Rough Justice (22 page)

I woke up suddenly.

“What time …?”

“Ten. Just after ten.”

I nodded. I groaned as I sat up. My back was tied in a knot. My neck had turned to stone. My legs ached, my lungs ached. And where the pain couldn't find a place a settle, it just spread out, became a general throb.

I looked around. I'd been lying on the floor. The big pillows had been arranged around me as a makeshift bed. One of those fancy, handmade country quilts had been thrown over me.

Lansing was across the room. She was sitting on a window seat, her back against the wall, her knees drawn up. She had a mug of coffee balanced on her knees. She'd turned most of the lights out, but there was one small lamp on a table by her, glowing. I could see her in her blue bathrobe, her legs white, bare to the thigh.

“You ruined my clothes, John,” she whispered.

“You ruined my flesh, Angela. You can buy new clothes.”

“I'm a reporter, dearest.”

“So you can buy old clothes. What am I going to do about my body?”

“That's the question all New York is asking. You were on the radio half an hour ago.”

“My old recording of ‘Stardust'?”

“Not exactly.”

“They never get tired of the standards. Mark my word. The pendulum will swing back.”

She laughed. “You sound kind of chipper over there, old man.”

“I do that just before I die. It's a bad habit.”

But I smiled at her. I did feel fairly decent, at that. There had been a moment's peace inside her. It was good. It lingered.

I looked away. Started lifting up the pillows, searching under them.

“On the coffee table,” Lansing said.

I saw the cigarettes there, clustered around the crumpled pack, near an ashtray. I threw the quilt aside, got up, padded over to them. I was naked now, and I could feel Lansing's eyes on me. I picked a cigarette off the table, stuck it in my mouth.

“Stop looking at me like that, Lansing,” I said.

“You have the worst physique of any human being I've ever seen in my entire life.”

“I'm really just a dead body animated by the spirit of revenge.”

“Do you exercise to get like that?”

“Where are my matches?” I patted my chest. “Where are my pockets?”

“Over on the floor, by the pillows. Take the ashtray. What is that, on your shoulder?”

I returned to my pallet, ashtray in hand. “That woman. In the woods. When I was but a child your age. Hell, I've told you that story.”

“Oh yeah, the sharpened stake. Boy, it's wicked-looking, isn't it?”

“Ayuh.” I held on to my back as I settled onto the floor again. “Jesus,” I said. I found my matches, lit my cigarette, and leaned back, groaning a mouthful of smoke. “So what are they saying about me? On the radio, I mean.”

Lansing glanced out the window, sipped her coffee. “It isn't good.”

“Are they playing it big?”

“Hell, yes. It's a good story. I'd play it big, too.”

“Great. I hope we're off-the-record here.”

“Deep off, big guy.”

“So come on, what'd they say, Lansing?”

“You know, I liked it when you called me Angela.”

“Why? Is that your name?”

She laughed again.

“What a guess,” I said. “Now what the hell did they say?”

“They had a woman on.”

“Uh oh. Old woman? Mrs. Hooterman?”

“No, she wasn't old. Joanne Ryan. She said the police were firing at you. Indiscriminately, that was the word she used. Through her window, too. I mean, Jesus. Did they?”

“Oh yeah.”

“She said they almost killed her son. That you rescued him.”

“Okay. So that's good, right?”

“No, not so good. Watts had to come back with something. And he did, in spades. He made you sound like a very bad man, Mr. Wells. He said the police had reason to fear for the woman's life, for her kid … all that shit.”

“He's gotta do that. He's gotta go all the way. Either he's right about Reich, or I'm right about E.J. McMahon. If he doesn't go all the way, he's finished.”

“So it's your word against his,” said Lansing. “And his word is that you are one very dangerous desperado.”

I smoked quietly a second. Feeling the safety of the apartment around me, feeling the big, dark and dangerous city beyond. Finally, I looked over at Lansing. Watched her sitting and sipping her coffee, framed against the night. “How come you're all the way over there?” I said, “Are you, like, a lookout?”

“They'll check this place out soon, you know.”

“Well, they won't come through the garden. Come here.”

“What for?”

“Just come here,” I said.

She put the mug aside, slid down from the window seat, trying not to smile. She strolled to me slowly, lowered herself to my side. I took a few long breaths, looking her over. Then I tugged her bathrobe open. I laid my hand on her waist. I leaned toward her, kissed her. She pressed to me, too, our tongues together.

When she pulled back, she studied me. “Uh oh,” she said. “You're getting that look.”

“What look?”

“That look you get. Like: What've I done, she's just a child. Like it's wrong, like you're sorry. I hate that look.”

“I can't help it. You need a man with a bright future—or just with a future.”

She stroked my face. “Don't say that, okay?”

“Why not?”

“'Cause I happen to be scared out of my wits.”

“How come? Morgenstern's not your lawyer.”

Her eyes brightened slightly. “Does that mean you'll turn yourself in?”

“I don't know.” I took her hand. I played with the fingers. “I didn't mean to do this to you.”

“Oh, it felt like you did.”

“Not that, dimwit. To come here. To make you an accessory. I didn't mean to do that. I didn't know where else to go.”

“I'm glad,” she said. “I'm glad this is where you came.”

I shook my head. “Damn it. I just keep thinking: If Mikki Snow were still alive. You know? If I could talk to her. Maybe then I'd stand a chance.”

Lansing looked at me. Brushed my hair back with her free hand. I chewed on her fingertip thoughtfully.

“John,” she whispered.

“If there was ever a connection between Thad Reich and me, she must've been the one who …” I stopped.

“What?”

I turned Lansing's hand over in my own. “Maybe that's the whole thing.”

“What thing?”

“I mean, maybe that was the connection.”

“Wells. What connection?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure. It's the timing of it that's off. She went to see Baumgarten … And then when I ask him about it, Herd shows up …”

“John, this is driving me crazy—would you tell me what you're talking about?”

“And those books,” I said.

I let Lansing go. I sat up, away from her. I jabbed my cigarette out in the tray.

“Damn it, what?” she said.

“I need your car.”

“Oh no.”

I got up, groped for my clothes.

“Absolutely not, John.”

I pulled on my underwear, my pants. I reached for my shirt.

“Damn it, John!”

“I'm taking your car, kid.”

“Then I'm coming with you.”

“No, you're not.”

She jumped to her feet, belting her robe furiously. “Yes, I am.”

“This isn't a discussion.” I pulled on my shirt. Worked the buttons. “There are cops after me. They have guns.”

“They won't shoot me.”

“Right. 'Cause you'll be here.”

“I am coming with you, Wells.”

“Lansing, if I have to knock you out, so help me I will.”

“Oh, you will not.”

“Well, maybe not, but the thought is there. Gimme the keys.”

“Oh!” Her face flushed. She stomped away from me, two steps. Then she spun back. “Goddamn it. Are you always this infuriating?”

“Uh …”

She folded her arms beneath her breasts. Her eyes filled. I was on the floor again, pulling on my socks, my shoes. I stood up.

“Where are the keys?” She glared at me. “Where are the keys, Lansing?”

“In my purse, on the door.”

I went to the door. Rummaged through the purse. “Seems like I just did this. Last time, the woman had tried to stab me to death.”

“Yeah, well, the night's young, pal.” She did not sound like she was kidding.

I had the keys. I was pulling my jacket on now. Lansing watched me, her lips set.

“If you expect me to stand at the door and breathlessly tell you to be careful, forget it.”

I went to the door. “I'll be back, Lansing.”

She came after me. I took hold of her, pressed her against me.

“I'm going into the office,” she said. “I'm going to monitor the scanner. I'm going to get on the phone with Gottlieb, with anyone who'll talk to me, anyone I can. I'll keep track of them—and if you need help, if you need to know where they are, what they're up to …”

“I'll call in.”

“Call in,” she said.

“I will.”

“Wells …” She looked up at me.

I kissed her. We kissed for a long time. When we broke apart, I held her and gazed at her face again, trying to take it all in, trying to hold on to it. “Thanks, Lansing.”

“That's not what I want to hear, Wells.”

“I'll be back,” I said again.

And I left her.

25

Lansing had her little hatchback parked on the street half a block away. I hurried to it, over the tree-lined sidewalk. I huddled behind my collar as I walked, but only a young couple passed, and they took no notice of me.

I slipped into the car—a red Honda Accord. It felt good—it felt safe—to close the door, to start it up, to start moving. To get away.

I headed for West Street, nice and easy, obeying the traffic laws like a saint. Soon, I was on the highway. Speeding up, the soft wind at the window. Heading north beside the Hudson, the Jersey lights beaming over the water to my left. When I crossed the Harlem River, the relief burst over me. To be traveling on the dark, swift roads. To be off the island of Manhattan. It felt very, very good.

I didn't remember Baumgarten's address, the home address Ray had given me. But I remembered the street name in the town of Bedford. I thought that would be enough. I headed there.

It was about 11:30 when I cruised into the quaint town square. Main Street was dead. The restored white clapboard shops on it stared with black windows across the sward of grass that was once the common. On a little hill rising from the common's other side, antique graves slanted this way and that, pale white beneath the black and swaying trees.

I rolled past this, around a bend in the road. Under the shadow of a high rock. A few dozen more yards and a small intersection appeared to my left. It was almost hidden by shrubbery. Mountain Road. That was the name of it. A gravel path rising steeply, up toward the top of the rock. I turned the Honda onto it. I bounded over the gravel, straining at the climb.

I was almost at the summit when I saw Baumgarten's name on a mailbox at the side of the road. I turned into a rocky dirt driveway flanked by hedges. I came through them into a wide, open yard. It was big, more than an acre, the big sky with its half-moon bright above it. There were shadows of trees—oaks and willows—against the sky. And the shadow of a house, a big hulking house with two fresh wings and several dormers in the peaked roof. There was a light on in one of the dormer windows. The house lights—the outside lights—were off.

I killed my own headlights. Rolled up the driveway slowly. There was a Lincoln parked outside the garage. I pulled in behind it. When I stopped the engine, I could hear the quiet all around me. Then, in the quiet, I could hear crickets and cicadas, birds and frogs chattering in the trees and the grass.

I stepped out of the car. The nervousness—the fear—worked in my stomach like a slow, steady machine. That moment of peace—that moment of Lansing: even the last of it had drifted away.

I walked up the front path to the door, a door with a curtained window. I rang the bell. Heard the old-fashioned ding-dong. I stood and waited, rubbing my hands together.

I rang again. There was a second's pause, then a light flashed on behind the door's window. After another second, a porch light on the wall above my head flashed on too. The window curtains parted. Howard Baumgarten's eagle face peered out at me and frowned.

The knob turned hard. He yanked the door open. His bald head rippled down over his deep eyes. His big body blocked the entrance.

“What do you want?”

“It's a money laundry, isn't it? Cooper House. You pass your kickbacks through it as donations. That's why the feds couldn't get you. They couldn't find the cash.”