Last Chance for Glory (23 page)

“Enough.” Steinberg waved the little .32, a conductor cuing his musicians. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. First, I’m gonna write you a check for seventy-five-hundred dollars. Second, you’re gonna write me a receipt for services rendered. That’s in the past tense, in case you missed the point. Third, you and Mr. Kosinski are gonna go out and do your thing. When you’re finished—when
all
the bugs and taps are in your possession—you’re gonna come back. At which point I will pay you for your time, evaluate the material, then decide what to do next. Any comments?” He paused briefly. A grin sucked at his protruding lower lip. “And by the way, boys, you might wanna consider that I have another role to play besides the role of banker. Like, if you should maybe happen to get yourselves arrested, you’re gonna need a lawyer and I’m the best.”

“I
HAVE A DECISION
to make, an interesting decision,” Blake explained as he and Bell Kosinski drove the short distance to Manhattan Executive’s Soho offices. In another season, they would have walked the half mile, but a merciless August sun had reduced city life to a mad dash from one air-conditioned space to another. “Steinberg claims that Joanna Bardo first told him about Billy Sowell. What I’m wondering is who told Joanna?”

“Sounds like you don’t trust her.”

Kosinski wanted a drink. As usual. He saw no particular reason, outside of the fact that Blake was driving the car, to resist the urge, but he knew that his end of the bargain would eventually call for him to drive a car. If he was going to do that (without, for instance, wiping out half the pedestrians in New York), he’d have to cool the drinking. It was that simple.

Not that he was at all sure he
could
slow down. Which was funny because, at the same time, he had no doubt that he’d do what was expected of him. Kosinski was coming to understand that his relationship with Marty Blake might be more than a temporary reprieve. That it might be a beginning, assuming he didn’t fuck it up. Or get himself killed. Or massacre a crowd of preschoolers standing at a bus stop.

“Joanna came up the hard way. Her mother died when she was seven, left her to raise three younger sisters. Plus she had to deal with a father who liked to use his hands. Now she’s finally got something and the way I see it, she’ll probably give me up before she gives up Manhattan Executive.”

“Probably?”

“I can’t say for sure, Bell. Maybe she came by the story innocently. Then it wouldn’t matter.”

Kosinski nodded, closed his eyes, let his head fall back. He remembered his first days in Homicide and the forty-eight-hour rule. The one that insisted if you didn’t clear the case within forty-eight hours, it’d most likely never be cleared. What it meant, in practical terms, was that you had to have the instincts of a starving wolf. You didn’t pace yourself, didn’t settle in for the long haul, didn’t bother to eat your Wheaties in the morning. No, what you did was run through potential witnesses like a bowling ball through a set of pins. You followed trails with maniacal intensity, practiced an unavoidable tunnel vision that sometimes missed your legitimate prey altogether.

Most of those conditions, Kosinski knew, couldn’t be applied to a case that was more than two years old. Still, the scent of blood was the scent of blood and when you were starving, nothing else mattered. He recalled his first summer job—sweeping out a small, rat-plagued warehouse in Flushing. The owner had just bought three Fox Terrier pups and was keeping them in a storage room during the day. From time to time, he’d open the door and toss them a dead or dying rat. “So they know what they’re supposed to do in life.” Six months later, the warehouse was rodent free.

“You still here, Kosinski?”

“Yeah, I was just thinking about what you said. Tell me something, why do you have to say anything at all to Joanna Bardo? I thought you were in business on your own?”

Blake smiled, turned his head to face Kosinski. They were on Greene Street, just below Spring, stopped at a light. “Did you always work with a partner, Bell?”

“Almost always.”

“Well, I
never
worked with a partner, so you have to give me time to get used to the idea. I think Steinberg’s suggestion, to investigate the judge who admitted the bullshit confession and the husband who lied to you is reasonable. According to Steinberg, John McGuire was a liberal, an ACLU guy who sold out his principles to put Billy Sowell behind bars. Maybe we can appeal to his conscience, use it as an extra wedge. That is, if we get something to go with it. As for Johan Tillson, from what you said, he has to know that Billy Sowell didn’t kill his wife. So, why has he kept his mouth shut all these years? Why wouldn’t he talk to Max Steinberg? Believe me, Bell, if money changed hands, I’m gonna know it.”

Kosinski stifled a smile, glanced out the window, noted the deserted streets, the storefronts shimmering like desert mirages. He could almost hear the hum and drip of air conditioners, almost feel the heat rising from the sidewalks. There was a time when he’d walked streets very similar to these. Enveloped by a thin membrane of sweat, hoping he wouldn’t have to chase some fifteen-year-old kid through the backyards.

“Do you really think it’s gonna come to that? Caribbean bank accounts? Sounds too big to me.”

Blake stared straight ahead; his voice, when he spoke, was matter-of-fact. “You’re probably right, but we have to be ready to follow the paper trail wherever it leads. We’re not looking for some street mutt with a rusty .38. It’s not a problem for you, anyway. The main thing is to keep what we’re doing absolutely quiet while the hardware is in place. The kind of surveillance we’re gonna set up is easily detected.
If
you’re looking for it. It’s also illegal, but if we get the hardware out before anybody knows what’s happening, it’s a crime that’s very hard to prove. By the way, you might want to apply for a PI’s license. It’d give you a little more credibility, especially with the cops.”

“Well, actually …” Kosinski found himself blushing, tried to remember how long it’d been since he’d been embarrassed by anything, failed utterly. “Actually,” he admitted, “I already did.”

“Dead? Just like that?” Joanna Bardo perched on her chair like a bird of prey looking for a careless mouse. “Some people have no luck in life. I suppose that sounds callous.”

“Yeah, ‘callous’ is the word for it,” Blake said mildly.

“But it’s
true,
isn’t it? Haven’t you seen it yourself?” Her round Mediterranean eyes widened, her small mouth turned down; she somehow managed to look indignant and petulant at the same time. “It’s the one fate I always wanted to avoid. I’d rather go down in flames than be a Sad Sack. Billy Sowell didn’t live a life. Not his own life, anyway. He was led through his days like a dog on leash. I suppose you can’t blame the dog for having a sadistic master. But if the dog never fights back? Never bites, never growls?”

“Billy Sowell didn’t have the teeth for biting. His fangs were pulled early in the game.” Blake smiled, waved his hands. “But it’s over, anyway. I have a few details to work out—the lawyer wants to get Billy a posthumous pardon—but I’m basically looking for work, so if there’s anything out there …”

Joanna folded her hands, laid them on the desk. She was all business, now, Kosinski could see that much. She seemed relieved, as well, to be off the subject of Billy Sowell. Blake was taking his time, maintaining his usual sarcastic demeanor, concerned (but not
too
concerned) with Billy Sowell as an individual. As a human being.

“As a matter of fact,” Joanna said, “I have a small job, if you want it. A Senior Vice President at Bower and Bower thinks his wife is cheating on him. He asked me to put her under surveillance for a week or so, then report back. There’s no divorce in the works, so he doesn’t need videos or photographs; he just wants to know what she’s doing. It’s a softball, really, but the client has plenty of money and he’s willing to pay standard daytime surveillance rates. Just make sure you get a decent retainer, because the man is sixty-nine years old and his wife is sixty-seven. We may be looking at premature senility here.”

“After Max Steinberg,” Blake laughed, “I could use a little senility.”

“It’s all an act,” Joanna declared. “Steinberg knows exactly what he’s doing. In fact, you could make a decent case for the theory that all he’s done with his life is make the best of a bad situation. I mean, when you take his appearance into consideration. That’s probably why he goes on these crusades. It’s just part of the act.”

“But why Billy Sowell?” Blake shook his head. “It’s the only question I forgot to ask him.”

“Well, that’s easy enough. As you know, I belong to any number of charitable organizations. It’s purely business, of course. The boards of these organizations are studded with potential clients and you can approach them informally at the annual dinners. As it happens, a Reverend Abner Squires was the guest speaker at a meeting of the Osmond Society—they’re involved in prison reform—and he told me what’d happened to Billy Sowell, before and after Billy went to prison. Reverend Squires is the Protestant chaplain at the Columbia Correctional Facility. I’d already met Steinberg and listened to him brag about his various crusades on behalf of the innocent, so I put them together. Do a favor, get a favor—that’s all it came to.”

Bell Kosinski stared at his freshly poured drink, listened to the ice crack. In some ways the anticipation was as good as the actual hit, which was ironic. He’d begun drinking in order to shut his brain down, and now he drank to get it going. He sipped at the vodka, felt the little neurons in his skull split and crack, felt pathways open, drained the glass.

“No time like the present,” he muttered.

“Pardon me?”

It was nearly five o’clock, late for a Cryders regular to be as close to sober as Bell Kosinski. Father Tim, for instance, was feeling no pain whatsoever.

“No time like the present,” Kosinski repeated. “To plow into the future.”

Kosinski watched Ed O’Leary add an ice cube, then fill his glass. “Gettin’ fancy, Bell,” the bartender said. “I mean with the ice and all. Next you’ll be askin’ for an olive.”

“It’s kind of a celebration.”

“Yeah?” O’Leary grinned maliciously, cocked his head to one side. “That’s pretty amazing. I didn’t know you had anything to celebrate.”

“I’m celebrating my onrushing demise.” Kosinski raised the glass. “Last drink of the night.”

The bartender’s mouth dropped. “I hope you’re not gonna do nothin’ stupid, like go on the wagon. Shit, Bell, I can’t afford to lose the business.”

“Well, I’m not exactly going on the wagon, but I may tie myself to an axle and let it drag me around for a few weeks.” Ed O’Leary took a moment to digest the information. He started to reply, checked himself, walked away.

“Ed’s a calculating man,” Father Tim said. “Ruled by profit and loss.”

“Haunted by profit and loss, Father.” Kosinski tasted his drink. One more and then off to bed? It didn’t seem possible. “Ed’s a worrier.”

“A charitable observation.” Father Tim pulled on the cross around his neck. “But not undeserved. What’s this about ‘going on the wagon?’”

“It’s not a big deal, Father. I have to drive a car and I can’t do it drunk.”

“And you think you can do it sober.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Time will tell.” Kosinski glanced around the room, noted the dingy, fly-specked walls, the dust covering every unused surface. If he had a few more drinks, he knew, Cryders would undergo a miraculous transformation. It would slip into a state most people associated with home. It would become downright cozy.

“Father Tim, can I ask you a theological question?”

“Certainly.” The priest’s face brightened. “I don’t pretend to be Thomas Aquinas, but I’ll give you the best answer I’ve got.”

“Suicide is a mortal sin, right?”

“That’s right. The taking of life is not the business of human beings. Except in self-defense. Or in war. Or when you’re frying some low-life, scumbag murderer.”

“But never suicide, right?”

“Never. Not in the Catholic Church.”

“All right, now look at this for a minute. Suppose I make a decision to cross every street I come to without looking. I don’t care if the light is red or green; I don’t care about the traffic. When I get to the corner, I just keep on going. Is that suicide?”

Father Tim smiled. “Bell,” he replied, “it’s not something you need to worry about. Even if it
is
suicide, the truly insane are always forgiven. When you meet Saint Peter, just plead diminished capacity.”

M
ARTY BLAKE SLID HIS
Ford Taurus into a parking space on Liberty Avenue directly across the street from Eternal Memorials Incorporated, but instead of shutting down the engine, he flipped the air conditioning to maximum and settled back in the seat. He’d been to Eternal Memorials a number of times in the past, been to it in winter and summer, and it’d always seemed to occupy a space of its own, as if it was impervious both to the vagaries of the weather and the violent despair of the South Jamaica slums that surrounded it. Maybe it was the stone, the granite, and the marble slabs, the blind angels, the gray crosses, the inscribed lilies. The place looked and felt as eternal as its name. As eternal as the man who ran it.

Last chance, Blake thought to himself, last chance to change your mind. To return Steinberg’s money, go chase Joanna’s adultress. Hell, it might even be fun. Maybe this sixty-seven-year-old corporate wife has a trio of bodybuilders stashed in an apartment somewhere. Maybe she’s running with a motorcycle gang. Maybe a
lesbian
motorcycle gang—Butch Bikers from Hell.

The worst of it was that he couldn’t shake the conviction that he was putting Bell Kosinski’s life on the line. Never mind his own career. Or the fact that their best chance of escaping prosecution lay in his, Blake’s, remaining in the background. Kosinski hadn’t been exaggerating the physical danger. Whoever substituted Billy Sowell’s life for the life of Sondra Tillson’s actual killer wouldn’t hesitate to add another life to the bottom line. Whoever did it would have nothing whatever to lose.