The Four-Night Run (33 page)

53

J
OEY
T
ORRESDALE

“Have you ever wanted to reinvent yourself, J.D.? Have you ever considered the joy of becoming something completely new? Take your experiences, your learning, your view of the world, your joie de vivre, take everything you care about, everything that makes you J.D. Scrbacek, yet leave behind that useless encrusted matter that traps you within other’s expectations. Your race, your profession, your class. I walk the streets, and mothers pull their children away. I open a club, and it is immediately a mob club. I give away turkeys to the poor on Christmas Day, and I’m laughed at as a hood trying to burnish his image. And they’re right. That’s why I give away turkeys on Christmas Day. What do you think, I care?”

Scrbacek leaned on the table, before him an untouched wineglass filled with a liquid the color of blood. He was watching a woman on the stage do things to the pole that he had never before imagined but that he never again would forget. How did she get that one leg behind her head? he wondered. Joey Torresdale, beside him, was talking about something or other, trying to get whatever was aching him off his narrow chest, but Scrbacek was too tired and too afraid to listen very carefully. He was beginning to think coming here was a mistake.

“When I was growing up, there wasn’t any choice,” continued Torresdale. “You either slaved in some factory or became a hood, working for the Puchesi family. I could never waste my life in a factory, J.D. Look at me. I’m not the type. I need more snap and jive, I need more excitement and adventure. I would have joined the marines, but I was too small, so I joined the mob. I was young, angry, I became a hood, and now I don’t want to be one anymore.”

“Has Caleb recovered yet?” said Scrbacek, his gaze skittering around the club. “I need to talk to Caleb.”

“Are you listening, J.D.? I’m pouring out my heart to you, not to mention the house’s finest wine, and I don’t even think you’re listening.”

“It’s been a long night, Joey, and already I’ve heard enough speeches and monologues, enough solipsistic self-satisfied confessions, including my own, enough bullshit to make me want to puke right here on this table. Right here. On this table. The one thing I always admired about you was that you gave so little of yourself. Joseph Torresdale, man of mystery. Do I really need to listen to your confession too?”

“Yes, you do.”

“I guess it’s my night to be disillusioned about everything.” Dramatic sigh. “All right, go on, make me more nauseous than I already am. Tell me how you want to reinvent yourself.”

“That’s it. Exactly. And how does one do that? Reinvent himself. Is it enough just to run away, change your name, steal some dead slob’s social security number, and start over? That’s a way, yes, but so unsatisfying, don’t you think? Working as a short-order chef to make the weekly rent on your motel room. I deserve better than that, J.D. And you do, too. So how do we go about it? Tell me. How?”

“You turn Crapstown into a parking lot,” said Scrbacek, still scouring the club with his gaze. “Where is he? Caleb, I mean. Maybe I could go to wherever he’s resting and talk to him there?”

“I would think reinvention of the self would be foremost on your mind these days, J.D. Who needs a new identity more than you? What with some mysterious force out to slit your throat. And even if you survive the assassin’s knife, the county prosecutor is ready to indict you for murder. But don’t worry, they love lawyers in jail. You’ll be writing habeas petitions for every two-bit con in your block, at least those nights when you’re not on a date.”

“I like being busy.”

“But you could be someone else, J.D. Someone anonymous, someone rich enough to be left alone.”

“I’ll stay just who I am.”

“Whatever the cost?”

“Are you offering something, Joey? Is that what this is all about? All right, let’s cut to the chase. What’s the deal?”

“We’ll give you a piece, J.D. We’ll give you enough to change your life. I know what your life is like now: alone, lonely, hunted, no one to love and no one to love you.”

“Old data.”

“You can start anew or return to the old, whatever you choose. It’s your opportunity, J.D. I can even arrange to fake your death, to make you completely free to reinvent yourself as anyone you want, live anywhere you want, experience any adventure you want.”

“And how do I earn my new life?”

“Tell me who you told.”

“So that’s what you want, more names for Bozant’s list.”

Joey’s eyes narrowed above his putty nose. “Who did you tell?”

“The whole of the Furies.”

Joey’s eyes widened with surprise.

“I told them everything. They dragged me into some cavern deep within the bowels of the city and put a spotlight on me. I started with a few jokes, did some soft-shoe, recommended the veal, and then I told them everything. They were pretty angry. They seemed to take it more violently than I expected. Last I heard they were getting up a mob to tear down this place and rip your careful plan to shreds. You know, the old rush the ramparts, storm the Bastille, burn down the feudal lord’s manor in order to free the serfs. They seemed particularly angry at you. Was it something I said, you think? And I also told a sharp lawyer who tomorrow, right after she delivers the complaint to the press, is filing a racketeering suit against Diamond and DeLoatch and Galloway and someone else . . .” Dramatic finger snapping. “Oh yeah, you. So you see, Joey, you’re not going to reinvent yourself after all. Once a hood, always a hood. I’ll be sure to send you a Christmas turkey in jail.”

“Pity.”

“All that scheming for naught.”

“No, not that. We’re too strong to lose.” Torresdale reached his hand beneath the table. “It’s a pity, because, believe it or not, J.D., I actually liked you.”

Immediately the table was surrounded by three men: one of them was Dirk; two others were large with cable-knit sweaters and toughed-up expressions, designed to let Scrbacek know just how hard they thought they were.

“What’s with all the cable-knit sweaters and berets?” said Scrbacek. “Everyone looks like a beat poet on steroids.”

“My design,” said Torresdale. “A little more bohemian than the usual trench coat, don’t you think? Even in my business it helps to have a sense of style.”

“I came here to speak to Caleb,” Scrbacek said in a slow, careful voice, enunciating each syllable. “He will be very unhappy if he doesn’t get to speak to me.”

“Frankly, J.D., I don’t give a shit. I think you know Stephanie.”

Two of the men stepped away, and behind, in her suit jacket and sturdy shoes, her lips pursed in perturbation, stood Stephanie Dyer. Coming here was a bad mistake, thought Scrbacek upon seeing her angry pocked face, a very bad mistake. What had he been thinking? He had come to talk to Caleb, and now it looked like he would be dead before Breest knew he had come at all. A very, very bad mistake. He tried to calm his nerves and sound hard by saying, “Look what the tide flushed in,” but he failed on both counts.

“You and I, we’ve got ourselves a date, Scrbacek,” said Dyer. “You and I, we’re going dancing.”

“You killed my dog.”

“We’re going to dance slow, and hard. I’m going to slap you bloody, and I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.”

“It’s not bad enough that you sold your soul for a small piece of change from the turkey man here, but then you went and killed my dog. You’ll pay for that. But just now I came to speak to Caleb. He’ll be very—”

Scrbacek didn’t finish his sentence because Dyer stepped forward and punched him in the face, splitting a gash in his cheek just below his left eye and sending him sprawling on the floor. He was enveloped in pain. His arm, his ankle, his cheek, every part of him screamed silently. He rolled over to face his attacker.

“What were you before you became a law enforcement agent?” he gasped. “A gym teacher?”

Dyer kicked him in the side. Scrbacek’s ribs dented with pain, he writhed on the floor like a beached fish. Dyer leaned over his twisting body. “Yes, actually.”

“Pick him up,” said Joey, pouring himself another glass of wine, sniffing its scent, holding it to the light.

The two beefy men grabbed Scrbacek from the floor, each taking hold of an arm, raising him to his tiptoes. The salt of his own blood dripped into Scrbacek’s mouth. His ribs felt smashed to pieces. He looked groggily around the room, wondering when someone was going to come and stop this. A few faces stared at the scene before turning away. The others were too enraptured by the entertainment. The men who were holding him pulled his arms behind him. The blues band blew louder, the girl on the stage did a split, hands beneath her breasts, lifting them high, and the crowd went wild.

“You’re looking for help?” said Joey. “Here? Charming, really, but believe me, J.D., they don’t care. It’s my club, I only let my people inside. And it’s a special night tonight. I brought everyone in. Big doings tonight, oh yes.” He reached into his jacket pocket and tossed a set of keys to Dirk. “After Stephanie’s finished, take him to Nate’s, put him in the grinder, feed him to the rats.”

“Won’t that be fun,” said Dirk.

“And hose it down but good when you’re done. I don’t want Nate chewing my ass. Sorry about this, J.D. Anything you want to say to me, before you go?”

The two men turned Scrbacek toward Torresdale, and Scrbacek said, between gasps of pain, “I came to see—”

But that was as far as he got, because before he could continue Dyer slammed a fist into his stomach, expelling whatever air he’d had in his lungs.

“Are you done?” said Torresdale. “Any other bons mots to toss my way? You were a big man, weren’t you, running around, figuring things out. Now look at yourself. What made you think you could stand up to us? You’re just another goddamn lawyer. One thing we’re not afraid of is lawyers. That’s what Vega learned, too. And what your friend Jenny Ling will learn before she ever gets a chance to bring that suit.”

“How did you . . . How?”

“Who else would you give it to? We’re not idiots. You thought we didn’t keep track of where she went after our little misadventure at her house in the Marina District? After they finish with you, Stephanie and Dirk will be taking a ride to Philadelphia. On the expressway it won’t take them but an hour. You’ll use the Camaro.”

“Got it,” said Dirk.

“Take care of her, and her little boy too. Oh dear me, now I sound like the Wicked Witch of the West. But what’s that you said, J.D.—once a hood, always a hood. At least it’s not your worry anymore. You’ll be reinvented just like we talked about. Reinvented as ground chuck.”

“You touch her, so help me, I’ll—”

“You’ll what, J.D.? Sue me? Bore me to death with some constitutional argument? You’re a lawyer, not a warrior. Forget about Ms. Ling. Help yourself first. That’s always been my motto. Help yourself first. And I do. Take him away.”

The men holding him turned Scrbacek around and started dragging him from the table, behind one of the dragon screens, down a short flight of steps, into a darkened tunnel smelling of oil and piss. The bass rhythms of the blues band drilled into his head.

He had to get away, get out, get to Philadelphia before Dyer, that bitch, and Dirk. How had he been so stupid as to mention the lawsuit, to bring Jenny into it, and Sean. How had he been so arrogant? He couldn’t leave it alone, had to push the lawsuit into Torresdale’s face. Why was he still such a jerk?

He tried to shrug his way out of the hold of the two men, but they tightened their grips and kept dragging. He tried again, and something from behind smashed into his head, dazing him.

At the end of the tunnel were two lights, and as he was dragged toward the lights, Scrbacek had to fight the thought that he was already dead, in the tunnel, reaching for the heavenly glow. Walking behind him still were Dyer and Dirk, laughing about something. Ahead were those two lights. He struggled again, futilely, halfheartedly, but it was hopeless, and he knew it was hopeless.

And then the lights went out—first one, then the other, eclipsed as if by a giant moon.

But not a moon, no, a silhouette that had stepped directly in front of him. A huge figure, tall and massive, with shoulders so wide they brushed either side of the hallway. The figure took a step toward him. The men who were carrying Scrbacek halted. The footsteps behind him stopped. The music suddenly died, and in the corridor now there fell not a sound, except a deep wet breathing and the little moans that Scrbacek hadn’t even realized he was making.

The voice, when it came, was a soft, cracked whisper.

“Leave him to me,” said Caleb Breest.

54

L
AWYER
-C
LIENT

“I came here to talk to you as your lawyer,” said Scrbacek, sitting awkwardly now, his abdomen bent from his beating, a wad of bloodied tissue pressed to his split cheek.

He and Caleb Breest were alone in a bleak back office, a single light dangling above the oversize oak desk that squatted between them. Breest had sent away Dyer, Dirk, and the two goons with a jerk of his head, placing two men of his own choosing outside the office. One was a squat fireplug, the other a monster almost as big as Breest himself, and he told them in his cracked whisper to let no one in. No one.

“Since I have not heard specifically from you that I have been dismissed,” continued Scrbacek, “I will continue to assume the role of your attorney, though after tonight I am resigning. I came to tell you about what has happened, to warn you about what is going to happen, and to discuss with you, as your lawyer, your options going forward. This is something I never did during my representation of you, and which was a failure on my part that I needed to rectify.”

Scrbacek looked at the great unmoving figure of Caleb Breest and wondered if the man had understood a word.

“What I mean, Caleb, is that I’m still your lawyer and I’ve come to help.”

Caleb Breest, sitting stiffly behind the desk, failed to smile at the last line, which others could have construed as a joke. His hands, clasped tight one in the other, rested heavily on the raw wooden surface. His huge head tilted forward, and in the overhead light the shadows of his brow formed deep black blotches that ran down either side of his face. The blotches lent his appearance a ferocious sadness, like Oedipus after he had plucked out his own eyes, dimly aware of where he was, of what he had done, of what terrors the future held. But then again, the depth of emotion in Breest’s shadowy appearance could all have been a mirage. Scrbacek had represented this man on a capital murder charge, had defended him before the world and a jury, was aware of all this man was accused of having committed but still held not the first hint of what lay beneath the fearsome facade.

“For the past four days, someone has been trying to kill me,” said Scrbacek. “It started when they blew up my car. I told you about that in the courthouse holding cell after the acquittal. At the time we didn’t know whether the blast was intended for me or for you, but now I know it was intended for you and me, both. It has been decided that both of us need to die.”

Caleb Breest remained still as a statue, a larger-than-life hulking figure of menace, formed by Rodin, cast in bronze. What Scrbacek could see of the face surrounding the deep shadows did not flinch. Did he know? Was all this old news? After what DeLoatch had told Scrbacek, he’d assumed that Caleb Breest had been aware of the casino deal but not that Breest himself had been marked for death. In coming here he had assumed that he would be giving Breest new information, information that would be of great interest to his client, information that would save his client’s life and induce his client to save Scrbacek’s in turn. But Breest was not reacting. Was everything that happened a piece of his design? Was Caleb Breest clever beyond imagining, a master manipulator, sitting back and watching his own schemes come to glorious fruition? If so, then Scrbacek was now just a minor obstacle to be swept away, like Malloy before him. A shiv of fear inserted itself between Scrbacek’s shoulder blades. He closed his eyes, steeled himself, continued.

“Me they wanted to kill because they thought I had learned the truth behind the casino deal. In fact, I had learned nothing. The details were in a file given me by accident, a file I had not yet looked at. But still, they burned the file and my office with it, and they tried to kill me, all because I might have known what you were up to, and that couldn’t be allowed.”

Caleb Breest remained perfectly still, emitting not a sound except for the roilings of his breath.

“You they intended to kill because you don’t fit into their future plans. After the car bomb failed, they were waiting for me to be killed before they went after you. While I was on the run, they still had use for you. But that use, I think, is over.”

Scrbacek flinched as soon as he said it, certain he had gone too far. He stared at the statue across the desk from him, his fear ratcheting higher with each moment of silence. And then, from out of this still mass of bronze came a single word:

“Who?”

Scrbacek thrilled at the one word, grabbed at it like a lifeline. He spoke now in a quiet gush. “It was the rest of the group, the casino group. You know about the casino plan, don’t you? I thought for sure you knew.”

Scrbacek waited a moment, but there was no response. Was it possible he knew nothing of the broader scheme? No, that couldn’t be possible. But still . . .

“It’s a group, put together by a lawyer named DeLoatch, who was acting as a sort of promoter, with the intent of forcing through the construction of and access to a casino resort in the Marina District. The group includes James E. Diamond, the casino owner. It includes Frances Galloway, the real-estate developer.”

Scrbacek stared at the unmoving figure before him, the reaction of the huge man’s eyes hidden in the blotches of shadow. He was impossible to read, it was impossible to know what he was thinking, but still, Scrbacek couldn’t help but feel that the next sentence would come to the figure before him as a total surprise.

“It includes,” said Scrbacek, “Joey Torresdale.”

Breest said nothing, but there was a slight flutter of the neck, like a flinch from a blow. Scrbacek felt it more than saw it, but it was there, and with it came a strange sensation, as if the silent man were somehow speaking to him without saying a word, as if he could hear Breest whispering in his ear. And what he was whispering to Scrbacek, this huge figure in shadow before him, was,
No. Not Joey. No.

“It’s true. You have to trust me. DeLoatch told me everything, and Joey as good as admitted it to me.”

Was there a flexing of the forearms? Were Breest’s hands tightening one against the other as if readying to destroy Scrbacek with a single blow? Breest remained still and silent, but Scrbacek could still hear the whispering.
Not Joey. No.
Scrbacek stared at the blotches of shadows that made up Breest’s face. Was it possible that Caleb Breest knew nothing of the scheming behind the great gouts of violence he had perpetrated upon the city? His oldest, probably his only friend, moving him, year upon bloody year, like some death-dealing chess piece? No, it did not seem possible that Breest wouldn’t know, and yet with a certainty he didn’t understand, Scrbacek believed now exactly that. How could Scrbacek one moment think this man before him a mastermind of crime and the next see him as nothing more than a dupe?

“Were you aware that they were trying to kill me?” said Scrbacek. “Did you give the order?”

No answer, only a dark silence in response. A silence that told Scrbacek that no, this man before him had not given the order.

“Were you aware that your organization was working alongside Diamond and Galloway to build a corridor of ruin running from Diamond’s Mount Olympus through Crapstown to the Marina District, where a billion-dollar casino resort was to be built?”

Still no answer. Still only the dark silence.

“The Ever-Dry factory was in the way of that path. That’s why you torched it.”

Breest said nothing, but his great head tilted to the side, and at the sight of it a chill ripped down Scrbacek’s spine. Scrbacek remembered the great angry tale spun to him by Thomas Surwin: Breest had done this, had done that, had killed this, had burned that, had raped the city for his own vile ends. Scrbacek had believed every word; now he wondered if Breest was left not only out of the scheme but also out of all that was being done in his name.

“Do you remember Ever-Dry, where your father worked?”

No movement, no reply. But of course he did, this man before him. He remembered the company picnics, the shirts with logos, the way his father talked of the plant at night. Whatever he had done to his father, Caleb Breest would have remembered where his father worked for all those years, whether with hatred or respect. However he felt about it, he would feel something.

“Did you know that the business had been destroyed, Caleb? Did you know that Ever-Dry balked at paying an increased level of protection, and that as a result the factory was burned to the ground?”

No response.

“Didn’t Joey tell you?”

No response.

“Caleb, did you give the order to burn down your father’s old factory, the place where he became a foreman before he disappeared? Did you give that order?”

Still no response, and Scrbacek could detect no movement in the still body. But he knew the answer. It had been relayed to him clear as pain in the way Breest’s head had tilted, questioningly, when Scrbacek spoke of the fire. No, Caleb Breest had not known what had happened to the plant, had not burned it down in revenge.

Silent as Breest now, Scrbacek sat dumbfounded, feeling a peculiar heat rise from his gut to his ears. How had he missed all this? How could he have taken step one as a defense attorney without knowing even the least thing about his client? If he had learned all that was happening in Breest’s name, would he have done anything differently? Had he acted in his client’s interests in gaining the acquittal, or in the interests of Joey Torresdale, James E. Diamond, Frances Galloway, that bastard DeLoatch? In the interests of J.D. Scrbacek? Yes, certainly in the interests of J.D. Scrbacek—another pressworthy acquittal for his record—but what about the interests of Caleb Breest? Would it have been better to cooperate with Surwin, turn state’s evidence? Would it have been better to plead insanity? Would it have been better to spare his client’s life, some way, any way, without bringing him back to this? It had to be, in the end, Breest’s decision, but had Breest indeed made the decision, and if so, was it fully informed? Was this man in front of him, silent, still, seemingly oblivious to all that had happened around him, was this man even capable of deciding?

“Caleb, I have some questions that you need to answer. Everything you say to me is confidential, but I need to know. Who makes the decisions for your organization?”

No answer, but still, somehow Scrbacek knew the answer. He felt strangely linked to this hulk of a man before him now, as if the hidden emotions coursing through the silent man’s blood were somehow pouring directly into Scrbacek’s heart, and the words behind his dark silences were being hissed like the most secret of messages into Scrbacek’s ear.

“It’s Joey, isn’t it? He runs the drug operations. He runs the extortion, the prostitution. He oversees the flow of the money through the entire organization, isn’t that right?”

No answer.

“It’s Joey who picks your lawyers, isn’t it? It was Joey who brought me in, wasn’t it, Caleb?”

No answer, but there was no answer necessary.

“And it’s Joey who tells you what needs to be done, what you yourself need to do. Including who to kill. It was Joey who told you to kill Malloy, wasn’t it? You can tell me, I’m your lawyer, this is all privileged. Who told you to kill Malloy?”

No answer, still no answer, but Scrbacek knew.

“Caleb, I want you to think back now. Caleb, whose idea was it to blow up the restaurant Migello’s and destroy the Puchesi family? Was that your plan, or was it Joey’s?”

No answer, not a breath of movement, but still Scrbacek knew.

“And it was Joey who killed the Puchesi granddaughter’s husband and stuffed him in a garbage can.”

Silence, stillness from across the table, but now Scrbacek sensed something else, sensed somehow that he had gotten it wrong.

“No, it was you who did it, isn’t that right, Caleb? You killed him because Joey told you to do it. Because the kid had accused you of stealing from the family. But you hadn’t been stealing, had you, Caleb? Joey had. Joey. It was Joey who brought you into the family and used you to destroy it. You were his tool from the start.”

No response.

“You met Joey in reform school, didn’t you?”

No response.

“Before that, you were just a big scared kid, a bully because no one understood you. A bully because it’s easy for a big kid to be a bully, easier than being the lonely one at the end of the schoolyard that everyone makes fun of. The big kid in the special-ed class. And you ended up in reform school because that football player did something to you that made you mad, that made you lose control, and you hit him and hit him and hit him. What was it, Caleb? What had the kid done to you?”

There was no response, no movement, until, slowly, the huge man leaned forward, and his head tilted up, and the great shadows on his face retreated until Scrbacek could see the huge man’s eyes, one looking straight at him, one looking over his shoulder. And the eyes were crazed, and Scrbacek knew suddenly everything.

“Because he laughed at you? That was why?”

Breest’s face tensed, the thick, ropy muscles beneath his jaw dancing with anger.

“And that’s what Joey told you about the Puchesi kid. That he had laughed at you.”

Breest’s eyes narrowed. He breathed in deeply. It was as if he was getting ready to rise and smite someone with all his horrible strength.

“And that’s what Joey told you about Malloy.”

No movement, not a stir. Just that one eye staring at him as the other stared over his shoulder, both creased in some strange pain.

“What happened to your father, Caleb?”

No answer.

“Some people say you killed him, that he is buried in your basement. But it’s not true, is it?”

No answer, but even so, Scrbacek knew. “He left, didn’t he? He left your mother and you. Simply gave it up, all the work, the responsibilities, the hardships—gave it up and went away. And you spread the word that you killed him, didn’t you? Because then he wouldn’t have left, he never could have left.”

Scrbacek stared at the huge boy-man before him with the mutant oversize heart. He’s on Lasix, like a racehorse, Surwin had said. A huge racehorse, with blinders, seeing nothing to either side, nothing but the object placed in front of him by Joey Torresdale. He had been lost as a boy and left to rot by the system and used like a rented mule by Joey Torresdale, and no one had stepped in to help, least of all his lawyer.