Loot the Moon (8 page)
Authors: Mark Arsenault
They sat in silence. The air smelled like fried food and tailpipes.
In front of them, private cars, box-style delivery trucks, and students on old bicycles jiggled over the rough combination of cobblestones and potholes on the one-way road. Street people hustled quarters from customers pouring out of Dunkin' Donuts. Businesspeople clicked spiked heels and dress shoes up the granite stairs, heading for afternoon snacks in the Arcade.
“Your father put a lot of pressure on you back there,” Billy said, once he had decided Brock had accepted his presence and would not flee from him.
“He's dead,” Brock said. He bit off a tiny chunk of cuticle and spat it away. “Which means now I have to become somebody.”
Billy considered for a moment what he had said. “You mean, it's time to become something other than Gil Harmony's kid?”
Brock looked at him. He said, “What do you really do for Mr. Smothers? You're no clerk.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“If a sixty-year-old lawyer does his own hiring, his clerks will tend to be young, hot, and stacked. You're zero-for-three.”
“Maybe his wife hired me for him.”
“Maybe you're his investigator.”
Zing.
Okay, this kid is sharp.
Of course Brock would be bright; he was descended from the genius who was everybody's favorite law professor.
Okay, this kid is sharp.
Of course Brock would be bright; he was descended from the genius who was everybody's favorite law professor.
An old man scraped along the sidewalk, painfully dragging a bad leg. He wore a long, grimy T-shirt stained with yellow circles under the armpits where his sweat had repeatedly soaked and dried. He sipped from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag.
“That guy limps worse than I do,” Brock said. “Do you ever just pick somebody out of a crowd and wonder what the hell happened to them? You know, somebody with a deformity, or in a wheelchair or on crutches? Or somebody like this dude, who obviously lives on the street. Some happy new mom, maybe seventy years ago, nursed this guy in the middle of the night. She loved him. So what the hell happened to him?”
They watched the old man cross the street toward them. He blocked a line of five cars for a full minute. When he passed near them, Brock called out, “Hey, buddyâwhatchu drinking there?”
The guy squinted at them, suspicious. His lower jaw was offset from the top, as though it had been dislocated long ago and never properly reset. The odor of piss and cigarettes surrounded the man. Billy wanted to look away.
Is there possibly a person in the world who loves this man?
He felt the lightness at the corners of his mouth that preceded that god-awful, uncontrollable, ironic, evil smile. He bit hard on his lip.
Is there possibly a person in the world who loves this man?
He felt the lightness at the corners of his mouth that preceded that god-awful, uncontrollable, ironic, evil smile. He bit hard on his lip.
“I'm not making fun of you,” Brock assured the man. He nodded to the bottle. “I want to buy a sip.”
The bum closed one eye and looked down into the bottle, then reached it toward Brock. “It's bad,” he warned in a growl.
Brock snatched it, bag and all, swirled it with gusto, and took a long tug. “Ahhh!” Then his face wrinkled. “Oh, my Christ! Peach schnapps? Nasty. How about one shot for my friend?” he asked. He handed the bottle to Billy, saying, “It's my treat. One sip won't kill ya.”
No time to argueâBilly needed this interview with Brock. He put the bottle to his lips, let the sickly sweet liquor touch his tongue, and then handed it back to its owner. “Awful,” he confirmed.
Brock pulled two fives from his pocket and gave the cash to the startled bum. “There's a liquor store on Westminster Street,” he advised. “Get yourself some better booze.”
They watched the bum shuffle off. Brock called after him, “Don't you be wasting that money on food!”
“You have an unusual philanthropic streak,” Billy said.
Brock smiled and nodded toward the man. “Did you see what he just did? He wiped the bottle with his T-shirt.”
Billy laughed. “He's cleaning
our
germs?”
our
germs?”
“There's nothing unusual about making people happy,” Brock said. “What does it matter
how
you do it, so long as you do?” He folded his hands over his chest and leaned back on his elbows. He stared at the upper floors of the bank tower across the street for a minute. Then suddenly he started a new conversation. “I used to think that the reason I'm on the planet would become obvious for me one day.”
how
you do it, so long as you do?” He folded his hands over his chest and leaned back on his elbows. He stared at the upper floors of the bank tower across the street for a minute. Then suddenly he started a new conversation. “I used to think that the reason I'm on the planet would become obvious for me one day.”
“As it did for your father?”
“Mm-hm. My father was here to serve the law. Period. You're not as dumb as I feel, Mr. Povich.”
“I don't like people in their twenties calling me Mr. Povich,” Billy said. “Why do you feel dumb?”
“Because I can't imagine why I survived that night.” His eyes scanned the streetscape, looking for answers in the windows of the downtown offices. “You heard the judge on the video. He sentenced me to be a great man, like he wasâbut I haven't a clue how to do that. I thought I'd have more time to figure it out. More time to deliberate
in his shadow, a cool and cozy place, where not much was expected of me. But now he's gone, the spotlight shines, and the time for figuring is here.”
in his shadow, a cool and cozy place, where not much was expected of me. But now he's gone, the spotlight shines, and the time for figuring is here.”
“No thought of law school?” Billy asked, to keep the conversation alive. Interviews are fires that must be stoked with questions.
“Me? Follow in
those
footsteps? Fuck no. Uncle Linc tried that. You see how well that turned out.”
those
footsteps? Fuck no. Uncle Linc tried that. You see how well that turned out.”
“Why don't your uncle and your mother get along?”
“Because she's not in love with him, and never has been.”
“Ah.”
Brock licked his lips. “I can still taste that awful schnapps,” he said. He closed his eyes. “I can still hear the shot.”
“You were asleep?”
“You must have read the police report.”
“I'd like to hear it from you,” Billy said, feeling a pang of guilt for pushing him, and then adding to sooth his conscience, “if you're up to it.”
Brock shrugged, eyes still closed. “I'm not going to cry, if that's what you're afraid of.”
“That wouldn't scare me.”
“It seemed,” Brock began, “like the bang was still echoing when I opened my eyes.” He opened them now and looked at Billy. “No confusion, no thought that this might be a dream, you know? That shot was real. A
crack
, like from a forty cal, not the chunky boom from my dad's favorite forty-four. I flung myself out of bed and listened for a few seconds. Had my dad misfired a pistol into a wall or something, he would have yelled to let me know everything was all right. As I walked toward my door, I was surprised not to hear his voice. I could hear footsteps downstairs, walking around, not quite frantic ⦠more like
urgent
. Like somebody was looking for something, maybe the cordless phone or the first-aid kit. So as I'm running down the stairs, I'm thinking he hurt himself, and I'm bracing for some horror
show in the reading room, while still assuming everything was probably fine. And that's when I ran into ⦠you know â¦
him
. Literally bumped into him at the bottom of the stairs. Don't know which of us was more shocked.”
crack
, like from a forty cal, not the chunky boom from my dad's favorite forty-four. I flung myself out of bed and listened for a few seconds. Had my dad misfired a pistol into a wall or something, he would have yelled to let me know everything was all right. As I walked toward my door, I was surprised not to hear his voice. I could hear footsteps downstairs, walking around, not quite frantic ⦠more like
urgent
. Like somebody was looking for something, maybe the cordless phone or the first-aid kit. So as I'm running down the stairs, I'm thinking he hurt himself, and I'm bracing for some horror
show in the reading room, while still assuming everything was probably fine. And that's when I ran into ⦠you know â¦
him
. Literally bumped into him at the bottom of the stairs. Don't know which of us was more shocked.”
“What did he look like?”
“Like his picture in the paper, except no goatee, and not all bruised.”
“That was Adam Rackers's old mug shot in the newspaper,” Billy said, instantly cursing himself for saying aloud a name Brock had gone out of his way not to mention. “I mean, how did he carry himself ?”
Brock searched inside for the memory for a few moments. “Outwardly calm at all times, if you can imagine,” he said. “Held the gun with a steady hand. But his voice sounded tightly wound and intense. I thought maybe he was coked up.”
“Maybe he was.”
“I just stared at him and stuttered, and not too diplomatically. My mouth had disconnected from my brain and I think I asked him what the fuck was going on down here. Something like that.”
Billy monitored Brock's face and voice for signs of stressâsigns that Billy was pushing too hard. He was a strong kid, and Billy pressed for more. “So he asked you about a wall safe?”
“Which we don't even have at the house in Charlestown,” Brock said. His face wrinkled at a memory that did not make sense. “And that's what I told him. Funny thing, he didn't accuse me of lying ⦠. I think he believed I just didn't know what I was talking about. And at this point, I realized I hadn't heard or seen my dad. I got real cold and my vision blurred and I may have started to black out. Next thing I remember, he was telling me that a wall safe would be behind a painting or a bookcase or something. He told me to lead him through the house.”
Brock shifted on the stairs, leaned forward and rested his chin on
his hands, elbows on his knees. He didn't seem in danger of tears, but his eyes were flat.
his hands, elbows on his knees. He didn't seem in danger of tears, but his eyes were flat.
A portly middle-aged guy lumbered down the sidewalk, shouting into a wireless cell phone earpiece.
“ ⦠St. Louis advised that Anchorage inside-ops would review the core competencies vis-à -vis the vendor's distribution models. I say it's a value-ad ⦔
“ ⦠St. Louis advised that Anchorage inside-ops would review the core competencies vis-à -vis the vendor's distribution models. I say it's a value-ad ⦔
Brock raised an eyebrow behind the man's back and chuckled.
Billy shrugged. “Is he speaking Norwegian?”
Then Brock asked, “Why does Mr. Smothers want you to ask me these questions? Does he think he can protect my mom's assets from Uncle Linc?”
Now, Billy was a nimble liar. How many times had the words
I'll have your money tomorrow
rolled off his lips, sounding as pure as the pope's bedtime prayer? Sometimes such a lie would free him from the steroid-inflated arms of a debt collector, without so much as having his fingers purposely slammed a few times in a car door. Billy had lied so well, his ex-wife hadn't known he was gambling again until the repo men came for the house.
I'll have your money tomorrow
rolled off his lips, sounding as pure as the pope's bedtime prayer? Sometimes such a lie would free him from the steroid-inflated arms of a debt collector, without so much as having his fingers purposely slammed a few times in a car door. Billy had lied so well, his ex-wife hadn't known he was gambling again until the repo men came for the house.
Yet, when facing the fatherless son of a juristâa father who had made a career of hacking through lies like an adventurer swinging a machete through the jungleâBilly reflexively offered the truth: “Martin Smothers doesn't think Rackers broke in to rob any wall safe. He thinks somebody paid Rackers to shoot your dad.”
The words hit Brock like a flick of cold water in the faceâa slight jerk of the head from mild shock, and then a heavy-browed scowl, more annoyed than angry. Brock leaned back on his elbows and stared straight ahead.
“A little more than two weeks before the shooting, you scared an intruder from your family's condoâwhere the judge often stayed when he was working in Providence,” Billy said. “Three days later, the police noticed Rackers hanging around your beach house in Charlestown. It looks like he was stalking the judge.”
Brock seemed unimpressed. “There's a break-in every night
somewhere
in this city. Some crack addict was probably trying to steal my CD collection.”
somewhere
in this city. Some crack addict was probably trying to steal my CD collection.”
Billy plowed forward. “Rackers was a full-time shoplifter, and a sadly ordinary burglar,” he explained, in an excited voice that pumped life into Martin's hypothesis, even though Billy did not entirely accept the theory. “Never shot anyone before.”
“That you know of.”
This kid sounds like my old man.
“Point given,” Billy said. “But there's no other violence on his record ⦠well, except a bar fight or something, umâ”
“You don't need my permission to investigate,” Brock said, cutting him off.
“But I need your memories.”
Brock rolled his eyes. “You're dramatic, Billy,” he said. “You should come to art school and sit in my drama class.”
“Oh, so you're going back to school?”
“You heard the judge.” He sounded resigned to a fate he did not choose, but had no earthly power to change.
“Yeah, the judge,” Billy said. “Is it wrong for Martin to want justice for his friend?”
Brock lobbed an imaginary football to a man jogging down the street. “My father thought Martin Smothers was foolish,” he said.
He's trying to hurt me
, Billy realized. Brock wanted to punish Billy for suggesting somebody might have gotten away with Judge Harmony's murder. The comment glanced off Billy with no damage. Martin was Billy's best friend, but, yeah, the odd little vegan was a bit foolish. Instead of amassing wealth, Martin performed a disrespected virtueâhe legitimized justice. By defending villains who inflicted their sick dreams on the community, Martin redeemed all of us who lived under the law. Criminals brutalize us; in return, we brutalize them, by ending their lives in steel cages. The difference
between what we do and what the villains do is the criminal defense lawyer.
, Billy realized. Brock wanted to punish Billy for suggesting somebody might have gotten away with Judge Harmony's murder. The comment glanced off Billy with no damage. Martin was Billy's best friend, but, yeah, the odd little vegan was a bit foolish. Instead of amassing wealth, Martin performed a disrespected virtueâhe legitimized justice. By defending villains who inflicted their sick dreams on the community, Martin redeemed all of us who lived under the law. Criminals brutalize us; in return, we brutalize them, by ending their lives in steel cages. The difference
between what we do and what the villains do is the criminal defense lawyer.
“He's a little foolish,” Billy conceded. “But he's not a fool. And you cannot look me in the eye and say your father didn't respect Martin Smothers as much as any other lawyer.”
Brock deflated a bit. “Point given,” he mumbled. He looked away, cast a lingering glance at a passing businesswoman in a tight skirt, and then offered, “If I tell you the rest, can you do this without upsetting my mom? She's wrecked on the inside. She wants me to go to law school. Wants me to disown Uncle Linc. Wants me to visit the cemetery every day, even though she hasn't gone since the funeral. And she's nagging me to visit the other guy who survived the crash.”
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