Neon Dragon (28 page)

“Yeah? Good old Frank.”

“Yep. But not this stuff.” I pushed back the beer in disgust. “I mean a real drink. Let's take a bottle over to the table.”

The grin turned to absolute ecstasy. Life was truly good. It got even better when I said, “Frank, you like good Scotch?”

His eyes lit up like they were beholding the real Santa Claus. There was sincere enthusiasm in his voice when he said, “Yeah!”

I would probably have gotten the same reaction with bourbon, vodka, or belly-burner rum. But this was no time to turn cheap. I called the bartender and bought a bottle of Famous Grouse Scotch. I took the bottle and two glasses in one hand and Frank in the other to a table in the back corner.

Frank was salivating by the time I opened the bottle and poured the first shot. It disappeared in a flash over tonsils that must have thought they were dreaming. He laid the empty shot glass in front of me for more of the same.

I put the lid on the bottle and said, “Frank, let's talk.”

The grin disappeared as he watched the unhappy closing. It was replaced by a look of shock and dismay bordering on anger. Before this caused the end of a budding friendship, I said, “There's more where that came from, Frank. First I need some information. The faster I get it, the faster the top comes off that bottle. What do you say?”

He leaned back in the chair. I could see that the Scotch on top of the beer or beers was beginning to take hold.

“What do you want to know?”

“Let's go back to the time when you were the alibi witness for Frank Dolson. Frank was charged with burning a building in the South End. You remember that?”

He looked a little hesitant. I uncapped the bottle and poured half a shot in his glass. It was gone by the time I recapped the bottle.

“You remember that, Frank?”

He reached for the bottle. I pulled it away.

“Not yet, Frank. Time to talk. When we finish, if I get all the information I need, this bottle is yours. Agreed?”

He looked at me with deep fear of not passing the test and losing the prize.

“What do you want?”

“The truth, Frank. You only get the bottle if you tell me the truth.”

He nodded.

“You testified that Frank Dolson was with you the night he was supposed to have lit the fire. Was that true?”

His head rolled a little while he thought.

“Yeah. That was true. We were in a bar all night.”

“OK, Frank. Here's where you earn the bottle. If he was innocent, why did he confess to the burning?”

Frank put his head down in his hands on the table. I was beginning to think I'd lost him with that last half shot. I tapped his elbow with the bottle. His head came back up. It turned out he'd been thinking, not sleeping.

“Frank told me he was gonna make a bundle. Things hadn't been going so good for him. Then this came along. He was gonna get sixty thousand dollars to take the rap for an arson. He'd get maybe three years and do the time. It was like insurance for the guy that really did the job. The guy was gonna blow the whistle if he got caught.”

“That's good, Frank. But Dolson took back his confession when they found bodies, and it became a murder charge. You remember that?”

“Yeah. That's why that lawyer wanted me to testify at his trial.”

“That's right. But Frank got scared, didn't he? He threatened the ones who hired him. He said he'd blow the whistle on the whole scheme if they didn't get him out of the murder charge. Is that right?”

“Yeah. That's right. Frank told me he scared them good. They came up with another way to get him out of it.”

“And that way was?”

“Frank made them promise to fix the jury.”

Pay dirt. That was why I'd come to Revere.

“Now listen, Frank. We're on the homestretch. You're this close to that bottle. I want the truth. Did Frank's lawyer, Lex Devlin, know about the fix?”

“His lawyer?”

“That's right, Frank. Lex Devlin.”

I held my breath while he rubbed his head and massaged his brain cells. I couldn't tell if he was looking for a recollection or just the answer that would uncork the bottle.

“Frank, you only get the bottle if you tell the truth. I'll know.”

He looked at me with the most pathetic look I'd ever seen.

“I need a drink.”

“I need an answer. You go first.”

He shook his head and nearly cried.

“I don't know. Frank never said one way or the other about the lawyer.”

Frank's head was in his hands. For me, it was like I'd gotten a two-base hit when I was inches from putting the ball over the fence for a home run. I thought maybe I could stretch it to a three-bagger.

“Listen to me, Frank. Last question. Was the district attorney who prosecuted the case in on the jury fix? Did Frank say anything about that?”

Frank looked up. There was still hope.

“Yeah. Frank told me the DA was in a bind. He couldn't call the case off when it turned into murder. He had to go through with prosecuting it. But he's the one who told Frank not to worry. The jury was fixed.”

I had that great feeling of capping off a stand-up triple. I took out the pad of legal paper I had in my briefcase and wrote out in easy English the major points of what Frank Gallagher had just told me. I had him read it and sign it under a line that said he was under pain of perjury.

I came out of that bar into the brisk, fresh air off the ocean and took my first full breath since I'd entered it. To my surprise, Frank came out right behind me, clutching that vessel of amber gold. He headed down the block toward the ocean for what must have looked to him like a promising day at the beach.

WHAT I HAD IN MY HAND
at this point was a signed statement that was worth exactly its weight in scrap paper. As an offering in evidence, it arguably violated the hearsay rule, the best evidence rule, and probably twenty others. As a witness, Frank Gallagher himself could have been destroyed on cross-examination by any law student in the first week of law school. However, it felt like pure platinum in my hand. With the right bluff, it could be just the leverage necessary to tumble the next domino.

I called the office of the clerk of the Supreme Judicial Court and reached Conrad Munsey. He sounded surprised, but not hostile.

“What's up, kid?”

“You remember the conversation between you and me about a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Munsey?”

There was a tentative, “I do.”

“I could use some information.”

There was a pause. I heard his office door close, and he was back on the line.

“I hope you're not stirring up trouble nobody needs. Especially you-know-who.”

“I hope the same thing. Isn't anything better than the status quo?”

“I don't know. What do you need?”

“The name of the district attorney who tried the Dolson case. It was before my time.”

“Yeah, I guess it was. The DA of Suffolk County was a well-connected gentleman by the name of Martin Shortbridge. He tried the case himself.”

“Do you have any idea where he is now?”

“Sure. As I say, he was well connected. He went into private practice with the Dunlevy firm. They handle a lot of private banks. He found his niche. Right now he's the president of the American Fidelity Mutual Fund. What about it?”

“I need to see him.”

“Kid, you've got spunk. I hope you've got the brains to match. This is major-league wealth and power.”

“Well, you remember the old saying, Mr. Munsey. ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall.'”

“You're a piece of work, kid. Just be sure nothing falls on Lex.”

I CALLED INFORMATION
for the number of the American Fidelity Mutual Fund. It occupied a building on State Street, the top floor of which was the office of Martin Shortbridge.

After a number of transferred connections, I reached his secretary. I knew that would be the end of the line for Michael Knight. On the
other hand, as Oliver Shortbridge, nephew of the aforesaid Martin Shortbridge, calling with urgent news of the health of the latter's sister, Letitia Shortbridge, I got the word that Mr. Shortbridge was “at luncheon” at the Parker House. I wouldn't ordinarily play games with the health of any of these people; but since they were all fictitious, I took the liberty.

The maitre d' at the Parker House was kind enough to point out Mr. Shortbridge. He was, in fact, a short and portly soul. He'd been well rounded over the years, no doubt, on such dishes as the lobster thermidor that was currently before him.

He was seated with three other pin-striped suits of the same cut and price tag. Painful though it was to disturb his probably profitable repast, I had him paged.

When he arrived at the maitre d's desk, his expression was somewhere between curiosity and aggravation. He looked around, ignoring me, for someone who looked important enough to page him. I presented myself and spoke civilly.

“Mr. Shortbridge, my name is Michael Knight. Please forgive the intrusion. I need to see you on a matter that is seriously overdue. Approximately ten years.”

He looked at me and seemed to have difficulty believing what was standing in front of him interrupting his “luncheon.”

“This shouldn't take long. They'll reheat your lobster.”

The curiosity was gone. It was pure aggravation.

“I don't think so, young man.”

He signaled the maitre d' to come at once, presumably to bounce this paragon of impertinence on his posterior.

I leaned over and whispered, “Perhaps I should join you at your table. I came to discuss the Dolson case. Your friends might enjoy a good story about jury fixing.”

The blood drained from his rosy English complexion. When the maitre d' arrived, he waived him off. He took me by the arm and escorted me around the corner to a quiet spot. When we stopped, his
mouth was at my ear. I could feel a hissing stream of moisture with each word.

“Who are you? Who sent you?”

I slowly pried the grip of his fingers off of my arm. I was delighted to have his undivided attention. Now the trick was to gain control. I remembered Mr. Devlin's advice about not facing Angela Lamb on her own turf.

“My name's Michael Knight, Mr. Shortbridge. And nobody sends me. Including you.”

He lost some of the bravado, but control was still in his court on his turf.

“We have business to do, you and I. It's been a long time coming, but I assure you it's here. You know exactly what I'm talking about. In five minutes I'll be alone at a table at the McDonald's on Washington Street. If you're not there within ten minutes, I'll presume you have no interest in righting an old wrong. Then we'll see what surprises lie in store.”

I'll admit it was a touch dramatic and the phrasing was a bit stilted. I did, however, relish the symbolism of the transfer from the Parker House to McDonald's. That nuance came to me at the last minute.

The pleasure, however, was fleeting. After my exit line, I rushed to McDonald's and found an open table. I had five minutes to grow butterflies the size of armadillos.

Shortbridge had not only gained back his color, he had redness to spare when he came through the door of McDonald's, probably for the first time in his life. He found me, and I waved him to a chair. He sat. I took no small delight in the fact that he was responding to my hand signals. Then he put things back in perspective.

“Young man, I don't know who you are, but I'll find out. You will be broken in every way possible. You won't be able to shine shoes in this state. Who do you think you're dealing with?”

“‘Whom,' Mr. Shortbridge. You mean, ‘Whom do I think I'm dealing with?' Please, there are children here.”

He bolted to his feet.

“Enjoy it now, young man. It will be a very long time before you'll enjoy anything again.”

I remained seated, calm, and as quiet as Clint Eastwood.

“To answer your improperly phrased question, Mr. Shortbridge, I'm the person who can haul your larcenous, jury-fixing ass out of that tower on State Street and put it in Walpole State Prison where it belongs.”

He stopped everything, including breathing, for a moment. He made an instant check to see if anyone was within earshot and scuttled back into the chair. I slid a photocopy of the paper signed by Frank Gallagher across the table. He scanned it, and then went back over it to read every word. When he finished he threw it back across the table.

“That's what you've got? That's what you dare to threaten me with? There isn't a court in the state that would admit that in evidence. And that drunken bum, Gallagher? You think you can put his word against mine? You don't have a shred of evidence.”

He was back in control of his life when he stood up to his full five feet six inches. I retained the Clint Eastwood calm.

“You couldn't be more correct, Mr. Shortbridge.”

He was nodding vigorously and on the verge of launching into another self-redeeming threat of financial annihilation.

“On the other hand, I never intended to take it to court. I never threatened you with prosecution. That would be a crime, as you know. It does, however, have news value. Imagine the smoke and fury the news media in this small town of Boston will raise when they see this. I can think of two tabloids and at least three radio talk shows that'll be delighted to put you in center stage. You'll be wishing I had taken you to court. At least there you'd have a chance to prove your innocence. No, you're going to find yourself skewered in the forum of the media, gossip, public opinion. I wonder if an operation that calls itself the American Fidelity Mutual Fund can afford a president that everybody knows got away with jury fixing in an arson case that resulted in
homicide. Here, you keep this copy for a souvenir. I have plenty of others.”

I flipped it back to him. It landed in front of him, but he didn't see it. He was just staring at the edge of the table. No one knew better than he did how the liberal powers behind certain media would celebrate the destruction of his conservative reputation. His mind went through several seconds of deflating computation before he muttered, “What do you want?”