Biker (5 page)

“You're joking,” Bloom said in a high-pitched voice that was surprisingly effective with juries. He held back. He never screeched. He approached the jury and spoke to them intimately, never raising his voice.

Two years ago Bloom had a small-time criminal case in Grant County. Pratt was there on another case but stayed to watch the arguments. The judge was a piss-poor dolt with no equal in his inability to grasp legal concepts, but who, for some inexplicable reason, thought he was smart.

The DA gave his usual dreary argument for conviction, then Bloom stepped up. He smiled, the jury smiled back. He relaxed, so did they. They were one, Bloom and the jury, like he was sitting with them. Bloom started talking about how his poor client was being railroaded, called his client a “miserable wretch.” The DA objected. “Judge, he can't call his client a miserable wretch!” (reinforcing the term for the jury). The judge said, “Mr. Bloom, don't call your client a miserable wretch.”

Now everybody knew the poor guy was a miserable wretch. Bloom continued, “As I was saying, look what they are doing to this miserable wretch …” Again the DA objected. Again the judge admonished Bloom and added, “Don't call him a miserable wretch ever again in this court!” The judge was shouting at Bloom in open court. The jury loved this to death, loved Bloom, and felt mighty sorry for the miserable railroaded wretch.

Bloom stopped. Not a sound for at least a minute. He looked at the judge. He looked at the DA and at the wretch. He looked at the jury. He walked to the back of the courtroom, stood with his back to the judge for a full minute. Silence yawned. Everybody thought, What the hell? Bloom walked back to the podium, looked at the jury and said, “Judges come and judges go. DAs come and DAs go. But justice lasts forever. All I ask, my friends, is justice for this miserable wretch.”

The man was acquitted in twenty minutes.

Feet up, Bloom fenced with his invisible opponent.
“That's an insult, Bobby. I can't tell my client that. If you can't do any better than that, I'll see you in court.”

He listened, winking at Pratt and holding up a finger.

“You do that, Bobby. Poujnd a little sense into your client. Good. See you there.”

The Skechers hit the plush cocoa shag. “Listen. The three Goldberg brothers, Norman, Himan and Max, invent the first automobile air conditioner. July 17th, 1945. You can look it up. Detroit—a hellhole. Ninety-seven degrees in the shade.

“The brothers walk into Henry Ford's office and sweet-talk his secretary into telling Henry that they got the most exciting innovation since the wheel.

“Henry invites 'em in. They insist he come out to the parking lot. They tell him to get into the car, which is about 103, turn on the air conditioner and cool the car off immediately.

“Old man Ford gets very excited and invites them back to the office. Three million he offers. The brothers refuse. They'll settle for two million but they want the label ‘Goldberg Air Conditioner' on the dash. No way Ford, a notorious Jew hater, is going to put the Goldbergs' name on two million Ford cars.

“They haggle back and forth for two hours and finally agree on three million dollars and just their first names. Which is why all Ford air conditioners say Norm, Hi, & Max.”

Bloom tilted back with a big grin on his puss. Pratt stared at him.

“Ahhh! Why do I bother? You're a
schmendrick
!”

Bloom riffled through a stack of papers and withdrew a manila envelope, which he opened. He slid out a photograph and tossed it in front of Pratt. Bloom had a pear-shaped head, a halo of hair surrounding a monadnock skull, round, rimless glasses reflecting the light. He looked like Gyro Gearloose.

“Ever see one of those?” he piped.

Pratt picked up the photograph, a black and white glossy of a Ducati, frame and body sheathed in slick bodywork. Beneath the bold logo it read “Desmosedici” in small letters.

“The Ducati V-4.”

“Exactomundo, my friend. They retail for seventy-five thousand bucks. Two days ago, hijackers jacked an England semi north of Baraboo and made off with four of these things. They were headed for a dealer in the Twin Cities. Trans-Continental asked me if there were any chance they could be recovered. Naturally I turned to you.”

“How soon do you want me on this?”

“Yesterday.”

Pratt set the photo down. “That might be a problem, Danny. I'm meeting a potential client this afternoon and I sort of made a commitment.”

“You're meeting me first.”

“I know but I promised. Let me talk to her first and I'll get back to you.”

Bloom drew a hand through a few strands of hair. “Want to go smoke a joint and get lunch?”

“Can't, Danny. Got someone waiting. I'll get back to you this afternoon.”

“A dame I'll bet.”

Pratt stood. “Danny, you're too sharp.”

“Yeah yeah, let me know how it goes.”

Outside Cass leaned against the truck. She and Pratt got in the truck and took the causeway to the Beltline. A dozen triangular sails ghosted across the smooth blue surface of Lake Monona. Cass drove east and took the Interstate toward Chicago.

“I just spoke to Ginger. She's expecting us.”

“Okay.”

“That your lawyer friend, Bloom?” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Some pretty sketchy people going in and out of there.”

“Dan's a criminal attorney. One of the best in the state. He specializes in drug cases.”

“Jews make good lawyers.”

Pratt looked at her. “We're all equal before the Lord.”

“That's just a fact, Josh. Jews are good in law, medicine and show biz.”

“Where'd you learn that?”

“That's just a fact. Just go look at their names.”

The Interstate was moderately busy with traffic flowing north and south. Pratt watched farmland pass, wondering what to say or if he should even bother. “He got me out of prison for no other reason than he liked me.”

“Josh, I'm sorry if I offended you. He's a prince, far as I'm concerned.”

Cass turned west north of Beloit on State Highway 213. Soon they were in coulee country, winding green valleys, rolling farmland and forest. Signs advertised Renk Seed. Waist-high corn waved in the breeze. They passed a gated community of enormous houses called Glen Haven.

“That's one of Nathan's projects. That's Ginger's husband.”

They turned onto Makepeace Road, a winding blacktop through woods marked here and there with gated entrances. They came to a gated entrance of wrought iron between brick pillars, mailbox inset in one pillar, com panel in the other. The gates were closed.

Cass pushed the call button. Long seconds ticked by before someone answered.

“Who is it?” A woman's voice, flat, impersonal.

“It's Cass, Ginger. I brought the investigator.”

“Just a minute.”

The gate clicked open and swung inward, parting in the middle.

CHAPTER 8

Trees arched over the winding blacktop creating a green filter, sunlight dappling the road. The trees thinned, and they emerged in a clearing in front of an overgrown wood lodge with a shake roof and vertical redwood boards. Vines climbed the stone façade on either side of the log portico. The driveway looped under the portico circling a ten-foot-pond with a fountain in the center spewing water straight up. Gently rounded bushes grew against the wall like green sentries. Flowers burst in profusion surrounding the turn-around. Two baskets overflowing with marigolds, pansies and hollyhocks hung over the main entrance.

Cass parked under the log roof and got out. Pratt heard birds twittering, insects chirping, the susurrus of the breeze through the forest. He inhaled deeply the smell of pine.

The smell of money.

A woman opened the front door and Pratt's first impression was of a gamin, Audrey Hepburn or Leslie Caron. A slight, feminine figure with a long ivory neck, short pageboy hair and a Mona Lisa smile.

“Cass,” she said.

Cass stepped forward and enfolded the smaller woman in a crushing embrace. When Cass released Ginger, Pratt saw that she was holding a cane.

“Come in,” the woman said smiling, revealing something of her true age. Pratt shut the door behind him.

“Ginger, this is Josh Pratt.”

Ginger's grip was surprisingly firm. “Cass has told me a great deal about you, Josh. Please, let's go to the porch. I have iced tea.”

Pratt wondered what Cass had said considering they'd known each other less than twenty-four hours.

Ginger wore a blue terry cloth robe snugged around her waspish waist. She led them down a short hallway lined with photographs of the family: husband, Ginger, two grown-up step-kids. Horse trophies in a cabinet. Ginger led them onto a broad screened-in porch overlooking a deck and swimming pool, the green canopy of the forest. “Please sit.” Ginger made as if to pour iced tea from a glass pitcher. Cass took the pitcher from her. Ginger's feet rested on a cougar skin.

“You sit,” Cass said.

Ginger eased herself into a leather glider, carefully setting her cane over the armrest. Pratt sat opposite a low glass coffee table on a bamboo sofa with embroidered cushions.

“Cass tells me you want me to find your son.”

“Yes that's right, Mr. Pratt. You know I don't have long and I would like to see him before I go.”

“She's full of shit,” Cass said, handing Pratt a glass of iced tea. “She'll be around to kick our bones.”

“I have to warn you that sixteen years is an awful long time. Chances are you'll be wasting your money. And please call me Josh.”

“I have to try.” She reached for a zippered leather binder and removed some snapshots. The first one, in faded color, showed an extremely young Ginger looking lovingly at a newborn baby.”

“Where's the father?” Pratt asked.

“He was in jail when this photo was taken. He also had a thing about having his picture taken but I do have this.” She handed him a faded black and white showing four bikers outside an old farmhouse making obscene gestures toward the camera.

“Moon's the one with the shaved skull.”

A muscular figure with a bony head, aviator shades, tribal tats circling his upper arms and a Fu Manchu. He wore a wife beater, jeans and black boots with silver buckles. The others all had facial hair. They all had tats.

“That was taken at a farm he used to rent. Moon cooked meth for a living. He was very good at it. He may still be at it if he's still alive.”

“What does your gut tell you?” Pratt said.

“He's alive. Moon is harder to kill than a government program. He's a kung fu master. He trained at the Shaolin Temple in China.”

“Really.”

“I know that sounds silly, Josh, but it's not. He went to China. He was gone for six months. If you Google Shaolin Temple you'll find their home page. Anybody can train there.” She toed the rug. “He's a Sioux Indian. Do you see this cougar skin? Moon killed it with a bow and arrow. I keep it to remind myself what he was like.”

“Tell Josh about the abduction,” Cass said.

Ginger looked inward. Sadness set in around her eyes. “I told him I didn't want to see him anymore. The same day the police raided his lab. There was a shoot-out and a War Bonnet died. Moon was convinced I'd fingered him. This fucking bitch he was banging may have told him. Eric was three months old. I thought Moon was gone forever. He's obsessed with revenge. He always told me that and God knows I saw enough proof of it. I only went outside for a minute, to take a look at the garden. I left Eric sleeping in his crib and when I came back he was gone. I saw a truck beating it down the street. It was too far away to see the license.

“I phoned the cops right away …” She stared at her lap. A sob broke the surface of her lips. Cass sat on the armrest and put an arm around her.

“Come on, babe. Tell it all. Pratt's gonna make it right.”

Pratt wished she hadn't said that.

Ginger pulled a tissue from a robe pocket and honked. “That was sixteen years ago. I have not heard one word from or about Eric since. The police did everything they could. They put out a nationwide bulletin.
America's Most Wanted
did a segment. Nothing. It's what Moon does. He claimed to have ‘second sight,' whatever that is. And sometimes, it seemed as if he knew what was going to happen before it happened. Used to freak the shit out of everybody, but it was probably just his spooky personality and the power of suggestion. Moon can be very persuasive. He's not stupid.”

“I'll need everything you've got on this guy—pictures, correspondence, whatever. I'll need you to make me a list of his known associates and hidey holes.”

Ginger reached for the black valise. “I've been keeping that list for years.”

“Why didn't you try to find him before?”

Ginger threw her hands in the air with a half sob, half laugh. “I don't know what else I could have done! I hired a private detective. All he did was take my money. I was insane with grief and worry. I even went to club hangouts to find him. I was nearly raped several times. The police warned me to stop looking. So I stopped. What else was I supposed to do? Nathan knows nothing of this. I'm going to have to tell him.”

“Nathan is your husband?” Pratt said.

“Yes. Nathan Munz. He's a developer. We've been very happy together. He treats me like a queen. He knows I have a sketchy past and he accepts me the way I am. I've got two wonderful step-kids. I should be happy.” She laughed/sobbed.

“I get two hundred a day plus expenses. I report every Monday.”

“Cass,” Ginger gestured toward the patio doors. “Would you bring me my checkbook from the kitchen alcove?”

Cass went inside.

“How bad is it?” Pratt said.

“Right now it's not too bad. It comes and goes. I have good days and I have bad days. The trouble is it affects everything else. Today is kind of a middle day. Listen. I have to tell you something. It's something that Moon told me.”