Simple Intent (20 page)

“I’ll put in a call to the Superintendent,” Banning said. “I know Graterford has an EPA case pending, so they might want some legal advice.” 

Sailor thought she should say something positive, or do something. When she placed her hand against the mesh window, it matched perfectly with Ray’s. She felt the heat from his palm, the strength of his fingertips gripping the mesh. He looked at her, meeting her eyes for the first time. And when he dropped his hand, she kept hers there, feeling the loss. 

She whispered, “We can still do this.” 

“That’s right,” said Banning. “We have the earlier depositions and Stash’s case file. I wasn’t going to put him in front of the judge, anyway.”

Sailor dropped her hand to her lap. “Maybe this could work in your favor, like a conspiracy theory, or to show how your rights have been—” 

Banning cut her off before she could dig the hole any deeper. “Hang in there, Ray.” He stood. “You need anything?”

Ray looked at Sailor, who had her eyes on her shoes, and shook his head.

“All right then.”

The guard took his time letting them out.

For most cons, this was the hardest part: people leaving. It made an empty cell seem all the emptier, and a life sentence longer than life itself. 

For the visitors, it was like going to see Grandpa in the hospital. You hated going, weren’t sure how long you’d be there, and could only guess what condition he’d be in the next time you saw him.

Outside the prison, Sailor had mixed feelings. Pleasure at being back in the warm day, and guilt at taking for granted the freedom others could only dream of. She tried to remember Frost’s poem about the wall, and got as far as the opening line, “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,” before Banning said, “Quarter for your thoughts.”

“I thought it was a penny.”

“Inflation.” He smiled and put his hand on her shoulder as they walked. 

They drove from the concrete house in the country to brick in the city. Forced to take a detour, Banning negotiated through what might have been Ray’s old neighborhood. They drove past corner stores where kids in baggy pants blared music from parked cars, the bass throbbing in Sailor’s chest. Mothers sat on crumbling stoops smoking cigarettes while small, dark children splashed and squealed in plastic pools. 

They drove their fancy car through the wrong part of town, Banning telling her how things were in the good old days of Philadelphia, before graffiti took over the walls, before unemployment and welfare, broken families, drugs, disease, and drive-by shootings. He went back in time, to days of telephone poles and hanging wires, one-lane roads and horse carriages, sturdy houses with yards and flower-filled gardens. When people strolled down the street visiting neighbors on warm summer nights and you could hear radio music drifting from stuffy sitting rooms, where young couples planned their futures holding hands on the settee.

Sailor liked that, and wondered if it still existed—somewhere.

Reilly checked the clock on his computer then pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed, as if he could erase the last six hours of work. It was still quiet from Sailor’s side of the wall. He looked at the phone then decided he needed a break. 

Deluca’s outer office was empty. Reilly knocked once and entered. Sailor looked up from Deluca’s big desk and smiled, pleased to see him.

Reilly thought she was beautiful today, like yesterday, like every day. “Bon soir, Mademoiselle.” He made exaggerated bowing and saluting gestures. 

Sailor laughed.

Reilly sat on the corner of the desk. “So, how did it go? How’s Ray holding up?”

Sailor’s smile shrank. “He’s in RHU. I tried to call you.”

“What happened?”

She told him about Stash Neely and the accident and Ray. She said, “Banning’s making some calls now.” She turned the laptop toward Reilly, pointed to a message. When Reilly leaned in, Sailor smelled rosemary and pine needles. She didn’t know whether to dip him in red sauce or lie on top of him. 

He said, “Sounds like the sender wants to avoid confrontation.” He gestured to the keyboard. “May I?”

“Help yourself.” 

A few clicks later, a dictionary listing for ‘vitriol’ appeared. Reilly pointed to the word, ‘caustic’. “See, not good. Who sent this?”

Sailor shrugged. “I don’t know. It came from an anonymous account, routed from a public server.” 

“Wait a minute. This is Deluca’s email?”

Sailor hesitated, then nodded.

Reilly smiled. “Nice job.” He read it again. “Maybe the known opposition is another firm, it could have something to do with a current case.” Reilly watched Sailor’s thumb find her lower lip. He tore his eyes away and asked, “What’s Fast Eddie working on?”

“That’s just it.” She dropped her hands onto her lap. “As far as I know, there’s just this Witherspoon thing, and that’s basically pled out. His load is light. He even said something yesterday about taking a vacation.”

Reilly looked worried. “Fast Eddie doesn’t vacation.”

Sailor caught his eyes, held them with hers and forgot all about Deluca and the email and the office. She saw herself in Reilly’s pupil and looked deeper.

Reilly felt something. Sure, she had pretty eyes; lots of girls did. And yeah, she smelled nice. But when Sailor looked at him like this, there was something else. He felt like a cliff diver, balanced high above an emerald pool with the desire to leap.

THE light was green but the silver minivan didn’t budge. JR Pantaglioni felt like giving it a little shove in the ‘My child is an honor student’ bumper sticker. “Come on, lady, Jesus Christ.”

His passenger, Frankie “Four Eyes” Germano said, “She can’t go nowhere. There’s a cop holding a stop sign.”

“Holding a stop sign? The light’s green; you’re supposed to do what the light says, not what the sign says. And the light says, go.”

“Don’t you know anything? A cop overrules all the other signs and lights. If there’s a cop holding a sign that says, ‘Eat my shorts’, then that’s what you do.”

“Yeah, that’ll be the day.” 

“Hey, ain’t that him? Over there, with the fat kid.”

“Yeah, that’s him all right. Berger.”

Retired Detective Hiram Berger held a stop sign in his left hand and motioned to the crossing guard and her string of children. He watched them follow the crosswalk to another corner, look both ways and cross again. The guard made her way back to the school and Berger waved the buses out into the traffic. The sighs of the car drivers were audible. No one wanted to get stuck behind a noxious school bus on a hot afternoon in Philadelphia. 

“There, that’s the last of them buses.”

“I can see that, Four Eyes. Get out here. I’ll pull around.” 

The tall thin man wrenched himself from the Caprice and stepped to the curb as the line of cars edged forward impatiently.

Berger watched the buses pull away. He saw Four Eyes by the light post then heard the squeal of the Caprice’s tires on the hot asphalt as JR swung in tight behind the Impala. 

Berger walked to his car and tossed the hand sign through the open window, then pulled the reflective vest over his head.

JR came up behind him. “How’s it going, pal? Get the kiddies across the street in one piece? I would hate for something to happen on your shift.”

Berger spoke over his shoulder, “What the fuck are you doing here, Junior? You need someone to hold your dick, huh? Four Eyes can’t find it?” 

“Real funny, Berger. You ain’t gonna be laughing after the Boss is through with you. Come on. We’re going for a ride.”

“I don’t think so.” Berger brushed JR’s hand off his arm, reached for the Impala’s handle. “I’ve got other plans.”

JR smiled. Berger opened the car door and froze. Four Eyes sat in the passenger seat, one hand slung over the blue vinyl back, the other aiming a gun at Berger’s crotch. “Your plans have changed.” 

“Get in and drive,” JR said. “And no funny stuff. I’ll be right behind you.” He slammed the door, rattling the window in the frame.

Berger asked casually, too casually, “Where to?”

“I think you know. Gallo wants to ask you a few questions.” Four Eyes pushed up his thick glasses with his middle finger.

Berger pulled out, saw the Caprice follow. “You know, they make contacts now that anybody can wear.”

“It ain’t natural,” Four Eyes replied, shoving the glasses up again. “I mean, whoever came up with the idea to put a piece of plastic in your eye. Jesus.” He shuddered. 

Berger glanced sideways. “Bet you’d see better.”

“I see just fine. Had these glasses ten years now and still got twenty-twenty.” Four Eyes lowered the muzzle of the gun slightly.

“Yeah, twenty-twenty? That’s pretty good.”

“Yeah.”

“But what about your peripheral vision?”

“Per-what?”

“You know, how you see out of the sides of your eyes.”

“What the fuck you talking about, the sides of my eyes?”

Berger gunned the Impala’s big engine, swung out around the minivan in front of them and cut back in, just making it through the amber light and leaving JR in the Caprice sitting at the red light. 

“Jesus, where’d you learn to drive?” Four Eyes glanced into the side mirror. “You lost him! ”

Berger chopped his hand down hard on Four Eyes’ wrist, then slammed on the brakes throwing his unbelted passenger into the windshield. The pick-up truck behind them swerved to avoid the crash, jumped the curb and ran head first into a pizza shop. 

Berger reached for the gun that had slid from Four Eyes’ hand and fallen to the floor. He raced through traffic, going deeper into the city as JR came up fast behind him. Berger pulled into the passing lane. Going nowhere. He cut back in, ignoring the shouts and honking horns. There—an opening. Berger gunned the engine and sent the Impala surging down a side street, smashing through pothole after pothole. Four Eyes’ head banged into the starred windshield like a bobble-head toy. The last bounce jarred him awake. He turned his bloody face to Berger, thick lenses embedded in his pulpy forehead and squeezed the trigger.

“Fuck! You fucking shot me!” Berger grabbed his leg then pulled his hand away, bloody. “You son of a bitch!” 

Four Eyes slumped against the dashboard, his gun dangling from his limp hand.

The car catapulted down the narrow street. No one behind him—yet. He jammed his left foot on the brake and squealed into a parking garage. He smashed through the wooden gate and made his way down to the lowest level, to a dark corner behind an industrial van. 

Berger didn’t have much time. He figured the cops would send two cars to deal with the casualties back there, one to chase him. He ripped the keys from the ignition and surveyed the damage.

“Goddammit!” Berger pulled a rag from under the driver’s seat, tied it tightly around his leg. It looked like the bullet had gone straight through his calf. He pushed Four Eyes off the dashboard and reached into the glove box, grabbing his cell phone, his wallet and his ball cap. He slid the hat on his head and left the Impala, then limped to the elevator hitting re-dial on his phone as he hobbled along. 

On the second ring, and answer: “Hello?”

“Gina.” He struggled to slow his breathing. “I need your help.”

“Hi?’ She paused, knowing his tricks. “Listen, you agreed we needed some time apart, and I meant it, now if this is your idea of making up—”

”Gina, please. This isn’t about us. I really need your help.”

“Why? Are you off the meds again?”

“Gina, it’s not that. I need you to meet me at the library. Please, it’s important. And bring your first-aid kit.”

“First-aid kit? Hi? What’s going on?” 

He hung up as the elevator doors opened. Five minutes later he drove a borrowed car to Philadelphia’s Central Library on 19th and Vine.

“Chuck? I’ve gotta go out for a little while!” Gina yelled as she ripped off her apron and tossed it over the coat rack. She scrambled through drawers in her office, throwing a first aid kit and green t-shirt into her silver backpack purse.

Chuck stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips. “Hey! Where are you going?’ 

“I’ve got to run an errand.” Gina squeezed around him and jogged toward the front. “I’ll be back. Listen, call that new girl. Tell her to come in early, and make sure she pulls her hair back today, okay?”

Chuck nodded. “Hey, Gina?”

She looked back at the cook, one foot already in the sunlight.

“Be careful.”

Gina smiled grimly and was gone.

Deluca’s desk phone rang. Reilly reeled backward, blinking rapidly. What the hell? He eased himself from the edge of the desk, away from her eyes. The phone continued to ring. 

Sailor calmly raised the receiver. “Mr. Deluca’s office.” She listened then raised a brow at Reilly. 

The man on the other end sounded sick, or really drunk. “I said. Put Eddie on.”

“May I tell him who’s calling?” 

“No, you may not. Jesus Christ! Just put... him...on.” The guy groaned.