flat-screen TV on the wall, where a young blond woman was interviewing a black football player who was about three times her size. Four younger
-looking guys—twenties and thirties, I guessed—were playing pool.

  The wall behind the bar was lined with framed photographs of various men in military uniforms shaking hands with other men. I recognized Robert Kennedy, Rick Pitino, Cardinal Cushing, Jungle Jim Loscutoff, Steve Grogan, Kevin White, Rico Petrocelli, Red Auerbach, Johnny Pesky.

  Some of the men at the tables had turned to look at me. I read neither friendliness nor hostility on their faces. Just mild curiosity. I was a stranger in their private place.

  “I’m looking for the Sarge,” I said to one of the bald guys.

  “He expecting you?”

  I nodded. “I was supposed to meet him here at eight.”

  “He’s out back,” said the bald guy. “Should be out in a minute. You want a beer?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

  He got up, went behind the bar, and came back with a bottle of Budweiser. He put it on the table, wiped his hand on his shirt, and held it out to me. “I’m Tony.”

  “Brady,” I said. “Brady Coyne.”

  “So you a friend of the Sarge?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “We just met on the phone.”

  Tony sat at one of the empty tables and pushed out a chair with his foot. “Take a load off, Brady.”

  I sat in the chair.

  “Hey,” yelled Tony over his shoulder to the men at the pool table. “One of you guys give the Sarge a holler, willya? Tell him he got company.” He turned to me and jerked his thumb at the television. “Monday Night Football. I got fifty bucks on the Dolphins, giving three points. Vegas odds. Whaddaya think?”

  I shook my head. “My opinion wouldn’t help you. I always lose when I bet on sports.”

  “Me, I like the underdogs,” said Tony, “but them Dolphins—” He stopped and looked behind me. “Hey, Sarge.”

  I turned.

  The Sarge—Phil Trapelo, I assumed—had brush-cut steel-gray hair and bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows and liquid brown eyes. His face was dark and leathery, as if he’d spent all of his life outdoors.