“Son of a bitch.”
I was seized with the same sense of helplessness I had felt when one of the assailants had pinned my arms and held me while the other one hit me with his gloved fists. I felt sweat popping on my scalp. And sympathetic pain throbbed in my ribs and testicles.
“If I ever get a chance to—”
I stopped and looked across the seat at Cisco. He had a slight smile playing on his face.
“Is that what this is? You have these two guys at the clubhouse?”
He didn’t answer but he kept the smile.
“Cisco, I’m in the middle of a trial and now you’re telling me the guy who has his fingers in my client’s pie is the one who set me up for that… that assault? I don’t have time for this, man. I have too much—”
“They want to talk.”
That shut my protest down quick.
“Did you interview them?”
“Nope. Waiting for you. Thought you should get first crack at them.”
I drove in silence the rest of the way, pondering what lay ahead. Soon we pulled to a stop in front of a compound on the east side of the brewery. Cisco got out to open the gate and the car immediately became infected with the sour smell of the brewery.
The compound was surrounded by a chain-link fence with a twist of razor wire running along top. The concrete-block clubhouse, which sat in the middle of the hardscrabble lot, looked unimpressive in comparison to the gleaming row of machines parked out front. Harleys and Triumphs only. No rice rockets for this crew.
We entered the clubhouse, took a moment to let our eyes adjust and then I saw Cisco walk up to a serve-yourself bar where two other men in leather vests sat on stools.
“Ready to do this?” he said.
The two men spun off their stools and stood up. Both of them went an easy six foot four and three hundred pounds. They were enforcers. Cisco introduced them to me as Tommy Guns and Bam Bam.
“They’re back here,” said Tommy Guns.
The two men led us down a hallway behind the bar. They were so big they had to walk in single file. There were doors on either side. Bam Bam opened a door midway down the right side and we entered a windowless room with the walls and ceiling painted black and a single bulb hanging from above. In the dim light I could see sketches painted on the walls. Men with beards and long hair. I realized this was like a dark chapel where the fallen Saints were memorialized. My first thought as I looked about was Pulp Fiction. My second was that I didn’t want to be here. Two men were lying on the floor hog-tied, with their arms and feet up behind their backs. They had black bags over their heads.
Bam Bam leaned down and started to pull the bags off. This started a chorus of groans and fearful sounds from the two men.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Cisco, I can’t be here. You’re bringing me into—”
“Is it them?” Cisco said, not waiting for me to finish my protest. “Look closely. You don’t want to make a mistake.”
“Me? It’s not my mistake! I didn’t ask you to do this!”
“Calm down. You’re here, so just look. Is it them?”
“Jesus Christ!”
Both men were gagged with duct tape wrapped completely around their heads. Their faces were distorted further by the swelling and bruising already forming around their eyes. They had been beaten. The features didn’t match with what I remembered from the Victory Building garage or even the photograph Cisco had showed me earlier. I bent down to look closer. Both men looked up at me, complete fear in their eyes.
“I can’t tell,” I said.
“It’s a yes-or-no question, Mick.”
“Yeah, but they weren’t scared shitless when they beat the crap out of me and they weren’t gagged.”
“Take off the tape,” Cisco ordered.
Bam Bam moved in, springing a switchblade open and roughly cutting through the tape on the first man. He then tore it off, taking chunks of neck hair with it. The man yelped in pain.
“Shut the fuck up!” Tommy Guns yelled.
The second man learned from his friend’s example. He took the harsh tape-removal process without making a sound. Bam Bam threw the gag to the side of the room and then moved behind the men. He grabbed the nexus of the rope that tied the arms and legs together and knocked each man onto his side so I could see his face better.
“Please don’t kill us,” one of the men said, desperation tightening his voice. “It wasn’t personal. We were paid to do a job. We coulda killed you but we didn’t.”
I suddenly recognized him as the one who did all the talking in the garage.
“It’s them,” I said, pointing down. “He did the talking and he did the punching. Who are they?”
Cisco nodded as though the confirmation was only a formality.
“They’re brothers. The talker is Joey Mack. The puncher is, get this, Angel Mack.”
“Listen, we don’t even know what it was about,” the Talker yelled out. “Please! We made a mistake. We—”
“You’re fucking-A right you made a mistake!” Cisco yelled, his voice coming down on both of them like the wrath of God. “And now you pay. Who wants to go first?”
The Puncher started to whimper. Cisco walked over to a card table where there was a spread of tools and weapons, plus the roll of tape. He chose a pipe wrench and a set of pliers and turned back. I thought and hoped it was all an act. But if it was, Cisco was turning in an Oscar-caliber performance. I put my hand on his shoulder and held him from approaching the two men. I didn’t have to say anything but the message was clear. Let me have a shot at them.
I took the wrench from Cisco and squatted like a baseball catcher in front of the captives. I hefted the heavy tool in my hand for a few seconds, getting a good feel for its weight, before speaking.
“Who hired you to hurt me?”
The Talker answered immediately. He wasn’t interested in protecting anybody but himself and his brother.
“A guy named Dahl. He told us to hit you hard but not kill you. You can’t do this, man.”
“I think we can do whatever we want. How do you know Dahl?”
“We don’t. But we had a mutual connection.”
“And who was that?”
No answer. I didn’t have to wait long before Bam Bam lived up to his moniker and leaned down and hit them both with pistonlike punches to the jaw. The Talker was spitting blood when he gave me the name.
“Jerry Castille.”
“And who’s Jerry Castille?”
“Look, you can’t tell anybody this.”
“You’re not in a position to tell me what I can or can’t do. Who’s Jerry Castille?”
“He’s the west coast representative.”
I waited but that was it.
“I don’t have all night, man. West coast representative of what?”
The bloodied man nodded like he knew there was only one way to go here.
“Of a certain east-coast organization. You get it?”
I looked at Cisco. Herb Dahl had ties to east-coast organized crime? It seemed far-fetched.
“No, you don’t get it,” I said. “I’m a lawyer. I want a direct answer. Which organization? You have exactly five seconds until—”
“He works for Joey Giordano outta Brooklyn, okay? Now you’ve sealed the deal on us anyway. So go fuck yourself.”
He reared back and spit blood at me. I had left my suit coat and tie at the office. I looked down at my white shirt and saw a bloodstain just outside the area that would be covered by a tie.
“This is a monogrammed shirt, you shit head.”
Tommy Guns suddenly moved between us and I heard the brutal impact of fist on face but didn’t see it because of Tommy’s massive size. He then stepped back and I could see the Talker was now spitting out teeth.
“Monogrammed shirt, man,” Tommy Guns said, as if offering an explanation for his vicious action.
I stood up.
“Okay, cut them loose,” I said.
&
nbsp; Cisco and the two Saints turned to look at me.
“Cut ’em loose,” I said again.
“You sure?” Cisco said. “They’ll probably go running back to this fucker Castille and tell him we know.”
I looked down at the two men on the floor and shook my head.
“No, they won’t. They tell him that they talked and they’ll probably end up dead. So cut them loose and it’s like this never happened. They’ll drop out of sight until the bruises go away. And that will be the end of it.”
I bent down to get close to the two captives.
“I have that right, right?”
“Yeah,” said the Talker, a bulge the size of a marble forming on his upper lip.
I looked at his brother.
“Is that right? I want to hear it from both of you.”
“Yeah, yeah, right,” the Puncher said.
I looked at Cisco. We were finished here. He gave the order.
“Okay, Guns, listen up. You wait till dark. You leave them in here and wait till dark. Then you bag ’em and take ’em back to wherever they want to go. You drop them off but you leave ’em alone. You got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
Poor Tommy Guns. He truly looked disappointed.
I took one last look at the bloodied men on the floor. And they looked up at me. The feeling of holding their lives in my hands sent an electric jolt through me. Cisco tapped me on the back and I followed him from the room, closing the door behind me. We started down the hall but I put my hand on my investigator’s arm and stopped him.
“You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have brought me here.”
“Are you kidding? I had to bring you here.”
“What are you talking about? Why?”
“Because they did something to you. Inside. You lost something, Mick, and if you don’t get it back you aren’t going to be much good to yourself or anybody else.”
I stared at him for a long moment and then nodded.
“I got it back.”
“Good. Now we never have to talk about this again. Can you take me back to the office so I can pick up my bike?”
“Yeah. I can do that.”
Thirty-one
Driving by myself after dropping Cisco in the garage, I thought about the law of the land and the law of the streets and the differences between them. I stood in courtrooms and insisted that the law of the land be applied fairly and appropriately. There was nothing that had been fair and appropriate about what I had just been party to in the black room.
Still, it didn’t bother me. Cisco had been right. I needed to gain the upper hand inside my own soul before I could gain it in court or anywhere else. I felt renewed as I drove. I opened all the Lincoln’s windows and let the evening air course through the car as I came down Laurel Canyon toward home.
This time Maggie had used her key. She was already inside when I got there, an unexpected but pleasant surprise. The refrigerator door was open and she was leaning down and looking in.
“I really came because you always used to stock up before a trial. Your refrigerator was like going down the cold aisle at Gelson’s. But what happened? There’s nothing here.”
I dropped my keys on the table. She had been to her own home from work first and had changed. She wore faded denim jeans, a peasant shirt and sandals with thick cork heels. She knew I liked that outfit.
“I guess I didn’t get around to it this time.”
“Well, I wish I’d known. Might’ve considered going somewhere else on my one night this week with a sitter.”
She smiled slyly. I couldn’t figure out why we weren’t still living together.
“How about we go down to Dan’s?”
“Dan Tana’s? I thought you went there only when you won a case. You already counting your chickens, Haller?”
I smiled and shook my head.
“No, no way. But if I went there only when I won then I’d hardly ever get to eat there.”
She pointed a finger at me and smiled. It was a dance and we were both well used to it. She closed the fridge and walked through the kitchen door and then right past me without so much as a kiss.
“Dan Tana’s is open late,” she said.
I watched her walk down the hallway toward the master bedroom. She pulled the peasant blouse up over her head just as she disappeared into the room.
We didn’t really make love. Something about what I had seen and felt in the black room at the Saints was still with me. Call it residual aggression or the release of the impotent anger I had felt. Whatever it was, it informed all my moves with her. I pulled and pushed too hard. I bit her lip and held her wrists together above her head. I controlled her and I knew what it was all about while I did it. Maggie went with it at first. The newness of it was probably interesting. But curiosity eventually turned to concern and she turned her face from mine and struggled to free her hands. I held her wrists tighter. Finally, I saw tears well in her eyes.
“What?” I whispered into her ear, my nose pressing hard into her hair.
“Just finish,” she said.
All aggression and drive and desire went down the psychic drain after that. Her tears and telling me to finish made me unable to. I pulled out and off, rolling to the side of the bed. I put a forearm across my eyes but still could feel her watching me.
“What?”
“What is with you tonight? Is this something to do with Andrea? Getting me back for what’s going on in court or something?”
I felt her move off the bed.
“Maggie, of course not! Court’s got nothing to do with it.”
“Then what?”
But the bathroom door had closed before I could answer and the shower immediately was turned on, cutting off the exchange.
“I’ll tell you at dinner,” I said, even though I knew she couldn’t hear me.
Dan Tana’s was packed but Christian came through and got us quickly into a booth in the left corner. Maggie and I had not spoken during the fifteen-minute ride into West Hollywood. I had tried some small talk about our daughter but Maggie had been unresponsive so I let it go. I thought that I would try again in the restaurant.
We both ordered the Steak Helen with pasta on the side. Alfredo for Maggie and Bolognese for me. Maggie picked an Italian red for herself and I ordered a bottle of fizzy water. After the waiter left I reached across the table and put my hand on her wrist, gently this time.
“I’m sorry, Maggie. Let’s start over.”
She pulled her arm away from me.
“You still owe me an explanation, Haller. That wasn’t making love. I don’t know what’s going on with you. I don’t think you should treat anyone that way, but especially not me.”
“Maggie, I think you’re overdoing it a bit. For a while there you liked it and you know it.”
“And then you started to hurt me.”
“I’m sorry. I never want to hurt you.”
“And don’t try to act like it was a passing thing. If you ever want to be with me again you’d better start telling me what is happening with you.”
I shook my head and looked out at the crowded room. The Lakers were on the overhead TV in the bar that divided the place. People were crowded three deep behind the lucky patrons who had the stools. The waiter brought our drinks and that bought me some more time. But as soon as he left the table, Maggie was on me.
“Talk to me, Michael, or I’m taking my dinner to go. I’ll take a cab.”
I took a long drink of water and then looked at her.
“It has nothing to do with court or Andrea Freeman or anybody or anything else you know, okay?”
“No, not okay. Talk to me.”
I put my glass down and folded my arms on the table.
“Cisco found the two guys who attacked me.”
“Where? Who are they?”
“That doesn’t matter. He didn’t call the police, he didn’t turn them in.”
“You mean he just let them g
o?”
I laughed and shook my head.
“No, he held them. Him and two of his associates from the Saints. For me. In this place they have. To do what I wanted. Whatever I wanted. He said I needed it.”
She reached across the checked tablecloth and put her hand on my forearm.
“Haller, what did you do?”
I held her eyes for a moment.
“Nothing. I questioned them and then told Cisco to let them go. I know who hired them.”
“Who?”
“I’m not going to get into that. It’s not important. But you know what, Maggie? When I was in the hospital waiting to find out if they were going to be able to save my twisted nut, all I could think about were these violent images of me getting those two guys back. I mean, Hieronymus Bosch torture stuff. Medieval shit. I wanted to hurt them so bad. Then I get my chance, and believe me these guys would have just disappeared after, and I let it go… and then I’m with you and…”
She leaned back in the booth. She stared off into space, a mixture of sadness and resignation on her face.
“Pretty fucked up, huh?”
“I wish you hadn’t told me all of that.”
“You mean as a prosecutor?”
“There’s that.”
“Well, you kept asking. I guess I should’ve made up a story about being mad at Andrea Freeman. That would’ve been okay with you, right? If it was about men and women, you could understand that.”
She looked back at me.
“Don’t patronize me.”
“Sorry.”
We sat in silence and watched the activities in the bar. People drinking, being happy. At least outwardly. The waiters in tuxedos moving about and squeezing between the crowded tables.
When our food came I was no longer particularly hungry even though the best steak in town was on the plate in front of me.
“Can I ask you one final thing about it?” Maggie asked.
I shrugged. I didn’t see the point in talking about it anymore but relented.
“Ask away.”
“How do you know for sure that Cisco and his associates let those two men go?”
I cut into my steak and blood oozed onto the plate. It was undercooked. I looked up at Maggie.
“I guess I don’t know for sure.”
The Fifth Witness: A Novel Page 26
