Hard Evidence (29 page)

‘That Locke, he’s a swell guy.’

Fowler kept on. ‘I called David Freeman. He thought it might not be wise for him to represent me because of May. He intimated he’d put out the word. Meanwhile, it appears that I’m to stay locked up.’ Another tight smile. ‘Lousy pun.’

‘Daddy, they can’t do that.’

‘They can, honey. How many times have I had a defense lawyer tell me his client
had
to get out of jail, wouldn’t survive one night there, it was life and death. And I told them it would have to wait until the morning. Judicial process…’

‘We can’t let this happen, you can’t stay here. Dismas can do something.’

Hardy nodded. ‘I could try, Andy.’

‘Why would you want to do that? What would you try?’

‘I don’t know, I got me and Jane in here to see you, didn’t I? I could try walking you downstairs and out the door.’

Her father pulled at the jumpsuit. ‘Don’t you think the outfit’s a little conspicuous?’

‘Goddamn it,’ Jane said. ‘Will you two cut it
out
.’

‘You’re right, I’ll have to think of something else.’

The judge got serious. ‘You’d really do something? Why?’

Hardy shrugged. ‘At least until one of Freeman’s wonders shows up. At least you’d be represented. I could pass it off after you decided who you wanted.’ Hardy straightened in his chair. ‘Not to mention, I wouldn’t mind getting in the face of a few of these people here —they seem to have pissed me off.’

‘Can you get him out
tonight
, Dismas? On bail or something?’ Jane looked at her father. ‘You cannot stay here overnight.’

Fowler reached out and patted her hand. ‘It’s all right, honey. I spent a night in jail once before — voluntarily, I admit — and it wasn’t so bad. I wanted to see what we were putting people through. I’ll survive, I promise you. Besides, I might as well get used to it. It could be longer than that if bail is denied.’

‘They couldn’t do that!’

Her father and Hardy shared a glance. The guard outside the door gave a knock.

‘I’ll call Freeman, keep him on it,’ Hardy said. ‘And I’ll be there tomorrow… You sure you want me representing you, even temporarily?’

Andy appeared, for really the first time, to consider it. ‘Maybe more than that.’

‘Why, Andy?’

The judge looked around the tiny room, then at his daughter, as though looking for verification of something.

He knew he’d written Hardy off too easily before, when he thought he had betrayed his trust. There had been a mistake. He knew Hardy and he hadn’t blown any whistle on Andy Fowler. Hardy didn’t betray trusts and he didn’t give up. ‘The devil you know?’ he said, smiling.

40

He left Jane at the fourth floor. Getting out of the elevator, he walked down the hallway and turned into Homicide. If Glitsky was in maybe they could stop in at Lou’s for old times’ sake. But he wasn’t around. Hardy leaned over his desk and was writing him a note when he heard some heels on the tiles and looked up.

Pullios stopped in the door.

‘Hi, Bets,’ Hardy said. ‘Getting any… exciting cases?’

Her smile was glacial. ‘How are you, Dismas?’

‘Great,’ he said. ‘I’m writing my memoirs.’

She didn’t react. Her eyes searched the back of the open room. ‘Anybody seen Lanier?’ she asked. One of the guys said he thought he was downstairs having some coffee with a witness. She came back to Hardy. ‘Well, take care of yourself.’

She started to turn and Hardy spoke. ‘I hear Judge Fowler’s been arrested.’

She stopped. ‘My, news travels fast.’

‘Tribal drums. We’re kind of family.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s right.’

‘You really think he killed Owen Nash?’

‘The grand jury thought there was enough evidence to issue the indictment.’

Hardy folded his arms, leaning back against Glitsky’s desk. ‘I have it on good authority that if the D.A. wanted, the grand jury would indict a ham sandwich.’

Pullios nodded. ‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you.’

Hardy caught up with her out in the hallway. He turned conversational. ‘I guess there’s some new evidence, huh?’

Pullios stopped. ‘Are you representing Fowler?’

‘I’m merely a curious citizen who wonders what you’ve got new since Shinn?’

‘Quite a bit. I’m sure it’ll be in the newspaper.’

She started walking again.

Hardy found himself planted to the floor with roots of rage. It just came up over him. His stomach turned over and he heard his blood pulsing in his ears.

Don’t do it, he told himself. Don’t say any more. Don’t chase her through the halls. Nothing to be gained.

He watched her elegant figure disappear around the corner of the elevator lobby. Where had the air gone? Feeling as though he’d stopped breathing, he sucked a strained lungful. He needed a drink.

*     *     *     *     *

Or four. Or five.

On top of the three Guinnesses he had had before Jane had arrived at the Shamrock. He had the first couple of Irish whiskeys at Lou’s, but then the guys started showing up. Guys that knew him, that wanted to know what he was doing, how he was getting along.

Yeah, he was busy, working on stuff, was looking into opening a second bar maybe, even a restaurant. No, he didn’t want to go into private practice, wind up defending a bunch of scum.

Leaving Lou’s, he remembered that he had forgotten to call David Freeman. He’d call him from the next place. And Frannie too. He couldn’t forget to call Frannie. She would worry. She’d been worried for a couple of months now — worried about him, about them, their future, their baby, the pregnancy. Everything. Their wavelengths had ceased to coincide somehow. It worried him too, made him doubt himself. Sometimes he thought it was making him sick. Drinking seemed to cure it.

Entertaining the possibility that he should cut down on his intake, and forgetting his own oft-uttered advice that beer on whiskey was mighty risky, he stopped at a place down Seventh Street and ordered a Rainier Ale. The bar didn’t have a pay phone.

He brought the bottle of green death over to a small table next to the door and stared up at the television screen broadcasting the evening news. The financier, the judge and the prostitute again. He moved to the other side of the table, where he didn’t have to look at the damned set. White noise.

They’d enjoyed the vacation. The two weeks had been good for them. They’d come back refreshed, reinvigo-rated, reconnected. They’d purposely put off discussing his career plans — there would be plenty of time for that. Instead, they talked about babies and childbirth, about whether Moses and Susan were an item, about food and their past lives — Eddie and Jane. And if they should move to a bigger house before or after the next child came along.

Hardy had run daily on the beach. A couple of days of rum drinks, then he’d surprised himself by going on the wagon for the rest of the trip. He was tan and lean and liked it.

Then, the first week home, catching up with Abe about Owen Nash and May Shinn and Andy Fowler. Cleaning out some tanks at the Steinhart with Pico. Pouring a few shifts at the Shamrock to keep his hand in.

At first it was a nagging unease, a touch of insomnia. He hadn’t wanted to admit how much he’d invested, how great had been the risk, when he’d given up bartending right after Christmas to go back to the law. But now, in the long and formless days stretching before him, he was starting to come to the numbing realization that he’d failed in one of the fundamental decisions of his life.

He’d been fired. His services were not wanted. It wasn’t that the people he worked for were so honorable or talented or better at their jobs than he was, at least he didn’t think so, but the fact that he’d been judged by those people and found unacceptably wanting. Never mind their standards. He was out, they were in.

It got to him. He found himself internalizing the rejection. More, he couldn’t seem to get it out of him. Who was he at forty, anyway? A castoff, a reject. He had told Frannie what the hell, he didn’t want to be underfoot all day, he’d go out and interview a few places, get some work, try to get some feeling back that he was doing something worthwhile — that maybe he was worthwhile.

People were nice. Men and women — lawyers and office managers — in business suits like he was wearing. But they didn’t hire him. They’d call him back, it was just a slow time. Maybe he could try the public defenders.

He thought he was a logical man, and logic was telling him that in terms of the marketplace, he was worthless.

Well, shit, he wasn’t going to accept that. He’d lived a pretty good life, thank you, and it damn sure wasn’t over yet. The hell with the rest of you.

Then he made his big mistake.

*     *     *     *     *

Frannie was a rock at home, telling him not to push it, time would take care of it. Something would come up. She loved him.

But once you started thinking people didn’t want you, it was easy to start believing nobody wanted you for anything. You were just a burden, a drag, plain and simple, not able to carry your own weight.

He thought he could feel Frannie pulling away. She swore it wasn’t true, she wasn’t. She was with him. But he found he couldn’t talk with her anymore. He could tell it was making her lose confidence in him, and
that
was too much to ask her to carry. She needed him to be strong, especially now, building a family. So he resolved to put on a happy face. Lots of laughs, long silences between.

He idly thought of finding someone he could talk to where he wasn’t constantly reminded of his situation. Of course, he wasn’t going to, but wouldn’t it be nice to be around someone who thought you were okay, not aware of any of the baggage?

He’d taken to stopping by the Shamrock after his interviews and having a round or two. It was more time that he didn’t have to face her. He stopped working out.

He’d been home from Hawaii a month now, six weeks. He told himself enough was enough, it was time to beat this thing, not let the bastards get him down. The first step, he told himself, was physical — get back in shape, stop drinking, tighten up.

*     *     *     *     *

He stood behind Celine Nash as she pumped up and down on the Stairmaster. Her hair was fixed back with a hot pink headband. A patch of darker pink showed where she was sweating between her shoulder blades. Her ass was a phenomenal pumping machine. Up and down, step step step. Sweat was pouring off her. He thought about turning around and walking out.

It was okay, he told himself. He was here to work out and he’d chosen Hardbodies! because he’d already been in the place and it had the machines he was looking for.

He hadn’t seen her since she’d stopped in front of his house before the vacation, when she’d realized she couldn’t be in his life. Well, he wasn’t putting her back into his life now. Enough time had gone by since then. He wasn’t starting anything by showing up here.

He climbed onto the machine next to hers. ‘Yo,’ he said.

*     *     *     *     *

They were sitting together in the steam room. He was on a towel, leaning back against the cedar wall, in gym shorts and a t-shirt. She’d gone to the locker room after her workout, gotten rid of her leggings and changed into a one-piece black bathing suit.

The talking wound down. She was doing all right, she said, keeping busy. He wished he was. Well, at least he was exercising. That was doing something. Yes.

The temperature was near a hundred and twenty. The room was tiny, cramped, perhaps five by seven feet, with a furnace near the floor, which was covered with rocks. Celine got up and poured more water from a pitcher over the rocks and a cloud of steam lifted and hovered. She went to sit down on the wood where she’d been, then jumped and said, ‘Ouch.’

‘Here.’ Hardy moved enough towel out from under him to give her room. He could feel his heart pounding through his t-shirt. Their legs were together.

She leaned back next to him and took his hand, putting it high on her thigh.

‘Celine…’

‘Shh…’ Her shoulder came up against him. ‘I’ve been coming here for six months and have never seen another soul in this room.’

She lifted the elastic on her nylon suit and guided his hand under it. ‘Feel me,’ she said. She was shaved bare, the skin smooth as though it had been oiled, already wet where she was moving him.

‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘Oh dear God.’

One hand held him in place against her and the other lifted his shirt, found the band of his shorts and reached under them for him.

Silk and oil. Honey and salt.

*     *     *     *     *

That proved he had been right. He was no better than anyone else, and worse than most. He tried to tell himself, once, that he hadn’t been technically unfaithful. There had been no penetration, therefore he hadn’t really made love to her. Feeble. Beneath contempt. More honest if he had.

Now he had proved that the world’s assessment of him was valid. He wouldn’t hire himself to do anything. He could barely look at himself in the mirror.

He started practicing darts, putting away gallons of Guinness. Avoiding Frannie, avoiding himself. Putting on weight.

Thank God, Celine hadn’t tried to follow up. That, at least, seemed to be over.

But he resided in a deep cave, in total darkness.

*     *     *     *     *

It was ten-thirty. There were four bottles of Rainier Ale on the table now, a rocks glass with mostly water in the bottom, a faint taste of Irish to it. He blinked, wondering where he had been and tried to focus on the clock over the bar. No use. He stood uncertainly.

Jesus.

Outside, the night had turned cold and the street came up at him, forcing him against the outer stucco of the building for support. Seventh Street stretched empty for what seemed like miles, shining as though it were wet. Was his car parked up at the Hall of Justice? Even if it was, how could he get it home?

He tried moving along but everything suddenly seemed to hurt, to throb — his shoulder where he’d been wounded in Vietnam, the foot he’d hurt last year in Acapulco.

There were noises behind him, laughter, then a skipping, leather on concrete. It finally registered, coming toward him.

He straightened up, turned around, saw an arm, something, a blur that hit him in the forehead, knocked him to one side. He heard another dull thud — was that him? — and his head cracked back against the stucco and he went down.

*     *     *     *     *

There were images. The gagging jolt of smelling salts. A light behind his eyes. Something sticky under his hand. The cold concrete.

‘Let’s take him down.’

‘Wait a minute. Is this him?’

Hardy forced his eyes open. The flashlight hit him again and he winced. Shadows emerged, recognizable. Cops.

A lucky break. One of them had found his wallet, less cash, in the curb. Hardy had never given his badge back to Locke. If he wanted it he could come and ask for it.

‘Are you Dismas Hardy?’ one of them asked.

He supposed he nodded, grunted — something.

‘He as drunk as he smells?’

Another whiff of the salts. Hardy brought his hand up to his face, felt a crust. He looked down. His white sweater was matted dark.

‘I’m Hardy,’ he said.

They got him up. Pain, nausea. ‘Watch out, guys.’ He staggered a step or two away and vomited bile and beer. He leaned against the building. ‘Sorry.’

They stood back a couple of yards. He caught his breath, spat a few times, tried to see what time it was but his watch was gone.

If they could do it, he told them, he’d rather go home than the hospital. He didn’t think anything was broken. He might have a concussion; his head felt like an anvil attached to his neck by some two-pound test. And someone kept swinging the smith’s hammer.

They put him in the rear seat.

He rested his head back. Lights passing overhead, the freeway overpass. He closed his eyes. Nothing to see.

*     *     *     *     *

It was almost midnight, and Moses had been there for a half hour. To her brother, Frannie looked particularly vulnerable. She was now five months pregnant and showing it. Her arms looked thin, he thought. Her face was too hollow. Maybe it was the contrast with the fullness of her belly and breasts. There were circles under her eyes. She sat forward on the low living-room couch, her elbows on her knees, her hands crossed under the bulge of her stomach.

Moses was telling her that the best thing to do was wait. He’d turn up. Moses had had his own lost weekends, or nights.

‘This isn’t a lost weekend, Mose.’ She hesitated. ‘He’s with Jane. I know he’s with Jane.’

Moses shook his head. ‘There’s no way, Frannie.’