No Show of Remorse (7 page)

I took that to mean she didn't have any bug spray. “Anyway, Helene, you need to be careful. These creeps might get the idea to do something to
your
place.”

“I thought of that after we spoke last night, and this morning I called several of my graduates. One arrived an hour ago. The others will be here tomorrow. They'll watch the coach house, too. They … well, they're not easily frightened.”

“I can imagine.” The women the Lady took in were fresh off the street. Malnourished, strung out, many of them prostitutes and still terrified of the pimps they'd been hustling for. She had a group of “graduates” who'd take turns staying with them. “Not a pimp in the world who wouldn't back off from one of your graduates,” I said. “Even a sewer rat values its own stinking skin.”

“The pimps are victims, too, Malachy. Abused and beaten as children, they—”

“Fine, okay.” She had a point, but sometimes I didn't want to hear it. I stood up. “Let's find that vacuum cleaner and I'll get out of here.” She didn't move, though, so I sat back down.

“It is a bit puzzling, isn't it?” she said. “I mean, that conversation between Justice Flanagan and Mr. Woolford.”

“Well, I sure don't know why she wants me to get my license back.”

“She said there were ‘others' involved, so perhaps it's not she who cares, but those others. What interests me, though, is why she—or whoever—should care whether someone
objects
or not. May not the court grant your request, even despite there being objections?”

“Sure, if I'm still alive. Anyway, maybe she thinks they won't, not if—”

“She claims she can control the other justices, so…” She sipped her tea. “Does whether there are objections make a difference in how they handle your petition?”

“Objections or not, there'll be a hearing—like a trial—and I'll have to prove that I've been … rehabilitated.” I hadn't done anything wrong in the first place, so
rehabilitated
had a bad taste to it.

“And who'll testify at the trial?”

“If the commission doesn't file any objections it'll just be me, and some character witnesses to say that I'm a better person now than I used to be. If I can come up with anyone.”

“And if there
are
objections?”

“Then, after me and my witnesses, the commission's lawyer—that's Stefanie—would put on some witnesses. Probably people who are angry that I won't tell what that kid told me, because the cops are still looking for a guy that got away.” I swished the tea around in my cup. “You know, Helene, you've never once asked me what the kid said, or whether it would have helped catch anyone.”

“You gave your word you'd tell no one. Why would I ask?”

“I might tell you anyway, someday.” She didn't say anything, so I went on. “So, the commission's witnesses will say I shouldn't get my license back because I'm still standing in the way of justice being done.”

“And they'll testify about the shooting? The effects on the police officers and their families?”

“Stefanie already said—back when she first talked to Renata about my petition—that she intended to call the three surviving cops to testify. Then everyone could compare those heroes to me—a guy who doesn't care about justice, who still refuses to help identify a cop killer.”

“Ah, that's it.” She smiled, finally, and drank some tea. “That's probably it.”

“What's probably what?”

“Well, it seems Justice Flanagan, or whomever she's speaking for, doesn't care whether you get your license back or not. Don't you see?”

“Maybe I'm slow, because…” I stared at her. “You know,” I said, “I oughta drink as much of that tea as you do. It's not about my license, is it? What they're worried about is a
hearing,
or one where the commission puts on witnesses, anyway.”

“And why would that be?”

“It could only be because somebody doesn't want those cops testifying about what happened.”

“Well then, that's solved.” The Lady stood up. “The Hoover's in the hall closet.” She always called vacuum cleaners Hoovers. Maybe it was a British thing.

“Solved?” I said. “But why is Maura Flanagan, a supreme court justice, involved in the first place? And those cops will say what they said before about that shooting, whether it's true or not, so what's the big deal about them testifying? When you think about it, Helene, nothing's actually been
solved.
”

“But it's a start, Malachy.” She smiled. “And I have to leave
something
for you to do.” That was the Lady's idea of a joke, so I smiled, too.

One of her “graduates” showed up to escort us to the front door. Her name was Layla, the Lady said, and she seemed to be some mix of Asian and African-American, with skin the color of dark gold, and long, straight hair dyed auburn. She was very pretty, despite the scars—two thin parallel tracks, a quarter-inch apart—that ran from her left ear to her chin. She didn't smile, though, and the look in her eyes said she didn't take shit from pimps or anyone else.

Careful not to make her mad, I went out the door and down the stone driveway, dragging the Lady's Hoover with me.

CHAPTER

11

I
SPENT HALF THE NEXT MORNING
suffering through a workout with Dr. Sato, the
sensei.
The other half I spent at the Steinway, working on
“Moon River,”
a tune I hate, but one the drinkers can't get enough of.

Just before two o'clock, I parked the Cavalier beside a
No Parking
sign outside the Ralph Ellison Community Center, a tired-looking brick building on the corner of an old, neglected block in Englewood, on the south side. Rain had been predicted all day, and now an ominous wind had risen up and thunder rumbled in the distance. Inside the center, just beyond a small lobby, was a gymnasium barely large enough for one basketball court. It was warm and damp in there, smelling like perspiration and mildew, and the white paint on the old metal backboards had long ago turned yellow.

The players racing up and down the floor looked to be in their teens and early twenties—all of them African-American, two of them females. They whirled this way and that—sometimes haphazardly, it seemed—yelling, waving their arms. They were drenched in sweat, most of them panting as though they'd been at it too long. I stood there for several minutes and didn't see the ball go through either hoop. Then a skinny kid wearing goggles lofted a desperate one-hander from the top of the key. The ball caught the rim, bounced high in the air, then dropped through with a swish of the net.

Everyone clapped and cheered. Everyone. Both teams.

“Way to go, Randy!” Jimmy Coletta was clapping too. “Okay, everyone, it's late. Go home and shower up. See you Tuesday!”

The players, all of them in wheelchairs, whooped and exchanged high fives, then propelled themselves toward the far end of the gym, where family members and friends were waiting. A smiling Randy was still pumping one fist high in the air. His other hand was strapped down, with the fingers spread over the buttons of his chair's control box.

Coletta spun his own wheelchair around, his eyes bright with tears. When he saw me he faked a sneeze and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Allergies,” he said. He wore running shoes that had no laces, and dark blue shorts, and his legs were in pretty good shape, considering the muscles weren't able to function on their own. The slogan on his T-shirt said:
YES, I CAN! 'CAUSE I GOT JESUS IN MY CORNER!

“Mal Foley,” I said, stepping toward him.

“Right.” He didn't stretch out his hand to me.

“Seems like a great group of kids.”

“Yes.” He frowned, more to himself than at me. “Sometimes I think I push them too hard. Mostly, though, people don't push them hard enough.”

The gym echoed with laughter and raucous talk, as the players struggled to get into jackets and get their legs covered up—the ones who had legs—for the trip home. Then, without warning, all the lights went out and it was very dark and suddenly silent … and then came the deafening crash of nearby thunder. The lights flickered on, then off, and finally on to stay, and the rain came—in a million tiny pellets, blasted by the wind against the frosted glass of the high windows. The players clapped and cheered like patriots at a fireworks display.

“Looks to me like they love it,” I said. The muscles in Coletta's upper body, even through the T-shirt, were well-defined. “Looks like you work yourself pretty hard, too, officer.”

“I'm not a police officer,” he said, “although sometimes I let the kids call me that, so they can think of me as a cop who's on their side. I'm on disability, not with the department anymore.” He stared down at his thighs, massaging them with his hands. “I get a lot of physical therapy, and I work out six days a week.” He looked up. “I'm gonna walk again, you know. It's matter of the Lord's help, progress in medical science, and … and determination.”

“From what I hear,” I said, “determination seems—”

“Fine, let's get to it.” It was as though he'd suddenly remembered who I was. “I picked this place to meet because I wanted you to know that nobody'd be around to listen in. No wires, either.” He grabbed the hem of his T-shirt. “See?” He yanked the shirt up and off over his head.

“Right,” I said, and if pride in his physique was part of his motivation I could give him that. I sat on the bleachers—the lowest bench, so I'd have to look up a little to meet his eyes. “I've given up worrying about eavesdropping, anyway.” For all I knew, he could have had a micro-mike poked up his left nostril. “So let's just go ahead and talk.” When he nodded, I said, “I've filed a petition to get my law license back.”

“I know. That was inevitable.”

“Wrong.” He looked surprised, but said nothing. “Not inevitable at all,” I said. “In fact, it's never really been that important to me. I filed because it seemed to mean a lot to a woman, and the woman meant a lot to me.”

He smiled. “That'll do it.”

“Uh-huh.” His smile went away in a hurry, but to my surprise I started to like him. Damn. This was a guy whose family helped organize a campaign to convince the supreme court to keep me locked up in hell until I'd go back on my word to my client. The last thing I wanted was to like him. I didn't want to find out, either, that he really was someone who'd used a terrible misfortune to turn himself into a true-life hero, or that his born-again-Christian reputation was based on more than talk, or that his dedication to helping kids with handicaps, mostly minorities, was the real thing. Damn. “Anyway,” I said, “the woman's up and gone to Taos now … or somewhere.”

“Really?” The voice was casual enough, but I was paying attention.
Because,
as Dr. Sato loves to repeat,
attention is quite most important secret weapon.
Sometimes I do better than others, and this time I saw the muscles in Coletta's face and neck relax a little. “So,” he added, “are you dropping it?”

“I might have.” The look of hope—and that's what it was—disappeared. “Except I keep being followed around. By cops, I think. Coming right into my home, leaving what they think are very scary messages, telling me I better drop it.” A door slammed, and I noticed the gym was suddenly silent then, only the sound of the rain still slapping hard against the windows. “I'm like you, I guess. When something gets in my way it tends to increase my—what word did you use?—
‘determination.'
” I left medical science and the Lord out of it.

“So,” he said, “you're going ahead?” I nodded, and was surprised at how quickly the flush of anger flooded his face. “You don't even want that law license. But you wanna prove yourself. And you being a tough guy and all, you figure you'll start with the guy you think's a cripple, right?”

“‘Cripple?' I hadn't really thought about it. And if I start … well, forget it.” I knew his anger rose up out of fear—fear of the trouble I might unleash—and I should have backed off a little, but I was angry, too. “Someone's leaning on me, Coletta, and I intend to lean back, hard, on whoever it is. If you're there you'll get—” I finally caught myself, and took a deep breath. “Right now, though, I'm here just to talk … about what really happened that night at Lonnie Bright's place.”

“You don't need to talk to me. What happened is just what the police reports—” He stopped, and there was another shift in his expression. He looked down at his hand on the arm of the wheelchair.

“I'm listening,” I said.

He looked up at me and seemed angry again. “If somebody's following you around, threatening you, that's between you and them. I don't want to talk to you.”

“But I said I wanted to talk to you, and you said to come out.”

“Yeah, well, I changed my mind. I don't like being pushed either,” he added, “so get outta here.”

“Damn,” I said. “Why don't you give me a—”

“I don't really care if they give you back your blood-sucker's license, Foley. I just want you away from me.” He leaned forward; he'd lost the battle to control his temper. “And legs or no legs, I can still whip your tail.”

I stood up … and walked away. Jimmy Coletta couldn't whip my tail. With both legs and his dead brother back to help him, they couldn't have whipped my tail. So what should I do? Tell him that?

The gymnasium door fell closed behind me. There'd be other days. Besides, much of what I'd wanted from the man he'd told me.

I'd learned that, whatever he'd been before, Jimmy Coletta was a good man now, even if he had a temper he couldn't always keep under rein; and that he was worried—frightened, in fact—about my asking for my license back. He'd been relieved to think I might drop the idea, and then scared again to find out I wouldn't. I couldn't tell whether he knew who was putting the squeeze on me, but I was damn certain he wasn't involved. Most important of all, though, I'd learned Jimmy Coletta was a man who'd stop short when he caught himself about to tell a lie.