No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) (6 page)

Michael stopped walking as he listened, knowing that this was the right thing to do.

He waited as the tone sounded.

“
It’s me,” he said. “I’m in New York. ... Long story.” Michael looked up and down the street, seeing if there was anyone watching or listening. “I’d like to come by and see you. I hope that’s all right.”

Michael pressed a button, and the cell phone’s screen went black. He put the cell phone back in his briefcase, and then walked another four blocks to General K’s Haberdashery.

###

A small bell above the door rang as Michael entered, and General K appeared, bounding from the back before the door had closed.

“
Hello, Hello, Hello.” General K emitted a high girlish squeal. “You need to look proper. I see that you do.” General K grinned, clapped his hands three times, and then squeezed between a glass case filled with cufflinks and gold watches, some real and some fake, and a rack of Hugo Boss knock-offs.

“
Now, what can General K do for you?” Referring to himself in the third person.

“
I need the makeover,” Michael said, “but it has to be quick. I have a court appearance scheduled for this afternoon.”

“
So quick like bunny,” General K said. “That I can do. Custom hand-made suit I cannot do in such short time.” General K pretended to wipe a tear from his eye, then his smile was back. “But I make you look like man in catalog anyway.”

“
As long as I look the part.”

The “part” was that of an attorney. And in a country that was supposed to be comprised of rugged individualists, its people kept pretty close to the script.

The costume attorneys were expected to wear consisted of a dark suit, striped conservative tie, white shirt, and polished wing-tip shoes.  A male attorney had hair cropped short with no beard or mustache. Juries didn’t trust men who had facial hair, it was said, because they seemed to be hiding something.

Female attorneys, if they were to be taken seriously, had similar dress requirements and were further required to have no sex appeal whatsoever: Boobs were to be strapped down and otherwise hidden at all times, hair should be pulled back and skirts were to come past the knee. That was how it was.

There were always people
who strayed from the script of course, but they were not accepted at the hallowed offices of Wabash, Kramer & Moore or at any other large law firm. When a client paid between $300 and $1,000 an hour for the best legal advice he or she can afford, the Mickey Mouse ties and faded jeans stayed in the closet. The client paid for the sizzle as much as the steak.

Within five minutes, General K had marshaled seven suits to be hemmed and fitted. Six would be delivered later in the day by messenger to Wabash, Kramer & Moore. The seventh would be worn, which one of the seven didn’t matter. Although they were all different shades of dark blue or black and maybe even contained a subtle pinstripe, from four feet away they appeared identical. That was what made them perfect.

Michael stood on a small wooden block in front of a mirror as General K measured his inseam, waist, neck and arms.

“
Okay, Okay, I do these suits here.” He took a pencil out from behind his ear and scribbled down the measurements in a small pocket notebook. “You go across the street, get haircut, come back, and we done.”

Michael looked at the suits and nodded.

“
Thanks for doing this.” Then Michael turned and left the shop as anxiety and anticipation for the afternoon started to build. Lists, sub-lists, and sub-sub-lists scrolled through his head.

A few steps from the curb, he heard a familiar voice.

“
Michael Collins, funny bumping into you here.”

Michael turned and saw Agent Frank Vatch looking up from his wheelchair. The previous night’s sneer had not gone away.

“
I’m busy, Francis. I don’t have time to chat.”

Michael stepped off the curb and continued across the street to YiYu Hair Salon. Vatch wheeled off the curb, nearly tipping over, and followed behind him.

“
Whoa there, don’t you want to catch up on old times? Here you are back in the old neighborhood.” Vatch continued to give chase. “Had an apartment over here during the law school days, correct?”

“
I have an appointment to keep.”

“
Appointment? So busy upon your return, but your cutie girlfriend’s arraignment isn’t until this afternoon from my understanding.”

Vatch’s dark brown eyes, turned a shade darker. It took everything in Michael’s power to keep himself from turning and punching Vatch in the face.

“
Why don’t we have a cup of coffee and talk?”

“
There’s nothing to talk about,” Michael said.

“
The agency seems to think otherwise.”

“
The agency doesn’t think.” Michael stopped in front of the door to the salon. “If you don’t quit this, I’ll sue you and the bureau for harassment. You’ve got nothing.”

“
Threats will get you nowhere, Collins, but honey will set you free.” Vatch tilted his head to the side. His sharp tongue emerged out of the slit, and then just as quickly flicked and went back inside. “Or, in your case, maybe not.”

Vatch laughed, and then opened his wallet, removed one of his cards embossed with the logo of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He held it out to Michael. “Here’s my number for when you want to talk.”

“
Save it.”

“
You’re in trouble, Collins, and I think you know it.” Vatch shook his head and smiled. “But it’s going to be amazing when I arrest you. I really can’t wait for that day.”

“
That’ll be awhile, Francis.” Michael turned away from Vatch and opened the door to the salon. As he walked inside, Vatch took his jab.

“
Be careful, Mr. Collins, I’ve heard that hotel has had a rash of late-night burglaries and such.” Vatch began wheeling away. “Some have even turned violent.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The trip to Brooklyn took about thirty minutes. After a transfer from the Orange line to the Green Crosstown Local, a voice announced the Myrtle-Willoughby station over the scratchy P.A.

Michael stood as the bell rang and the subway train jerked, screeching to a stop.

He walked out onto the platform, and then looked behind him. About a dozen others had also gotten off. None of them seemed familiar.

Michael stopped at the newsstand. He picked up a copy of the Post and threw some change in a tin can. The attendant grumbled.

As he walked, Michael glanced at the headlines. He had about a six-block walk to Saint Thomas the Compassionate Church near Tompkins Park. About halfway there, the sky started spitting ice so he slipped the newspaper under his jacket and walked a little faster.

It was the same walk he had made nearly every day after moving from Boston to New York. Sometimes it had been for a baseball or a football game with the other boys, but most often it had been to visit Father Stiles in the rectory.

Michael had never been turned away. Sometimes they would talk, but mostly Father Stiles had worked on his
sermon while Michael had worked his way through every book in Father Stiles’ collection of Catholic philosophers and thinkers ― Aquinas, Kreeft, and Copleston.

He knew that Father Stiles had been disappointed when he had chosen to pursue law instead of the
priesthood. He tried not to think about how much deeper Father Stiles’ disappointment now ran.

###

Aqua light streamed through the Rose Window on the far end of the church. It filled the space with cuts of brilliant light. The window was titled, “Formless Creation,” and was comprised of various shards of mysterious blue glass, some big and some small, radiating from a cluster of five hundred diamonds at its core. Each shard turned brighter and deeper, moving toward the outer petals. Underneath, a verse from the Book of Genesis:

And The Earth Was Without Form and Void and Darkness Was Upon The Face of the Deep … and God said, “Let There Be Light.”

As he walked in front of the altar, Michael’s hand moved up and down, and then across his chest in the sign of the cross. The gesture surprised him. Maybe it was a habit or done out of respect, but there it was without command. Automatic.

He turned the corner and stood at the base of a long, winding set of stone steps. Michael caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror – new suit, tie, hair cropped short – and paused. Shame and guilt roiled through his body.

Michael then took one step, hesitated, and then took another.

Eventually, he was at the top of the stairs, standing in front of a large wooden door leading to Father Stiles’ personal office and library, which filled the upper floor of the rectory, an add-on to the backside of the church.

The door’s heavy, iron knocker swung down.

“
Come in.”

Michael opened the door and stepped inside. The cluttered and cramped office had a distinct smell of vanilla candles, musty books, and microwave pepperoni Pizza Rolls (Father Stiles’ favorite meal). The smell brought back a wave of memories. The hours spent in this room, thinking about himself and his mother, trying to come to terms with the fact that he didn’t really care that she was dead. He was more angry than sad, and when he wasn’t angry, he was hollow, driven to be somebody else.

Half-rimmed glasses perched near the end of Father Stiles' nose. “Michael.” He closed a book. “Got your message.” His tone was indifferent.

“
Sorry.” Michael didn’t know why he said it, although there was plenty to apologize about. He walked toward Father Stiles, passing several full-size mannequins displaying Elvis Presley outfits from The King's later Vegas years.

“
Still singing?” Michael looked at a white sequined jumpsuit covered in rhinestones.

“
The kids love it. A chance to laugh.” Father Stiles glanced at the same jumpsuit that Michael was looking at. “Not much to laugh about in the church these days, so it’s something.”

Michael walked over to the desk, and then picked a stack of papers off of the chair, placed them on the floor, and sat down next to the desk. He waited for Father Stiles to speak, but Father Stiles did not. Nothing was going to be easy.

“
I’m sorry I disappeared on you,” Michael said. “You deserved better than that.”

Father Stiles tilted his head to the side, opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again.

“
I assume you’ve gotten the checks.” A clumsy remark.

Father Stiles nodded his head. His eyes remained focused on the floor, then softly said, “Generous.”

“
I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

“
God doesn’t choose who is or is not forgiven. Everyone is forgiven, so sayeth the Lord.”

Michael nodded, and
then there was
silence
between them
as his eyes took in every corner of the room.

“
Do you hear anything?” Michael asked.

Father Stiles, a/k/a Father Elvis, wasn’t just a priest. He was the most connected man in the city. Politicians, crooks, players, businessmen, everybody knew and talked to Father Stiles. If there was something, Father Stiles would have heard.

“
I think you know the answer to that question.” Father Stiles leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been concerned about you.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Setting aside the disappearance and hurt I felt personally, I was concerned. Not sure what had happened to you.”

“
I ran.”

Father Stiles let out a small laugh, picked up his mug of coffee and took a sip. “Figured that much out.”

“
I have a friend in trouble,” Michael said. “I’m going to represent her.”

Father Stiles nodded. He knew that already.

“
It’s a big case.” Father Stiles turned toward Michael, shifting in his seat. “Been in the news when it happened and now with you it’ll get complicated. It’ll be in the news some more.”

“
I know.”

“
A risk,” Father Stiles said. “Taking a risk for someone else is new.” He took a sip of coffee. “Progress.”

“
I love her.”

“
Good,” Father Stiles said.

“
She didn’t do it.”

“
You believe that?”

“
I do.”

They sat in silence for a minute, but it felt longer.

Michael looked at his watch.

“
I don’t want to keep you, but I’d like to see you again.”

Father Stiles looked at him. His eyes managed to capture what little light there was in the room and sparkle.