Simple Intent (5 page)

“Yes, Ray.” Shazad thumped his fist against his chest. “On the one.”

The term had begun as a way for a con to swear they were telling the truth, like George Washington. In a society of thieves, money was all they knew. But Shazad and Ray swore on their life. The only one they had to give.

Ray leaned out the cafeteria door, looked both ways, and then headed down the long corridor to the law clinic. 

Originally designed to calm and nurture, the soft green walls were smudged and scraped. The once garden-like hue was now a non-crayola shade of pea soup. The multi-colored floor tiles were chipped and stained. On the watermarked ceiling, large round intercoms hissing static broke up the pattern of the rectangular tiles. Mounted high on the walls, pivoting black security cameras monitored every move.

Ray stopped at a barred window. Sometimes, he’d stand here late in the day, watching and listening. He hardly remembered the city noises that had so thrilled him in his youth. Now, he strained to hear the moo of a cow or the chattering of birds. He lived to see a swooping hawk or a colorful butterfly. He wouldn’t leave the window until he saw or heard a free creature. Ray saw Preacher Man approach, made room for him at the window.

“It’s a beautiful morning in God’s world, isn’t it, Ray?”

“Morning, Preacher Man.”

“God loves you, Ray.”

“God loves you too, Preacher Man.”

Preacher Man had been here even longer than Ray. He came in tattooed and angry and fighting the system, running gangs and drinking, shooting or snorting whatever he laid his hands on. Then he spent time in the hole. Apparently, enough time to find Jesus. Preacher Man had figured his way out and now he helped others to do the same, mostly by telling stories that Ray had never heard from any church he’d been in, stories with lots of bad brothers and big-breasted women needing comfort. 

Preacher Man stood quietly next to Ray, bobbing his head. He began to sing, “Jesus loves me, yes he do.”

Ray listened for a minute then patted the old man on the back and walked to the law clinic. He had clients to see.

Most of the cases that came into the paraprofessional clinic dealt with pleading out inmate disciplinary charges. Crimes against a person, failure to immediately obey a CO, or failing a urine test. Sometimes it was a matter of explaining complicated words to an uneducated man. As a paralegal, Ray did most of the grunt work. When the attorneys showed up, they did the rest.

This month’s most interesting case was Munroe v. Graterford. Bull Munroe headed a group of die-hard power lifters. They wanted more weights and longer hours in the tiny gym. The men needed this outlet, and Bull was going to make sure they got it. 

The COs thought the small room was dangerous. Last month a man was found dead, pinned underneath an overloaded bar, his neck broken and an X drawn on his chest. But more than the safety issues of the room, the officers resented the convicts growing stronger and hated to see them draw pleasure from lifting, pressing and sweating. The prison way wasn’t about health and fitness. It was about starch and poor ventilation, antiquated facilities and removal from society. It was about control.

If a con did make parole, he never really fit in on the outside. Even when a rehabilitated man was released into society, no one guaranteed his success. One thing was for certain, he was branded no matter how little time he’d served. Maybe it was the look in his eye, or a smell that followed him. Whatever it was, that feeling made most ex-cons seek a lifestyle in the free world that guaranteed them another stay at The Gray Bar Hotel. 

Getting locked up was like coming home. Their homeboys, their dawgs, even their “old ladies” would be waiting for them with open arms. 

There comes a time when a convict is a convict, guilty or innocent.

MIMI BALDWIN leaned her head into the office, calling, “Mr. Deluca, sir? Mr. Montgomery is on line one. Hearing no reply, she stepped into the room. “Mr. Deluca?”

“One hundred!” Fast Eddie Deluca popped up behind his massive desk, barefoot and bare-chested. “I’ve still got it. One hundred real sit-ups, not those wimpy crunches, for God’s sake! Nothing like a little exercise to get the blood flowing, right, Mimi?”

Deluca was like a rooster in a barnyard. Part rooster, part peacock. Tiny barnyard.

“Yes, that’s right, sir.” She turned to the door. “Montgomery’s on one...when you get a chance.”

“Super. Put him through. Oh, Mimi?”

She glanced over her shoulder at Deluca. He took a swig from a bottle of water and winked. “You look particularly fetching this morning.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

Mimi pulled the door shut. “Particularly fetching, my ass,” she mumbled.

Deluca punched the speakerphone button, then pulled a fresh t-shirt from his bottom drawer. “Ted! How was Switzerland? Did Alice make you play tourist again?”

“Ha! You know I wouldn’t stand for that crap, Eddie! Goddamn tourists are ruining that beautiful country. Backpackers camping out in train stations, undisciplined ass-wipes trying to discover themselves on cheap wine and marijuana. Listen, don’t get me started. I just called to wish you luck today.”

Deluca paused, one arm in a crisp Robert Talbott blue and white striped shirt. “Today? Why do I need luck today? Personally, I think I could have used some luck last weekend, when I had the face-to-face with Terry Gross. Man, I never knew NPR could be so brutal!”

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. You live for the media! What are you talking about? You did fine. Hell, you probably even had someone copy the broadcast for you. Now, stop changing the subject. You know I’m talking about Gallo.”

Eddie finished tieing his tie, then lowered himself into his calfskin chair and began packing his briefcase. “Oh, that.”

“Very funny, Eddie. Remember who you’re dealing with here.”

“No need to worry, Ted.” Deluca glanced at his pocket calendar, saw the words Cape Cod and a phone number. He smiled. “Everything’s under control.”

“All right, then. Do me proud.” With that, Theodore Wells Montgomery hung up. 

Do you proud? Deluca scoffed. That’s all you got for me, Ted? I’m out of tricks here, and I’m supposed to do you proud? Wait a minute. Deluca grinned saying, “You still got it, Fast Eddie. Yes, you do.”

He shoved two folders and a tape labeled ‘Gross-Deluca interview’ into his briefcase and left his office tell his secretary he’d be at Nana’s, and to page him in thirty minutes.

Ken Reilly felt like hell. He attempted a smile in the mirror. It made him nauseous. He ran his hands through his hair, tried the smile again, then gave up and found a disposable razor in the shower and raked it over his cheeks.

“Hey! You okay in there?’ The girl rapped on the door.

A dot of blood appeared on Reilly’s chin. He grabbed a hand towel and held it to his face. It smelled like baby powder. “I’m fine. Be right out.”

“I’ve gotta go, Sweetie.”

Reilly had met her the night before in a loud, dark bar. She was still a looker this morning, but she was paler than he’d remembered and definitely too damn loud. Something he didn’t plan on waking up to every day.

The girl was waiting at the apartment door in some kind of waitress uniform and holding two commuter mugs. She seemed shorter than Reilly remembered.

“Thank you.” He smiled thinly, took a sip then wished he could spit it out.

She jabbered all the way down to the street, and when she admitted that last night’s car had been borrowed and that they would have to take the bus, Reilly begged off. He kissed her quickly, mumbled something about calling her when he got back from Acapulco then practically ran around the corner.

He slid the cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial. 

Sailor answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Help.”

“Reilly? What is it? Where are you?”

“I’m stuck in Cheltenham. I need a ride. Please, Sailor. I promise I’ll pay you back.” Reilly took another sip of the coffee then spit it out and tossed the whole mug in the bushes.

Sailor sighed, but was secretly happy for an excuse to get out of the cramped cubicle. “Okay. Where are you?” 

He gave her directions then started walking. Somewhere between the street corner and a small coffeehouse, Reilly found a little blue pill in his pocket.

He sat under the yellow awning sipping his double espresso and nibbling on a scone. Sailor saw him as she pulled up. She liked how he seemed so comfortable. He might have been a famous writer in a café in Provence. She half-expected him to light up a Gauloise and adjust his beret. But when he saw her and approached, she said, “You look like hell. Get in.”

Reilly got into the car. “Good morning to you, too. Hell, huh? I was going for the sexy legal genius look.”

Sailor gave him one of his mother’s looks, the one that said, ‘Will you please be serious for one minute?’ His mom had never understood him. She took things so personally, like thinking the bogus sit-com about the overweight divorced woman working two jobs while supporting her mother and raising five kids was all about her. Reilly didn’t know where she got that shit. The woman lived in Memphis, for God’s sake.

Reilly was a funny guy. He knew years ago he had the gift. Teachers, nuns, or old ladies with trampled tulips: Reilly could make them all smile. He’d learned to keep them laughing to get what he wanted. It worked like a charm. As a job, it paid pretty well too, just not as well as Law. 

“Don’t forget, Sailor, next Saturday at Dick’s, ten o’clock. I’m closing the show, so you’d better be there.” 

Sailor checked her rearview mirror then zipped across two lanes. “I remember, Reilly. You only plastered twelve flyers on the bulletin board.”

“I guess you missed the ones in the elevator and the men’s room.”

“Men’s room?” 

“Just a little reading material.”

“Yeah, I definitely missed those.” She looked at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”

“Good.” He crossed his arms, reclined his seat and slept the rest of the way.

When Sailor dropped Reilly at the front of the building, she watched him walk away wondering the whole time what it was about this abrasive guy that somehow touched her. He was wrong for her. But he made her smile. 

Sailor drove into the parking garage and began circling. She was about to give up and head straight for the roof when she found an empty corner on the partner’s floor and pulled her dinged-up Acura in tight next to a new Mercedes SL. 

She slipped her briefcase over her shoulder and hurried to the elevator while rooting around inside her purse for a mint. When the elevator doors opened she stepped forward automatically and smacked heads with the guy coming out. 

“Dammit!” 

“Oh!” Sailor rubbed her head.

The guy said, “Watch where you’re going!”

They looked up at the same time. Sailor apologized. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. Are you okay?”

He swept his eyes over her, then smoothed his hair. “Of course.” He grinned. “No problem.”

Sailor entered the elevator and punched the floor button. The doors started to close and the guy stuck his briefcase in the gap. 

“Sure you’re all right?’ he asked, leaning in.

“I’m fine.” She waved him off. “Fine, really.”

Still blocking the door, he asked, “So, are you going up?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Where to?”

“Sixth floor. Second day on the job.”

“Second day, huh? Well that explains it.”

“Explains what?” she asked.

“Why we haven’t met. All the new admin hires always go through me. Missy should have told you about the MDB&S custom.”

“Custom?” Sailor asked.

“Oh yes. See, each new secretary is invited to a candlelight dinner at my place on the water to celebrate her...position.”

Now that Sailor’s vision had cleared, she knew exactly whom she had bumped into.

“Allow me to introduce myself.” He drew himself up and extended his hand. “Edward John Deluca, at your service.”

As he bowed before her, Sailor wondered why he hadn’t added ‘Esquire’ to his introduction. Fast Eddie. She smiled. “Mr. Deluca, I am neither a secretary nor a dinner partner, and as far as you are concerned my position, is unavailable. Have a good day.”

Toeing his briefcase out of the elevator’s path, Sailor watched the doors close on a very stunned King of Repartee. Philly’s homeboy: the most feared prosecutor-turned-defense-attorney, Fast Eddie Deluca.

HIRAM BERGER was off duty, tooling through the familiar neighborhood. In a few days he’d be off duty for good, and after twenty years on the force, he still wasn’t sure how he felt about that. The shrink said he’d get used to the down time, but that a hobby might be good, too. Berger had had to laugh. Only hobby he ever had was drinking, and look what that got him—an ex-wife, questionable business partners and a one-way ticket to Hell.

He made a sharp left turn, which sent a leaky fast food bag sliding across the vinyl back seat. It teetered at the edge then fell to the floor, adding sausage and pancakes to the aromatic pile of debris. The radio blared; he tried to keep up with the song, inserting his own lyrics when the right ones failed him.