Racing the Rain (36 page)

“All right, I'm ready, I guess,” Cassidy said. He was stripped down to shorts and his kangaroo-skin racing spikes, no socks or shirt. His skinny chest was shiny with sweat. He jogged around in circles, nervous as a squirrel, anxious to get it over with. He had never run a three-quarter-mile race or time trial before and had no idea what to expect. Lenny had run his three-quarter leg at that relay meet, but he'd blown up and finished in 3:27. Mr. Kamrad had been hoping for a 3:20 out of him.

“All right,” said Mr. Kamrad, “let's run even splits, pretty much as you feel, but Archie thinks you should try to hit sixty-three for the first one and—”

“Sixty-three!” Cassidy almost laughed.

“Remember, it's not a full mile. That makes a big difference. Anyway, just do the best you can. Not one hundred percent sprinting flat out, but otherwise pretty much a full effort. Okay?”

“Well, if I'm not going to race anyway, I might as well get a decent time trial out of it,” said Cassidy. He stepped up to the starting post, put his toe carefully on the starting line, and waited for the start commands.

“W
hat are you doing right now?” Joe Kern asked. Cassidy had answered the kitchen phone because his mother was holding a tray of biscuits with both hands.

“Finishing breakfast, getting ready for school,” said Cassidy.

“Okay, never mind that right now. You've got a suit and tie, don't you?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Okay, put them on. I'll be over in about ten minutes.”

“But I—”

“No time. Just do it. Kamrad will take care of everything at school. See you in ten.”

The universe seemed somehow askew wearing Sunday clothes on a Wednesday morning.

“You clean up pretty good,” said Uncle Joe, as Cassidy got in the passenger side of his Eldorado. “You tell your mom tonight I'm sorry I didn't come in. We don't have a lot of time.”

“Okay. But can you tell me—”

“All will be revealed in due course. Meanwhile, I want you to get your mind back in gear for that race on Saturday.”

“Uncle Joe, I've already—”

“I know,” he said, opening his hands but keeping them on the steering wheel. “I know, but just do it.”

Joe Kern sighed, looked across the seat at him with a little smile, but not unsympathetically.

“When all is said and done, you are going to feel just terrifically sorry for everything you're putting me through right now,” he said.

“I already do,” Cassidy said, looking down.

“Not like you're gonna. I almost got Judge Beranek to give us a continuance. The prosecutor didn't object, but the judge said no go.”

“I don't understand . . .”

“All in due course, my young friend.”

They rode in silence down A1A, the car's AC on high. Cassidy was curious but knew better than to ask any more questions. Finally, Joe patted him on the knee.

“Don't fret, son. It might interest you to know that no one thought you'd stick to your guns except me. I told them that they just didn't truly understand the nature of a kid who will hold his breath thirty feet underwater until he passes out.”

Cassidy didn't say anything. Hardly anyone mentioned that anymore. He looked around, amazed to see that they were in downtown West Palm Beach.

“I'm not criticizing you. It's actually a compliment,” said Uncle Joe. He chuckled as he turned in to the parking lot of the Palm Beach County Jail. Several parking spaces were marked
ATTORNEYS ONLY
.

“Good morning, Counselor!” said the large bald man behind the barred window. He wore a deputy's uniform with a badge over the pocket and blue jeans. Cassidy thought his forearms might have been just a tad bigger than his own thighs. They were in a small anteroom, separated from the jail proper by a heavy metal door that kept buzzing, opening to let deputies in or out, then slamming shut with a loud clang.
It's a jail all right
, thought Cassidy.

“Morning, Tommy,” said Joe, signing the sheet on the clipboard the deputy handed him. “Meet my paralegal, Mr. Cassidy.”

“Mr. Cassidy, a pleasure,” Tommy said, handing the clipboard to him. “If you would please sign in, sir.”

No one had ever called him “sir” for real before. Wide-eyed, he signed the next line, then added the same date and time Joe Kern had.

“They're all waiting for you,” said Tommy. “Room three.”

The door buzzed and Joe pushed through it, holding it for Cassidy. When it slammed behind him, Cassidy had a momentary attack of claustrophobia, which he suppressed by force of will. There were offices all along the corridor, but then they came to another desk staffed by a deputy, and another heavy door. The deputy looked up from his paperwork and smiled at them.

“Joe,” he said.

“Don,” said Joe Kern. “My assistant, Quenton.”

“Sir,” said the deputy. There it was again.

The door buzzed and, with some effort, Joe pushed it open and held it for Cassidy. Inside, Cassidy's senses were immediately assaulted by a greenish glow and a cacophony of metallic clangs, angry curses, flushing toilets, and an odd wailing sound. Cassidy's eyes widened.

They were walking past the green-barred cells now, the inhabitants reminding Cassidy of nothing so much as zoo animals. Some were pacing back and forth, some ignored him, some stared at him with a glazed expression. All wore the same bright orange jumpsuits.

They passed one empty cell and then at the corner Cassidy looked in and was shocked to see familiar faces. In the back of the cell, sitting on metal cots attached to the wall and suspended on either end by lengths of chain, were Lucky Holzapfel and Bobby Lincoln. If they recognized Cassidy, they didn't show it.

“Just a sec,” said Joe Kern, going over to the cell. Lucky got up as soon as he saw Joe and came over to the bars. Bobby Lincoln sat on his bunk, scowling at nothing in particular.

“I called him for you and he said he'd look into it,” Joe said.

“Hey, thanks, Counselor. I really appreciate that,” said Lucky.

“But for future reference, you need to let your own lawyer deal with the bondsman. This was a personal favor. I don't represent you in this case.”

Lucky shrugged and smiled, all charm.

“Damn public defenders,” he said.

“At any rate . . .”

“Hey, no kidding, I appreciate this.”

“Sure, Floyd. And good luck to you,” said Joe, taking Cassidy by the elbow and leading him down the corridor.

“What . . .”

Joe held a finger up to his lips until they were out of earshot.

“They're in for running a still out in Belle Glade. That, and a few other things. They are lively boys. They're in the cell next to Trapper. Come on, he's waiting for us.”

At the end of the corridor were a series of small conference rooms. Joe went to the one with a number three over the door and held it open for Cassidy.

Inside was Trapper Nelson, dressed in the same green jumpsuit. He sprang up with a huge smile and bear-hugged Quenton Cassidy, who stared at him, flabbergasted.

“Sit, sit,” said Trapper. “We've got some stuff to talk about. First, meet Phil O'Connell.”

The short, solid-looking man had been sitting on a wooden chair in the corner, talking on the telephone and smoking a cigarette, an ashtray in his lap. He hung up, put the ashtray on the floor, and stood up to shake hands with Cassidy.

“Quenton,” said Joe Kern, “Mr. O'Connell is the state attorney for the fifteenth judicial circuit. His office prosecutes crimes committed in this circuit. Phil, do you want—”

“Sure. All right, young man. I understand we have a problem regarding Trapper here and the case he's supposed to be charged with. I'm not sure I understand why you think this hearing coming up Friday is so important that it needs to interfere with your sports program, but I have been told that it is, and I have been importuned to be here today to help do something about that. Now first, everything said in this room is to be held in the strictest of confidence, I trust you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, I have a meeting I need to get to, so let me just say that what these gentlemen are about to tell you is in fact the truth and that you may rely on any representations that they make to you regarding this, uh, situation, as well as my role in it. In other words, this is in no way an attempt to fool you or trick you, or anything like that, so pay attention and act accordingly. These gentlemen obviously think very highly of you or they would not have gone to this trouble. Okay, I need to go. Are we clear on this? You know who I am and understand what I have just said to you, right?”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Thanks, Phil,” said Joe Kern, shaking hands. Trapper got up and, to Cassidy's amazement, also shook hands with the man who was trying to put him in the electric chair.

* * *

Mr. Kamrad was waiting for him by the high-jump pit.

“Everything okay?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“So you're all set for this weekend?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything you need to talk about?”

“No, sir. Actually, I'm not supposed to say anything.” He smiled at Mr. Kamrad.

“All right. Easy warm-up and striders. Then a quick set of 220s and a cooldown. That's it. Tomorrow we'll drive up there and get checked into the motel. Then we'll jog some and do a few striders. Then dinner and bed. Your prelim is at eleven in the morning on Friday.”

“Okay.”

“Archie says don't think about the race until you start your warm-up. Not in the car, not sitting around in the motel. He says that all it does is dump adrenaline into your system and get you worked up and tired out for nothing. He says listen to the radio or read or watch TV, but keep your mind off the race. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

“I can't
believe
how good I feel.”

“You seem distracted. What's on your mind?”

“Just, I don't know . . .”

“Yes?”

“Just, maybe becoming the state champion in the mile run, that's all.”

T
rapper Nelson let himself into room 206 at the Mutiny Motel in downtown West Palm Beach. He put the two brown bags on the Formica table by the window, where Lucky Holzapfel was waiting, eyes fixed on the bags.

“George Dickel,” he said, pulling out one of the bottles. “Good man!”

“Where'd Bobby go?” said Trapper.

“He got one of his cabbies to come pick him up. I don't know if you noticed, but he ain't that sociable. They don't allow colored in this place anyway,” said Lucky, cracking the seal and sniffing the top of the bottle.

He half filled one of the cloudy-looking glasses from the bathroom and immediately started drinking from it even as he filled Trapper's glass.

“You mind if I turn this noisy thing off?” said Trapper, motioning at the air conditioner in the wall beside them. He shivered. “I'm not used to it. Probably get pneumonia.” Lucky shook his head, still drinking.

“I don't give a shit,” he said, breathless and grimacing from the bite of the bourbon. “I'd sleep in a ditch in a rainstorm tonight. Anyplace but that goddamn jail. I hate that fugging place.” He kept the bottle within easy reach.

“I guess you've been in a few times?” said Trapper.

Lucky grinned at him. “You could say that. You?”

“Oh yeah, some.” Trapper threw back the contents of the glass and made a grimace like Lucky had. He coughed, looked into the glass like he expected to find something interesting in the bottom.

“I never knew you to be a brown liquor man,” said Lucky, pouring Trapper's glass half full again. Lucky was almost finished with his second glass, so in the interest of efficiency he topped it off again.

“Oh, I love it,” Trapper said, holding the glass admiringly up to the light. “There's lots of stuff about me that people don't know, and that suits me just fine.” He took a big slug of the bourbon without much reaction this time.

Lucky laughed and slapped his knee.

“I knew it! I knew you was up to somethin' out there on the river.
Had
to be up to somethin' to put away the kind of money you do.”

Trapper looked surprised.

“It's mostly in land,” he said quietly. “I don't live big.”

Lucky laughed again. He was starting to perspire, dampening the dirty shorts and T-shirt he'd been wearing when they'd arrested him at the bar of the Crab Pot three days earlier. He glanced at the silent air conditioner a moment, then poured another glass. They drank in silence for a while, then Lucky sat up straight and looked at Trapper Nelson with a big grin.

“How about that moonshiner they say you killed?” he said. “Did you do him?”

Trapper finished his glass and slid it across the table to Lucky.

“Nope, but I can understand how they mighta thought I did. I had some . . . shall we say unpleasant dealings with the man.”

“I already knew you didn't do it,” said Lucky, pouring another half glass for Trapper, who took it and drank half of it off, wiping his lips with the back of his forearm.

“How'd you know that, Lucky?”

Lucky laughed, swaying in his seat.

“ 'Cause I know who did!”

Lucky slammed the table with his hand, bent over in laughter, which Trapper joined in. Lucky
liked
this guy. Much better company than that sourpuss Bobby.

“So there's stuff about you that people don't know, either,” said Trapper. “Here, let me help you with that. You're spilling.”

Trapper took the bottle and filled Lucky's glass all the way to the top. Lucky sat, swaying back and forth in his seat, looking at the glass of bourbon like he was doing algebra in his head.