Bino's Blues

by A. W. Gray

  “Come on, Dode, give me a break.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you a break. I’ll tell you what I think.”

  “That’s what I want to hear,” Bino said.

  “I think that as a boss you’re a jewel. As a guy, well, you’ve got fifteen years on me, and you’ve got the maturity of a teenager.”

  “I try to think young,” Bino said.

  “I think you go around chasing everything with a skirt on, and that whenever your moral deficiency gets the best of you, you call up anybody that’ll let you cry on their shoulder. I just resigned from those ranks.”

  “You’re not being fair.”

  “So the lesson is,” Dodie said, “if you’re going to make your bed, you have to pay the fiddler.”

  “That’s if you’re going to dance,” Bino said. “If you make your bed you have to lie in it.”

  “You ought to know,” Dodie said. “You’ve sure laid in a few.”

  “Moral deficiency?”

  “So the thing is,” Dodie said, “that if you’re going through life as a continuation of adolescence, that’s your business. I just work there. You and your friend Barney can get conked every single night of the world, and you can sidle up next to every female you see at the bar and show her a pantomime of your old hook shot. But whenever you feel these pangs of remorse, don’t come crying to me. My shoulder’s wet enough as it is.” In the background Dodie’s doorbell ding-donged. “That’ll be him,” Dodie said. “So, see you on Monday, boss. Enjoy your mopery, okay?”

  After Dodie snubbed him, Bino spent nearly three hours going over the state and federal court lists around five times each. He was glad he hadn’t drunk any Scotch, and during his three hours of study he sipped ice water. For what he had in mind, he needed a clear head.

  The legal shenanigans in which Rusty had been involved for the past three years or so didn’t seem to be as far-reaching as Bino had first thought, and of that he was glad. To Bino’s

  way of thinking, the justice system as a whole stunk to high heaven to begin with and could do without additional black eyes. He’d located five more federal cases—all in Edgar Bryson’s court, all clients whom Rusty had represented—that reeked of under-the-table carrying-on. All of Bryson’s Bible-banging and public display of being tough on crime now turned Bino’s stomach. Judge Hazel Burke Sanderson had been a thorn in Bino’s side ever since he’d been practicing law, but at least the old heifer was honest. Bino wondered what goods Rusty must have on Bryson to turn a judge whose salary was a hundred and forty thousand a year. Must be something heavy, Bino thought.

  State court was a horse of a different color because, as opposed to the federal system, state district judges had little or nothing to do with sentencing under a plea bargain agreement. In a state beef, the judge accepted whatever sentence was agreed on between the defense lawyer and the prosecutor. Bino had located what he was sure was a connection in Rusty’s wheeling and dealing on state cases, a third-chair felony prosecutor in the 476th District Court named Arnold Bright. In seven different cases—one a habitual felon rap plea-bargained down to ninety days’ county time—where Bright was the prosecutor, Rusty had made deals that Houdini couldn’t have negotiated. Bino knew Arnold Bright, a guy who played a lot of golf (and gambled high as a kite on the course, Bino had heard), drove a BMW, and lived in a twenty-five-hun-dred-dollar-a-month town house behind the wall at Northwest Highway and Preston Road. The exclusive address was far outside Bino’s own income bracket, and completely out of the question on an Assistant D.A.’s salary unless the guy had something going on the side. The lure of big bucks was a tough thing to cope with, Bino knew. But in his own early days in practice he’d rented a garage apartment in East Dallas and had nursed a 1960 Chevrolet Impala through two transmissions and a blown head gasket, and as far as Bino was concerned, whatever happened to Arnold Bright was just tough shit. He had no sympathy for the guy.

  One judge, one prosecutor. And a guy like Rusty Benson to bring the whole mess together. Bino tilted his glass, glugged cold water, and crunched vigorously on an ice cube.

  At fifteen minutes to one in the morning he trudged into his bedroom, stripped, and put on old faded jeans and a short-sleeve Levi’s shirt, letting the shirttail hang out around his hips. Then he stuffed his bare feet into scuffed and dirty Nike sneakers, snatched his car keys from the dresser, poked twenty dollars into his pocket—which was all that was left of the hundred he’d bummed from Half-a-Point Harrison in order to meet Wimpy Madrick’s demands for giving information—turned off all the lights except for the lone bulb above Cecil’s tank and the fluorescent over the kitchen sink, and left the apartment. He skirted the pool, underwater lights casting wavering blue-green shadows on the concrete, went through the breezeway, and crossed the parking lot. He climbed in the Line, and within ten minutes was just another pair of headlights headed west on LBJ Freeway. Office buildings were outlined in the darkness like squared-off mountain ranges.

  He arrived in Duncanville at a few minutes before two. When he’d been in high school, his hometown of Mesquite had had quite a basketball rivalry with the Duncanville Farmers, and back then he’d known his way around the small South Dallas County town of Duncanville pretty well. No longer. Instead of the dusty town square, lone main street, and drive-in movie Bino remembered, Duncanville had grown into a mini-metropolis complete with freeways and shopping malls. He’d been to Carla’s duplex only once before, when he’d driven her home on the morning after he’d met her, but thought he wouldn’t have much trouble finding the place. Was he ever wrong. After four or five incorrect turns and doubling back, which found him at the same intersection where he’d begun his search, he stopped in an all-night drive-in grocery and bought a map. Then, stopping every block or so to turn on the interior lights and check his directions, he finally parked in front of the duplex at a quarter to three. He got out and looked around. Up and down the street, random porchlights glowed.

  Though he’d followed the map carefully, he still wasn’t certain he had the right place. So, looking right and left, and fearing any second he’d hear either a warning yell or the blast of a shotgun, he crept up and opened the mailbox. He thumbed a Bic disposable lighter to read the top envelope on the stack, and indeed it was a water bill addressed to Carla. After shutting the mailbox, he walked across the lawn to the porch. The house was a squatty one-story with a shingled roof, identical on either side of the wall separating the two living quarters. He took one step up onto the concrete porch and paused to look around.

  He seemed to be the only person stirring, and given the hour, wasn’t surprised. Cars, pickups, and minivans sat in driveways up and down the block, and parallel along the curbs. Across the street from the Linc sat a dark four-door sedan, either a Ford or a Chevy, and Bino thought that someone was behind the wheel. He squinted. He must have been imagining things.

  He tried the doorbell, and a high-pitched ding-dong sounded from within. He waited. No one came. He rang the bell a second time. Still nothing.

  There wasn’t any car standing in Carla’s drive. When he’d brought her home the morning after he’d met her, he seemed to recall a little red auto. Well, she’d have to show up eventually. He sat down on the porch, leaned back against the lone wooden pillar, and stretched out his legs. In seconds his eyelids drooped. His head sank down on his chest, and a series of deafening snores split the silence of the neighborhood.

  As the white Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the curb and the tall guy got out, Mancil Adriani thought, Who the fuck is that long drink of water? Guy must be six-six or so, kind of a shifty-looking character in jeans and a denim shirt, looking all around as he approached the broad’s mailbox. The jeans were ankle length and the newcomer wore no socks, which Adriani personally thought was disgusting. Guy going around without socks must be some kind of fucking hillbilly.

  The man approached the mailbox, paused to look up and down the street,
then opened the box and reached inside. Can you believe this shit? Adriani thought. Guy driving a Lincoln running around dressed like some street asshole, now he’s robbing the mail. Adriani had met some of these types in the joint, guys who swiped old ladies’ welfare checks, and personally had no respect for the fuckers. If he hadn’t had business, Adriani might’ve called the police and turned the guy in. He reached down on the seat beside him, felt the grip on the Beretta .380 automatic which had set him back fourteen hundred bucks from a guy in North Dallas who’d guaranteed the gun to be untraceable, then touched the handles on the wire cutters with which, a half hour earlier, he’d disconnected the telephone. What luck, huh? Not only was the broad not at home, she was about to get her mailbox burglarized.

  A beam from a streetlamp illuminated the stranger, and what Adriani had thought was a goofy hat of some kind turned out to be a mop of snow white hair. He’s going to steal mail, Adriani thought, he needs to cover his head. Somebody’ll pick that hair out of a lineup in a minute. The guy stuffed the mail back inside the box and headed across the lawn to the house. She’s got no welfare check, Adriani thought, now he’s breaking in.

  The stranger paused, turned, and squinted directly at Adriani’s rented Fairlane. Adriani cursed under his breath and sank down out of sight, grabbing up the Beretta and easing back the hammer as he did. He waited, holding his breath, then slowly raised up and peeked out. Jesus, Adriani thought, now he’s ringing the doorbell. Real smart asshole, waking up the whole fucking neighborhood. What he needs to do is go on inside. If somebody’s home, either blow them away or run like hell.

  What the fuck is this? Adriani thought, now the guy’s sitting down on the porch. Sitting down, leaning back against the pillar and … Adriani heard a noise, sat up straighter, and turned his ear toward the porch. Jesus Christ, he thought, the fucking guy’s snoring his ass off. Doesn’t even have enough sense to go around the side of the house where nobody’s going to see him.

  Adriani brushed lint from his perfectly ironed chinos and tugged on the sleeve of his perfectly ironed knit polo. He clicked the .380’s trigger and eased the hammer softly into the slot. Doing the woman was just part of business. Killing the dumb white-haired bozo was going to be a bonus.

  A sweeping beam of light shone in Bino’s face for an instant, then moved on. He opened his eyes as a red Mustang pulled up in the drive and stopped. He checked the time; three-thirty now. Jesus, he’d been asleep for a half hour; anyone seeing him had likely wondered what the big dumb white-haired bozo was up to. He yawned, then used the wooden pillar as a crutch to haul himself up into a standing position.

  The Mustang’s lights extinguished and Carla got out, dark hair bouncing in the light of the moon. She was dressed for a rock performance, in skin-tight dark pants and a bolero top with puffed sleeves. She looked toward the Linc, then centered her gaze on the porch. She took a frightened step backward, and for just an instant Bino thought she was going to dive behind the wheel and make a run for it. Then she came forward, the fleeting hesitation having told the story, the welcoming smile nothing but window dressing. Bino folded his arms, leaned against the pillar, and waited for her.

  She came up on the porch with the smile painted in place, her glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. She lifted the glasses and put them on, then stood on tiptoes and nuzzled his jaw. “Whee, my knight-errant awaits,” she said. “We came in from Houston this morning. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you.”

  He searched his memory. His visit with Wimpy had lasted a couple of hours, and before that he’d been asleep. He hadn’t left his apartment all day, and his answering machine had been turned on the entire time. He recalled glancing at the red light on the machine as he left for Duncanville. The light hadn’t been blinking. “I must have been out,” he said. Somewhere on his left, a cricket chirupped.

  “We’ve got a new gig, down in Deep Ellum,” she said. “I wanted you to come by.”

  He played along. “Just as well, I was beat. Don’t know if I could have survived another night in a club.”

  “It’s what you’re used to,” Carla said. “I never get sleepy before four in the morning.”

  Bino recalled the frenzied nights they’d spent together in Houston. “I noticed that,” he said.

  She giggled. “Well, come on in, hoss.” She unlocked the door and entered the duplex, reaching around the jamb and turning on a light as she did. Bino followed her in.

  She’d done a neat interior decorating job. On all four walls were photos of Carla in performance; some showed her in cocktail dresses while in others she wore black skimpy come-on outfits, something like Madonna. In each photo she held a microphone; in two of the pictures strumming guitars were in the background. Another featured Dondi, drums and all, visible over her right shoulder. There was a mock fireplace in the living room, and the centerpiece of the mantel was a shiny gold trophy. The statuette affixed to the trophy was a girl in a milkmaid costume, hoisting something over her head which resembled a lumpy football. Bino strolled over and read the inscription. Sweet Potato Queen, 1984. Carla Pease. Many moons and many dreams ago. Bino turned to face her and leaned a shoulder against the mantel.

  She closed and locked the door and secured the chain. “Hot set tonight, even had Dondi do a gangsta rap number. Funny crowd down in Deep Ellum, some pretty nice people, but, God, a lot of weird-looking freaks. I practically ran to my car when the show was over.” She spoke rapidly and avoided looking directly at him.

  Her furniture was light tan imitation leather. Bino sat in an armchair, crossed his legs, and didn’t say anything. The thermostat kicked in the air-conditioning. A vent blew soft cool wind.

  There was a stand-up bar near the entry to the kitchen, dark stained wood with ornate carvings. Carla bounced over and stood behind the counter, then cocked her head. “Scotch, right?”

  “That’s what I drink,” he said.

  She brought up two rock glasses, a padded bucket, and a pair of tongs. As she dropped half-moon shards of ice into the glasses, one shard at a time, she said, “I think I’ll join you.”

  Bino swept his gaze around the walls. “I like your pictures.”

  “There’s this guy, he’s a love, takes publicity shots around town. Those were freebies.” She bent and disappeared from view for an instant. A cabinet opened and closed, then Carla stood up holding a half-gallon of Dewar’s. “I’ve got no J&B. I only just met you, next time I’ll … ”

  “You got any pictures of the two C.C.’s?” Bino said.

  She tried to fake it, her lips working thoughtfully as she poured. “The two … ?”

  “You know,” Bino said, “Carla and Chris. The loving couple.”

  “I might have some old shots in an album in the closet” she said. She set the bottle down, making no move to screw the cap back on, her expression showing dread, her eyes betraying her knowledge of what was about to come.

  “Who handled you guys’ divorce, Carla?”

  She rediscovered the drinks, brought one to him, then sat on the couch and curled one leg up underneath. Thigh muscle tensed under satin stretch material. “Some lawyer, I don’t really remember.”

  “Well, do you remember the year?”

  She lifted her drink to her lips and sipped, regarding him over the rim of her glass. She swallowed. “Why the questions?” Calmer now, more matter-of-fact.

  Her stereo was an old-fashioned console, dark wood carved to match the bar. He carried his drink over and looked through her cassettes. She had a few rock albums, some easy-listening stuff, but most of the tapes showed handwritten labels. He selected one marked “Golden Nugget, February 7, 1988.” “You mind?” he said.

  She shrugged. “Be my guest.”

  He turned on the power and inserted the cassette. Classy combo music preceded a male-female vocal. “That’s What Friends Are For,” the song that Dionne Warwick, backed by S
tevie Wonder and a host of others, had made into a megahit. Bino liked Carla’s rendition more than the original. He lowered the volume. “That your husband?”

  “Yes. Was my … ” Her gaze lowered. “Yes,” she said.

  He returned to his chair. “You don’t remember the name of the lawyer? It could be important someday, if someone wants to contest something. You never know.”

  Her chin tilted angrily. “Why don’t you quit dodging around?”

  He blinked. “Why should I? You’ve been dodging around.”

  She glanced at the ceiling. Condensed moisture dripped from her glass onto her white puffed sleeve. She didn’t seem to notice. “Wait here,” she said, then got up quickly and left the room. She returned in a moment carrying a shoebox, which she dropped in Bino’s lap. Something in the box rattled. Carla retrieved her Scotch, then testily resumed her seat on the sofa. “They’re in mothballs. You satisfied?”

  Bino set his drink on the floor and lifted the lid of the box. Inside was a velvet palm-size jewelry case sitting on top of some newspaper clippings and more photos. He lifted the case and opened it. The engagement stone was a carat-and-a-half blue-tinted sparkler, the wedding and engagement bands matching beveled gold. “You-all must’ve done pretty well moneywise on your gigs,” Bino said. On the stereo Carla and Chris blended their voices in the finale. Smooth, strong, and enough to raise goose bumps. Bino pictured Donnie and Marie a few years back when they’d stunned a Super Bowl crowd into pin-drop silence with their rendition of the national anthem.

  “The drug trade was better,” Carla said.

  “It always is.”

  “Till the bust in San Francisco,” she said. She studied him, her gaze now steady, her mouth relaxed. “How much do you already know?” she asked.