Last Chance for Glory (19 page)

B
LAKE NEVER DOUBTED THAT
he’d find the photograph, never doubted that Collars was telling the truth, didn’t even bother to add “if the photo exists.” He accepted Steinberg’s check, then made the suggestion he’d been prepared to make all along.

“I want you to get on the phone, Max. All these newspapers have morgues and I’m gonna have to get into them. It’d go a lot faster if you could pull some strings. Cut the red tape, so to speak.”

Steinberg, having read Blake’s report, having paid Blake’s bill, readily agreed. Naturally, as a New York celebrity, he admitted to knowing everyone.

“In fact,” he said, “if you come up with that photo, I’m gonna call in the media. Put a little heat on the courts.”

“There’s some people ain’t gonna like that,” Kosinski said. “You might wanna think about doin’ this on the quiet. Not make any more waves than necessary.”

“Steinberg doesn’t back down.”

“That’s all well and good, Max. I mean, it’s nice to be macho, but there’s another way to look at it: if Billy Sowell didn’t kill Sondra Tillson, folks are gonna wonder who
did
kill her. Now, if we go about our business nice and quiet, certain people could let Billy go and just forget about it. If we make a lot of noise, on the other hand, the cops’re gonna have to reopen the investigation. You can see how that might cause some problems for whoever killed her. Likewise for the folks who covered it up.”

Blake barely heard the conversation. His mind was already forming a plan of attack, looking for an organizing principle. In addition to four major dailies, New York had a dozen weekly papers, some of them very small and very local. Add six television stations, a handful of magazines, the wire services, and the distinct (and very disturbing) possibility that the photographer Collars remembered had been one of hundreds of New York independents, a free-lancer looking for the big break, and it became obvious that the situation demanded structure.

As always, Blake would turn to his computer for answers. Or, rather, he’d turn to Joanna Bardo’s computer. As far as he knew, there was no data base for newspaper photographs, but if he could pull up the various articles written the morning after the riot, he might get a hint as to which papers had reporters present when the shit hit the fan. Collars had remembered one photographer taking Billy’s picture, but, in fact, Billy Sowell’s face might appear in the background of any photo taken that evening. Hopefully, there was more than one needle in the haystack.

“Look, I’m gonna take off.” Blake stood abruptly. “Max, call me when you get through making those calls. If I’m not home, leave a message on the machine. What I’m gonna do is get on the computer and check a few things out. And don’t worry, being as it’s Saturday and I’m in a good mood, you won’t get charged.” He took a deep breath. It was time to bite the bullet, and, to his surprise, he wasn’t looking forward to it.

“Bell,” he said, consciously using Kosinski’s first name, “it’s been great. I’ll get your money to you as soon as Max’s check clears.” He noted Kosinski’s surprise, the way his eyes dropped to his hands. It was too bad, really. Because he liked the ex-cop, knew he could have used him in a thousand ways. If he wasn’t a hopeless drunk.

“Yeah, great,” Kosinski muttered. “You know where to find me.”

Blake wasn’t surprised to discover Conrad Angionis in Manhattan Exec’s computer room on a Saturday morning. Cynthia Barret hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d insisted that Conrad “practically lives here.” Joanna Bardo’s presence, on the other hand, was totally unexpected. Joanna, a tireless self-promoter, usually spent her weekends in the Hamptons or Connecticut, brownnosing former, present, and prospective clients.

“Marty, it’s so nice to see you again. It’s been a long time.” She was sitting in Cynthia Barret’s chair, her smile every bit as nasty as her tone of voice.

“You come in just to see me, Joanna? I didn’t think I was that important.” Blake, who could have done the work from the modem in his own apartment, had called ahead, just to be sure Conrad was in the computer room. Conrad, apparently under orders, had run to Joanna with the news.

“If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain …”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to make a phone call?”

“You’re
not
the client, Joanna. Max Steinberg is happy with my work, if not with my fees, and that’s all that counts.”

“I like to be kept informed, Marty. I like to know what’s going on.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re definitely gonna be disappointed here, because I’m not gonna tell you anything beyond that fact that I should have the case wrapped up in a few days. You need more than that, you might wanna give Max Steinberg a call. He loves to bullshit and right now, even as we speak, he’s chugging Hennessy like there’s no tomorrow.”

Joanna’s right hand fluttered up to her face, reached for an invisible cigarette. Blake smiled, remembering that Joanna had once described her two-pack-a-day habit as “my single weakness.”

“You might want to remember that you’re going to need me in the future.”

“It’s a matter of professional ethics, Joanna. As in client confidentiality being the only bit of ethics in the whole damned profession. Don’t take it personally.”

Joanna stood up, managed a smile. “You’re right. After all, it’s not like I’m guaranteeing payment. You really think you’ll be able to wrap this up soon?”

“Very soon.”

“Then I’d better get busy finding something else for you.”

She was wearing a violet blouse and a pair of very plain, very tight cotton pants. Blake, as she turned to leave, was aware of something different, something changed. She was nearly out of the room, before he figured it out.

“Joanna,” he called. “What happened to your ass?”

“My what?” She turned to face him.

“Your ass, Joanna. As in, half of it isn’t there any more.”

“Liposuction, Marty. I finally went and did it. What do you think?”

“What I think, Joanna, is that now you’re finally perfect.”

Blake found Conrad Angionis installed on his throne in the computer room. One look at his face told Blake that Conrad wasn’t about to apologize for jumping through Joanna’s hoop. Why should he? Conrad’s love for the computer and what he could do with it naturally extended to Manhattan Executive and Joanna Bardo. Blake didn’t sign his paycheck.

“You working this afternoon, Conrad, or playing?” Blake asked after the ritual handshake.

“Both. I’m teaching Maggie to take a social security number and run it through every data base in her memory, from the most to the least likely. The problem is which is most and which is least. More or less would have been easier.”

“Doesn’t that get expensive? Who’s gonna pay for it?”

Conrad sniffed, crossed his legs, folded his arms over his chest. “Someday, we’ll need the capability. When that day comes, we’ll have it. Besides, Maggie likes to learn.”

“Maggie
likes
to learn? Buddy, you’ve gone over the edge.”

“You never understood, Marty. That’s why you went into field work. It’s not your fault, really, but that’s the way it is. Now, did you come here to work, or to ridicule me.”

Blake outlined the project, giving as little information as possible. Conrad, who could negotiate the maze of data bases in half the time it took Blake, was to key in the day, November twenty-eighth, the year, and the word “riot.” Blake would review the printouts, try to guess which papers were on the spot and which were merely putting up a brave front.

Conrad, with a small gesture of contempt for the simplicity of the task, went to work immediately. Blake sat back, watched Conrad’s long fingers dance across the keyboard, roll the mouse over its pad. He felt removed from the sordid activities of the past few days. With Kosinski’s help (he had to admit), he’d come through his first battlefield experience, a victory, no doubt about it. It was just a matter of mopping up.

Blake’s thoughts drifted to Billy Sowell in his prison cell. He began to imagine Sowell’s life, thought better of it, realized, to his surprise, that this was the first time his work had dealt with protecting an individual. Up to now, he’d protected property, and usually the property of corporations that were little better than the individuals or companies ripping them off.

He pictured Billy Sowell walking out of prison, walking past the correction officer with the crew cut. There would be nothing remotely resembling freedom on the other side of the gate. Not for a retarded kid with no resources, no friends. What would he do? Go back to Kamal Collars? Find another giant to protect him and his packing-crate home?

What
I’m
gonna do, Blake decided, is push Steinberg into finding the kid a place to live. There’s gotta be a city program somewhere that hasn’t been gutted and I’m gonna make sure that Billy Sowell gets into it.

“Martin, you still here?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, Conrad. I’m here. What’d you come up with?”

“The New York Times. Daily News
to follow.”

Blake scanned the predictably small
Times
article, then tossed it away in disgust. According to the grand monarch, the police “alleged” that the rioters’ conduct demanded a response, that the response was necessary to maintain “order.” The rioters “alleged” that the cops had covered their badges and nameplates with black friction tape as part of a well-developed plan to “punish the homeless.” Local residents “alleged” that the police had attacked them without provocation as they were making their way home. The
Times
article had appeared on page two of the Metro section; there wasn’t a hint of personal observation in its matter-of-fact tone.

The reporting in the
Daily News,
when Blake finally got his hands on it, was a lot more promising. The reporter, Brad Cooper, was claiming that the cops had thrown him through a storefront window. The term “police riot” appeared several times in the article.

The Post’s coverage was predictably brief, but that didn’t mean anything. Photos were the
Post’s
specialty. There might be a half dozen to go along with the few paragraphs of print.
Newsday,
also predictably, had the most extensive coverage. With two stories on the riot, a separate piece on the long-term conflict between cops and self-styled anarchists, a history of the homeless in Tompkins Square Park,
Newsday
had covered the story like they owned it.

“Anything else, Marty?”

Conrad was clearly bored. He sprawled in his chair, sipped at a mug of tea, calmly picked his nose. Blake knew it was time to bow out, that he could accomplish nothing to justify the bill he was running up. The problem, he thought, is that it’s Saturday, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon, and I don’t have a damn thing to do. Well, maybe I’ll hit the weight room later on. Pump some iron, bullshit with the gym rats. Work off the tension.

“Tell you what, Conrad, kick out the follow-up stories for, say, the next ten days. Let’s see where it goes. Also, get me issues of the
Village Voice,
the
East Village Other,
and the
Soho Spirit
for the same period. Let’s see who did what. Meanwhile, I’m gonna call the client.”

Although Steinberg was not at his office, the message on Marty Blake’s answering machine was succinct enough:

Steinberg here. Look,
bubbe,
we got real lucky. The papers don’t hang onto photos unless they’re printed, but in this particular case, the DA’s office professed an interest in prosecuting the cops (which, by the way, never actually happened), and subpoenaed all the photos and every inch of videotape shot the night of the riot. Tomorrow morning, go down to the DA’s office, see an ADA named Benny Green. Benny’s an old friend of mine. He’ll have the package ready for you.

B
ILLY SOWELL LIES QUIETLY
on his bunk. He is trying to make a decision, but decisions do not come easily to him. He sits up and looks around his cell, notes the bare concrete walls, shakes his head. He feels the walls should be decorated, like the walls of other prisoners, though he will not put up photographs of spread-eagled women. Something about the open mouths, the gaping vaginas, the legs pulled back into the chest—Billy is not aroused; he is afraid.

But he thinks the whole thing is too much for him anyway. The sex thing. There are no pictures of naked men on anybody’s walls, not one single picture. So why do they come to him for sex? Why do they come to a boy if they want sex with a woman?

He thinks that maybe it’s because he
is
a woman. Now that he knows how to put on the eyeliner, the mascara, the lipstick. Now that he knows enough to make the men do their business quickly, which is something only a woman could know.

Billy hears the CO making his way along the catwalk. The CO’s name is Tompkins and he walks with heavy steps. Thud, thud, thud—not like the convicts who glide over the concrete like ghosts. Like cat ghosts.

“Sowell?”

“Yes.” Billy has learned not to look at the COs. He’s been told that it’s okay to look at them, as long as you don’t look in their eyes, but he doesn’t trust himself not to make a mistake.

“You gonna stay in your cell until the count?”

“Yes, I’ll be here.” He does not add the fact that he’s not allowed to leave, that he’d like to go out to the yard or to the movie, but Jackie Gee wants him to stay in his cell except for meals or work or to visit Chaplain Squires, which he does on Wednesday nights. Jackie Gee is Billy’s pimp. Billy is Jackie Gee’s property.

Billy listens to CO Tompkins’ retreating footsteps for a moment, then returns to his problem. The pictures in his book,
Bible Stories for Children,
would be perfect for his walls. Only he’s not sure that Chaplain Squires, who gave him
Bible Stories for Children,
won’t be mad at him for cutting the pages out. It’s a difficult decision for Billy; it requires every bit of subtlety he can bring to the problem.

The book was a gift. Chaplain Squires said he wouldn’t have to give it back, that it was
his
book. If it’s
his
book, he should be able to do anything he wants to it. Right?