Neon Dragon (20 page)

That settled for me the question of whether or not the jury had been fixed. It left hanging the big one—who was the fixer?

IT WAS ABOUT THREE THIRTY
when I made a cell-phone call to Julie from the bank. I thought I'd save a trip back to the office if there was nothing pressing.

Julie told me that Gene Martino had called about three. He wanted me to get back to him around four thirty. That meant he was on trial, probably in Suffolk Superior Court. He'd be back in his office by that time, after court adjourned at four o'clock. Any other county court would have taken him until closer to five.

I asked Julie if he mentioned which courtroom. He hadn't, but he mentioned suffering the slings and arrows of the outrageous Judge Mandoski. I decided to fly direct to the courthouse to catch Gene in person in case there was something he'd rather whisper in my ear than in a phone.

I was more than familiar with the Right Honorable Judge Mandoski. Before the Suffolk Superior Court took up residence in the federal court building, His Honor was the ruling titan of the equity session held in the east wing of the
olde
Suffolk County Courthouse. I believe the first case pleaded in that courtroom was pleaded by Cicero personally—quite possibly before Judge Mandoski. He was a crusty old tyrant, who peered through glasses that looked like thermopane. He had an acerbic wit that could strip an argument down to its naked essence and leave counsel bleeding from lashes to the ego. I could show the scars.

Gene was wrapping up a plea for a preliminary injunction. His argument was pockmarked with craters created by scud missiles hurled from the bench. Defense counsel would have enjoyed the bombardment but for the realization that as soon as she rose to defend, the missile launcher would be turned in her direction.

At four o'clock precisely—and typical of the old boy—out of the clear blue, without a prior hint of which side was ahead on points, Mandoski, J., awarded the decision to Gene.

I caught Gene at counsel table, somewhat stunned but just beginning to realize that he'd won.

“Congratulations, Gene.”

“Mike. You got my message. What, were you in the courthouse?”

“Close enough. Hey, you had the old boy eating out of your hand.”

“Actually he was eating my hand. Let's get the hell out of here before he comes back for dessert.”

We found a spot at the end of the corridor that leads to the world beyond the realm of Mandoski.

“What have you got for me, Gene?”

His voice came down to a lawyer's whisper.

“This is the damndest thing, Mike. You wanted the names of the limited partners behind that apartment house in the South End. I sent interrogatories to the general partner, Robert Loring. He refused to answer. OK, I figure I'll get him at the deposition. So, he refuses to answer the question at the deposition. I take him to court on a motion to compel him to answer. It's a mail-in motion. I've got a right to the information. Get this. The judge denies the motion.”

“On what grounds?”

“No grounds. He just writes ‘Denied' and scribbles his initials on the motion and calls the next case. I say, ‘I beg your pardon, Your Honor.' He says, ‘You're out of order, Mr. Martino. I've called the next case.' This is crazy, Mikey. They're guarding the names of these limited partners like the recipe for Coke.”

“So it would seem. Who was the judge?”

“Judge Montark. You know him?”

“I've been before him a couple of times. Very low-key. He's always seemed straight.”

“He did to me, too, until this. I'm sorry I don't have anything for you, Mike.”

“Thanks for trying, Gene. Actually, it helps. I owe you one.”

It did help. It told me that the usual channels of court procedure were, for some reason, closed. If I was going to get the information, it would have to be through less orthodox methods.

IT WAS WEDNESDAY EVENING
about seven-thirty. I'd told Lanny Wells I'd pick her up for our first official date at eight o'clock, which was rapidly approaching. I'd fumbled through two shirts and four ties before coming up with the perfect combination. Then I threw the tie out altogether.

It was not in the least calming to realize that my current state of advanced jitters was my own fault. I'd spent what seemed like decades squeezing eight days into every week just to keep even with my self-imposed demands. The last thing on my weekly list, and the one that always got pushed off the list, was the kind of boy-girl mixing that keeps most people's lives in balance.

The last serious date I could remember was with Emily Snipes. I'm not demeaning it. She was the cutest girl in kindergarten. It went nowhere, however. The ardor had cooled by first grade.

The clear result of an imbalanced social life was a case of nerves
that for some reason beat my usual pretrial shakes. I was well beyond the age of acne panic, but I had so many razor cuts that I looked like I'd tried to kiss a pissed-off alley cat.

With the full and certain conviction that I would probably find a way to mess things up, I put the tie back on, took it off, and drove to Lanny's apartment house on Commonwealth Avenue around Clarendon.

Without having much to measure it by, I had the feeling that Lanny and I had probably come as close to developing a feeling for each other, at least from my perspective, as two people can in casual meetings over a piano at Daddy's.

I hit the button for apartment 603 at about eight, give or take four seconds. The warring hoard of butterflies in my stomach could have defoliated an apple orchard.

Then the door opened, and Lanny beamed a smile that blew everything out of my consciousness except the incredible thought that this angel had chosen to spend the evening with just me. The butterflies scattered. I burst into a grin that just seemed to bubble out of everything within me.

She gave me a little kiss on the cheek as I took her hand. I tried to remember the exact date—because I didn't ever want to forget it.

She wore a deep-blue dress with some kind of glitter around the shoulders. It was the first time I'd seen her hair up, which to my untrained eye added a sweet sophistication to natural beauty. When we came together, her three-inch spike heels brought her just under my cheekbone.

I held her hand on the way down the steps, and I was still holding it while I opened the passenger door of my blue Corvette—my one excess in life. When she held my hand a little longer than necessary, I realized that the primary love of my life had been replaced. I apologized to my Corvette.

For some reason, God chose to remove the clouds and sweep the sky with stars. A new moon stayed ahead of us on the drive up the coast along the North Shore, above Boston. I realized by the time we
passed through the chain of seacoast towns from Marblehead and Salem to Beverly and Beverly Farms that never had a stomachful of butterflies raised a ruckus more needlessly. We fell into conversation and laughs and the comfort of each other's company as if all this had been waiting to happen.

We arrived in Manchester-by-the-Sea a little before nine. There was a little time to watch the waves spread white foam across Singing Beach before dinner. I mentioned that it got its name from the sound that particular sand makes when you walk on it in bare feet. We agreed to test it next summer.

Danny had held our reservations at the Circolo. We were a little late, but he welcomed us, as he did everyone, as if our presence had made his entire evening. He had a table by the fireplace for us, and insisted on choosing the wine himself.

I discovered through dinner that among the many loves we had in common, excellent food was high on the list. Calories and cholesterol played no part in our selections, guided by Danny's intuitive suggestions, and every inspired opus of his chef brought unabashed smiles and raves from us both.

To improve on perfection, a pianist close by was giving the most tender, loving treatment to some of Jerome Kern's and Cole Porter's gifts to humanity. Before the final coffee, he smiled at us and nodded toward the small dance floor. There was no one there, but the lights were dim, and we had never danced together—until then.

It was midnight when he played “The Way You Look Tonight.” I think I was born knowing those beautiful Dorothy Fields lyrics, but I asked Lanny how it went. She sang it to me in a whisper. When she sang those moving lyrics, I could scarcely breathe. We danced the last chorus in a kiss.

IT WAS NEARLY ONE
when we bundled up and left the warmth of the fireplace. The main street of Manchester was vacant except for my
trusty Corvette, waiting about fifty feet from the door. A light powdering of snow had brought back an almost Christmas softness.

I clicked open the doors of the car and let Lanny slide into the passenger seat. Just before I closed the door, she got that look that says “I forgot my …” In this case it was her sweater over the back of one of the chairs at the table. I said, “Stay there. I'll get it.”

I handed her the keys before heading back to the restaurant. I said, “Here, Lanny. You start the car and get the heater going. It's that button in the center.”

I was about to go into the restaurant when I heard her call. I turned around and she was leaning out of the passenger door to ask, “Which button?”

I had to laugh. It was a fair question since the dashboard looks like the cockpit of a 757.

I yelled, “Right in the center.”

She turned back to look at it. I could see a smile of recognition when she must have read the label. She waved out the open door to me as she turned the starter key.

I can't really describe any of the emotions after that. What I felt was mainly numbness. I can barely describe the facts. There was an explosion. The car seemed to come apart. I could see Lanny's body hurled out onto the sidewalk.

I ran as fast as lead legs could get me there. Her body was twisted and her limbs were at odd angles. She was unconscious. There was a pool of blood spreading from where her head lay on the sidewalk.

I dropped down beside her somewhere between panic and shock. I tried to hold her head, but I had no idea what not to move. Danny ran out of the restaurant.

I yelled to him, “911!” He ran back inside.

It was about four or five minutes before we were surrounded by white vehicles with rotating lights. Someone lifted me out of the way, and three men in green overalls and coats went to work on her. I was totally useless except to pray harder than I ever had in my life.

When they had Lanny in the ambulance, I jumped in without asking. They understood. We made record time to whatever the nearest hospital was. The only thing I can remember is seeing a monitor with wires running to Lanny's chest. I think I took my first breath when I saw the sawtooth squiggles running across the green screen. It got my hope machine going.

They wheeled Lanny into a room in the emergency section and three doctors went to work. One of them came out in about twenty minutes. He asked if I was a relative. It was no time to tiptoe around privacy laws. I said, “Yes.”

He said she had a broken leg, and possible broken ribs. That plus the cleanup they could handle. She also had a concussion and possible cranial fracture. For that they wanted to get her to Mass. General as soon as possible.

I rode with her on the full-throttle race to the emergency entrance of Mass. General. This time the wait was until about four in the morning, when I saw her being wheeled out of surgery with bandaging around her head. I stopped one of the doctors and caught hold of my heart.

“How is she, Doctor?”

“Are you …?”

“Yes. How is she?”

“We don't know yet. She has a hairline cranial fracture. Concussion. She's still unconscious. The next twenty-four hours are the important ones. The sooner she regains consciousness the better. We can let you know.”

“Actually, I'll let you know. I'll stay with her.”

He thought for a second. “That'll be all right. What relation did …?”

“There's another complication, Doctor. Her injuries were caused by a car bomb. She's going to need security. What room will she be in?”

“She'll be in the Phillips wing, room 504. I can notify the police.”

“Thanks, Doctor. I can do better than that. I'll take care of it.”

I CALLED TOM BURNS'S
private number. Fortunately he can come out of a sound sleep ready to listen. I explained what had happened. He said he'd have a good man at the room in twenty minutes. I told him this was connected with the Bradley case so he could start the meter running. He said he was more concerned about something else.

“What's that, Tom?”

“You. You were the target, not the girl. How about if I put a man on you, too?”

“No, just her, Tom. It'd just get in the way. I'll be careful. I've had the wake-up call.”

I SPENT THE REST
of the night and well into the morning beside her, holding her hand and talking to her. The nurses came and went, and I felt like an idiot, but I heard somewhere that the talking might do some good. I thought there might be something inside that was listening and wanted to come back to my voice.

Around ten o'clock I went out into the corridor and used my cell phone to call Mr. Devlin. I was relieved to see a tall man in nonmedical clothing sitting in the corridor with a good view of Lanny's door. He had the indefinable but unmistakable stamp of private security about him. I knew Tom Burns had come through.

I relayed what had happened to Mr. Devlin. He was grim and grouchy, but there was no mistaking the tone of deep concern.

“What do the doctors say?”

“They say it's important that she wake up. So far she hasn't. I'm staying here with her at the hospital.”

“You do that. And call me as soon as there's a change.”

“Thank you, Mr. Devlin. I will.”