Blunt Darts (24 page)
Authors: Jeremiah Healy
Smolina declined cross-examination of the lab expert and the judge called luncheon recess. The Coopers and I went across the courtyard to a stand-up place. The Coopers wanted only coffee. As I ate a sandwich, I turned the case over and over in my mind. I couldn’t see any way out for Joey.
Neither, apparently, could the jury. After lunch, the defense presented only family and priest as character witnesses, no Joey or Coopers. McClean waived cross-examination, and both attorneys made closing arguments. The case actually went to the jury that afternoon, and a guilty verdict was returned within an hour.
After the jury went into deliberation, I offered to drive the Coopers home, but they said they wanted to stay for the verdict, that they felt they should. After the verdict, I offered again, but they resisted because of the traffic I would hit. I insisted, and they still refused. I was half glad they did, because as Emily kissed my cheek and Jesse shook my hand, I wanted to speak with Nancy Meagher.
A courtroom when a judge has left the bench is like a bus stop at a madhouse. Joey had started crying after the verdict and was now nearly hysterical as the two officers recuffed him. Marco was calling Smolina an asshole, and a third officer was telling Marco to take it outside. Joey’s mother was wailing into a hankie and rocking back and forth in the embrace of her husband.
I was almost to Nancy Meagher when Marco finished his piece and stormed out of the courtroom. I doubt he noticed me. I decided to follow him, though, to be sure the Coopers had gotten enough of a start. They hadn’t.
As I came out of the courtroom door, Marco was near the elevators. He had Jesse by the jacket front, pushing him against the wall and yelling “nigger” at him and “whore” at Emily. Six or eight people were standing around. Marco looked pretty imposing, and nobody helped.
I came up behind Marco and said, “Take your hand off his jacket or I’ll take your hand off your arm.”
Marco slammed Jesse against the wall and came for me. He swung a roundhouse right at my head. I stepped under and slightly outside of it, whipping my right elbow forward and up into his right-hand rib cage. I stepped again, this time past him, slamming the edge of my right hand just above his right kidney.
He gave a strangled cry and sank to his knees, both hands trying to feel all his right side, front and back, at once.
I figured I had very little time before the authorities would arrive, so I leaned over Marco. I pulled him by his hair up to communion level on his knees, and said between my teeth, “If you so much as look cross-eyed at these folks again, your family loses its other son.”
I felt a hand on my arm. It was Nancy. A growing crowd of onlookers began to encircle us. A burly court officer bustled up behind her with his hand on the butt of his still-holstered revolver.
I let go of Marco, and Nancy said over her shoulder, “It’s all right, Frank. I saw it. Self-defense.” Frank nodded and began gesturing calmly, dispersing the crowd.
I thanked Nancy, who asked Jesse and Emily if they wished to press charges. They didn’t. I told the Coopers I was driving them home. They offered no arguments this time.
I saw the Coopers locked up tight at their house. Jesse assured me he had a shotgun and would use it if necessary. Emily said she would be sure to call me if they saw Marco.
I got back into my car, a ’73 Fiat 124 sport sedan, my ’63 Renault Caravelle finally having blown an unobtainable part. It was only 5:45, and Al had told me 8:30. Between testifying and Marco, my shirt was pitted out, so I drove back to my apartment, getting the first break of the day in the form of a parking space right out front. I walked up to my third floor one-bedroom and checked my telephone tape machine. Three hang-ups, no messages. I stripped and did push-ups, sit-ups, and other exercises for an hour.
I showered and had a hunk of Vienna bread and Gouda cheese to quell my growing appetite. I washed it down with the first of many screwdrivers that night. I listened to a side of Rachmaninoff with another drink. I finally pulled on a blue shirt, burgundy sweater, and gray tweed sports coat with dark gray slacks.
At 8:00 I went downstairs and drove to the Midtown Motor Inn. I circled through the packed parking area and left my car on Huntington Avenue. I walked back to the Inn and spotted a college-aged kid in an ill-fitting, uniformlike orange blazer behind the front desk.
“Good evening, sir. May I help you?”
“Yes. Could you buzz Mr. Sachs’ room and tell him Mr. Cuddy is here?”
“Certainly.” I thought the “certainly” was from a training manual and that the kid would have been more comfortable with “yeah, sure.” In any case, he flipped through a View-dex card holder and picked up the telephone, dialing four digits. He waited ten seconds, then hung up and dialed once more. He shook his head, hung up again, and came back to me.
“I’m sorry, sir, but he doesn’t answer.”
I checked my watch. It was 8:20.
“Well,” I said, “I’m a little early. Can I get a drink somewhere?”
“Certainly,” as expected and gesturing, “Our lounge is right through there. Would you like me to leave a message for Mr. Sachs to join you?”
“If I could have a piece of paper.”
“Certainly.” He slid a message pad and Bic pen to me. I wrote, “If I had to wait for you, guess where?” I decided it sounded arch, so I crumpled it and wrote, “I’m in the bar.” I folded it and gave it to the kid, who stuck it in a slot with 304 under it. I went past a bank of pay phones with swing-up directories and into the lounge.
It was dark and nearly empty. A pianist was playing gamely in a corner. A fortyish waitress in black mesh tights brought me a screwdriver. Two half-bagged jerks were hitting on a couple of secretaries with adventures centering around the wholesale hardware game in Wichita. Just as I was thinking of buying a newspaper, the barman turned the lights down another notch.
I was nearly finished with my second drink. My watch said 9:10. The secretaries had split, and the salesmen from Wichita began singing their version of “I Gotta Be Me.” The piano player looked like he wished he had been born tone-deaf. I drained my glass, paid my check, and walked back to the lobby.
The same kid was on duty. When he saw me coming, he turned to look at the message box.
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Sachs hasn’t come back.” I asked the kid to ring Al’s room again. No answer.
I went to one of the pay phones and called my home number. I took the remote unit for my telephone tape machine from my jacket pocket and waited for my taped outgoing message to start at the other end. When I heard my own voice, I beeped the device once into the speaker of the phone and heard my machine rewind and play back. No messages. I beeped again to reset the machine and hung up.
I walked back to the kid and asked if he had a newspaper I could borrow. He handed me an evening
Globe,
which I read cover to cover while seated in an overly upholstered lobby chair. At 10:15, I got up and returned it to him.
“May I have your pad again, please?”
“Certainly.”
I had been composing my message mentally for twenty minutes. “I trust your deal was big enough to justify crushing the spirit of your dearest friend.” I signed it, “Your loyal servant, J. F. Cuddy, P.O.,” for “pissed off.” I wrote “10:15 p.m.” under that, folded it, and asked the clerk to substitute it for the message in Al’s box. The clerk said he was sorry. I left the Midtown, gathered my car, drove home, and hit the sack. I didn’t bother setting the alarm.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1984 by Jeremiah F. Healy III
design by Brendan Hitt
978-1-4532-5309-0
This edition published in 2012 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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