16 Hitman (15 page)

Before I even had a chance to enjoy the anticipation,
Wendy/Janet beeped me with an emergency photo assignment.

JEROME ROBINSON, WHO'D FALLEN ON uneven pavement
crossing Ocean Avenue, had managed to break his leg, his pelvis,
and his neck. I kid you not. At first glance, Jerome Robinson had to
be the unluckiest motherfucker who ever lived, sustaining multiple
horrendous injuries, each more gruesome than the last. When I
interviewed him in the hospital, the poor guy could barely sign the
retainer. But sign he did, even if I had to guide the pen. This was
one client who wasn't getting away. Richard had gotten a hard-on
at the extent of the injuries, and in the event that there was liability,
he wanted to be the personal injury attorney with a shot at it.

Which is where Jerome Robinson went from being the unluckiest son of a bitch who ever walked the planet to the luckiest, bar
none, because the faulty pavement that tripped him turned out to
have been registered. Under New York City's pothole law, only
irregularities in the street that had been reported but not repaired
made the city negligent. This law, enacted to unclog the court system and keep the city from going bankrupt, was one of Richard
Rosenberg's pet peeves. Without it, Richard maintained, he would
be wealthy. The fact that he was wealthy in spite of it did not seem
to cheer him.

At any rate, nothing made Richard's day so much as a registered
pothole. A registered pothole resulting in a broken neck was like
winning the lottery. Richard couldn't wait to see the pictures.

Location of Accident pictures are usually taken at the time of the
sign-up, particularly when they're in the vicinity and the client is able
to point them out. In this case, the sign-up occurred in the hospital,
and the client couldn't point at his dick.When that happens, the signup is handed in, then Location of Accident pictures will be ordered as
a separate assignment if the lawyer decides to take the case.

Due to the extent of the injuries, Richard had told Wendy/
Janet to order the pictures at once and dispatch a paralegal to
determine the status of the pothole. The paralegal reported back
before I got to the pictures. Richard had a shit fit, and Wendy/Janet
wore out the phone beeping me to go take them.

Jerome Robinson opened the door to let me in. He was miraculously mobile for a man with a broken neck. Richard would be
unhappy with his progress. I wondered if I should send him back
to bed.

Mr. Robinson was an agile black man who could have played
power forward for the New York Knicks if it weren't for his
injuries. Considering the current state of the Knicks, he probably
could have played with his injuries. He was eager, affable, positively
delighted the lawyer was taking his case. I didn't tell him the
feeling was mutual. I pointed out how lucky he was to have found
an attorney who was thorough enough to have investigated his
complaint and found it to have merit. We all agreed on that, and
then I went out to take the Location of Accident pictures.

That part of the assignment I could have done for myself. In
fact, the entire photo assignment didn't need Jerome Robinson at all. But the gentleman had been so enthusiastic I had been told to
call on him to keep him happy. For my money, there was no need.
Jerome Robinson was born happy. Even a broken neck couldn't
slow him down.

It slowed me down, however. Jerome lived in a fourth-floor
walk-up. Game though he might be, an invalid on crutches doesn't
go down stairs very well. It would be just my luck to have him fall,
break something else, and sue me.

Somehow we made it down and negotiated the two blocks to
the scene of the accident.

I had no problem recognizing the pothole. The description and
location were right on the money. It was an ugly sucker, an irregular rhombus carved in the street, with jagged bits of tar and
asphalt sticking out to lacerate an injudicious pedestrian. It
occurred to me it was a good thing I had Mr. Robinson, after all.
I could pose him next to it. Show the extent of the defect, nicely
balancing the extent of the injury.

"Wow, that's something," I said.

"Tol' you," Jerome Robinson said. "Din' I tell you?"

I turned to him, and the smile froze on my face.

Jerome Robinson was looking in the opposite direction. At a
pothole on the other side of the street. A formidable defect, but
not nearly as bad as this one. It was round, the edges were smooth,
nothing was cracked or jagged. It would be hell to photograph.
Only the best lighting and angles could show there was any
depression whatsoever. I'd have to stick a ruler in, and even that
wouldn't play, shooting from above. It could read as anywhere from
half a foot to an inch.

But that was nothing. A mere hiccup. I've taken worse Location of Accident photos before. That wasn't the problem.

It was the wrong fucking pothole. It wasn't registered. No
matter how severe the injuries one might have sustained tripping
on it, it wasn't worth a cent.

I cleared my throat. "Mr. Robinson, I'm not sure that's your
pothole."

He frowned, a 'scuse-me smile on his face. "Wha' you talkin'
about?"

"It's important that we're very accurate here. Because we're
going to go into court and everything, and they're going to ask
you a lot of questions. So we want to be on the same page. Now,
you've been laid up in bed for a while. And I've been going on
the descriptions and everything. And it seems to me from the
story I heard that the pothole that tripped you is most likely this
one over here"

Jerome looked, grinned a puzzled grin. "Well, it ain't."

I considered that. Said, "But it might be."

No smile now. "What the hell you talkin' about?"

I put up my hands in a placating manner. "Don't get concerned.
I am looking out for your best interests. We all want to get you
what you deserve, that's the most important thing. If you think
that's the pothole that tripped you, that's good enough for me. Let's
go take pictures of it."

We did. From every conceivable angle. With Jerome Robinson
beside the pothole grinning and pointing it out. With Jerome
Robinson's foot in the pothole to show the size of it. With Jerome
Robinson's crutch in the pothole. Hell, I'd have shot one with
Jerome Robinson's dick in the pothole if it would have made the
guy happy.

When I was done, I popped the roll of film out of the camera,
put a fresh roll in.

"Now then," I said, "let's take some pictures just for insurance."

He looked at me. "Wha' you mean?"

I pointed. "The pothole over here. The one you don't think is
your pothole. Let's take pictures of it anyway. Tell you why. You've
had a hard fall, multiple injuries, including a broken neck. The
defense may claim you hit your head, you can't be clear on what you saw, on what you remember. They may introduce an EMS
team that recalls picking you up from the other side of the street.
Now, we may want to have you testify that you were absolutely
clear on where you were hit, and what the other side of the street
was. Our attorney may want to put you on the stand, have you
point at these pictures, and say, `That's not where I fell.' Or he may
have another use for 'em. I'm not an attorney. But I always know
in a situation like this it pays to take as many photos as possible.
To keep all your options open and not close any doors.You don't
want to hamstring your attorney by doing a half-ass job. So I want
to take some pictures of you next to this pothole just to be safe."

Jerome Robinson nodded. "You want me pointin' goin', `Huhuh, tha' ain' it'?"

"I don't think so. That would look stagy. I want the pictures to
be more from the point of view of you showing the disgraceful
condition of the street. Can you do that?"

Jerome frowned. "`Suppose."

And he did. And I shot him. And I didn't feel good about it.
Because I was faced with a moral dilemmnia. And I had failed to
take the high ground. I had, instead, taken the coward's way out.

Here was a seriously injured man who needed help. Of all the
goldbrickers I'd signed up in my day, the worthless deadbeats with
next to no injury hoping to beat the system for a couple of bucks,
Jerome Robinson wasn't one of them. He was a seriously injured
man who needed help. Help with his medical bills, help from
missing work. A man who couldn't afford Aflac and didn't have a
duck helping him recuperate. Here he was, dorked by a technicality.

Maybe so, but the law is the law. Circumventing the law is
illegal. Attorneys do it all the time. But that, apparently, is their job.
And it isn't mine. My job is to gather the evidence and present it
to the attorney.

In this case, the evidence indicated the client had fallen in an
unregistered pothole, thereby making him ineligible to sue. My job was to gather that evidence and present it to Richard Rosenberg. The fact that there was a perfectly good registered pothole
not fifty feet away was none of my business. If I hadn't known
about it, I never would have looked at it. But knowing it was there
put me on the horns of a moral dilemma. Should I pursue a suit I
knew to be fraudulent? Or should I take the client at his word and
photograph his worthless pothole?

Had I done that, Richard would have killed me.

So I had taken the coward's way out. I had passed the moral
dilemma along. Here, Richard. Here's the worthless pothole your
client fell in. And here's the pothole worth millions that had
nothing to do with anything.

Your move.

BY THE TIME I DID two more cases and stopped by my office to
pick up the mail, all bills, it was close to three thirty when I got
back to the school. Thurman's car was double-parked out front. I
lucked into a parking space, mingled with the crowd of students
hanging out on the sidewalk who either had no last period or were
cutting it. I saw a few teacher types, including one who looked
almost as much like a football coach as Sergeant Thurman. The
teacher of my dreams was not among them. Nor were the baggypanted presumed dope-dealer and his girlfriend, who didn't figure
to he there since they were in Kessler's class.

I wove my way through the students, most of whom were
smoking. It was hard to believe kids still did that in the face of
the medical evidence now available. They probably figured by the
time they grew up there'd be a cure for cancer. That's what niy
generation figured.

I hung out with the kids, tried to recall what Hitman #2 looked like. On the plus side, he wasn't a kid. That knocked out most of
the people present. On the minus side, his features were rather
nondescript. Not too old, not too young, not too tall, not too
short, not too fat, not too thin. Hair short, dark, and curly; eyes I
couldn't begin to tell you; general impression dull, your ordinary
everyday working stiff.

Of course, at the time I'd seen hint, I'd thought he was the
mark. Even knowing he was the shooter, I couldn't build up much
enthusiasm for him. As far as I could tell, the guy projected zero
personality. Probably a plus for a hitman. He could blend right into
a crowd.

But not this crowd. In this crowd of students he'd stand out.

Like I was.

I noticed a certain percentage of the students edging away from
me. Which was kind of amusing. I was like a dope-sniffing dog.
Drop me into the middle of a group of people and arrest the ones
who left.

Anyway, from my vantage point in the center of everything I
surveyed the street for signs of drivers. There were some, of course,
parents waiting to pick up their kids. None looked like a hitman.
At least, none looked like Hitman #2.

I checked the windows in the buildings across the street. All were
brownstones. None would offer easy access. But a hitman could pick
a lock on a vacant apartment, set up at home while the occupant was
away at work. Load his rifle. Adjust his telescopic sight.

I watch way too many movies.

Naturally, I spotted nothing. I didn't figure to. The killer
wouldn't show himself so soon. The killer wouldn't make a move
until the bell, when school ended and half a zillion kids came out.
Then the shooter could slip into the crowd, elbow his way up
behind Martin Kessler, and put two rounds in the back of his head
before anyone knew what was happening. With an ugly long
silencer that barely made a pop.

It could easily happen with Thurman in charge, the good sergeant not even realizing a move had been made on Kessler until
the teacher dropped at his feet. Embarrassing though that might be
for the police department, it would be totally frustrating for me,
the culmination of my utter failure to do my job, losing both my
client and the man he'd hired me to protect.

The bell rang, the doors burst open, and a steady stream of students and teachers poured from the building. Mingling into the
stream were Martin Kessler and Sergeant Thurman, the latter in
full dumbass mode, walking just a step behind, ever vigilant to protect the professor from students who sought extensions on their
papers. Jesus Christ, is the guy even looking around?

I was, and I saw her. Just over Kessler's left shoulder. Trailing
along as if she were a groupie and he were a rock star. Thurman
must not have let her walk with him. An interesting choice, for
Thurman. I'd have thought he'd have used her for a shield.

I saw him before Thurman did. To be fair, I'd seen him before and
I recognized him. But even so. He was what Thurman was on guard
for. Also, to be fair, I didn't see hirn slip into the crowd. But I saw him
making his way through it. Coming up on Kessler from the right and
slightly behind.Which also put him on Sergeant Thurman's right and
slightly behind. And slightly behind the teacher with the tits. Sorry,
but I don't know her name. But he's behind her, and he's got something in his hand. Something gleaming that I can't quite see.