The Four-Night Run (23 page)

36

T
RENT
F
ALLOW
, PI, C
ONT
’
D
.

Finished with his rounds, Trent Fallow, PI, now heads home to reap the fruits of his sowing. His answering machine, he hopes, is full of answers. It would have been better, on a day like this, to have a cell phone bought cheap from Freaky Freddie, but at forty bucks a month for service, fuggetaboutit. It’s cheaper to pay to hijack a line off the fish store downstairs. Zero a month. Now that is a calling plan he can live with.

The street outside his office building is deserted, except for the girl who stations herself nightly outside Frankie’s shed, thin and skanky, with her hair lying flat and greasy on her pimply shoulders. It’s not the best or most energetic spot to hustle, the desultory corner outside Trent Fallow’s office, but then she’s not the best or most energetic whore. Though she does have, as Fallow has discovered on many a lazy night, a certain pleasant passivity and an indisputable talent with her tongue. As he wheezes toward his building, she edges toward him, her black rags still soaked from the rain. He waves her away. He’s got work to do, does Trent Fallow, PI. There’s no time to mess about with that mess of bones.

Slowly, and with great effort, he pushes his bulk up the stairs and into his office.

It’s not much, his office, just a room with a desk, a phone, file cabinets, and a large map of the city taped to the wall. Off to the side sits a storage room with a bed and a heating plate, and off the storage room sits a small bathroom with a toilet that overflows once a week and a sink in which he washes out his T-shirts and sponges himself every other morning or so. Hygiene, Trent Fallow, PI, has found, is overrated. Even before he checks his machine, he strips off his jacket, drops his pants, and plops onto the toilet, groaning out loud like a gut-shot bear. It streams out soft and burning. A stress shot. What could he expect? And the stink, oh, the stink. He can measure his level of stress from the stink, and this, oh my, this is off the scale. What is he going to do? What the hell is he going to do? What he is going to do is wipe his ass until it is raw and then check his machine.

There are six messages. He readies a pen and pad before he presses the button. All six messages tell him the same story. Scrbacek was in the Marina District, the cops came flying in, shots were fired, the only corpse was a dog. Scrbacek, that son of a bitch, got away. Trent Fallow, PI, listens with dread, relieved that no one else has yet found the lawyer, that he still has a hero’s shot to save his own life and collect the bounty, but scared, too, terrified that if everything goes right he’ll have to face all by his lonesome Scrbacek and that girl, that stone-cold girl.

Trent Fallow, PI, sits at his desk, waiting for the phone to ring. One hour. Two hours. He falls asleep in the chair, his fitful dreams full of sex and violence, sexy violence, violent sex, and wakes with a start, sweating and shivering, wakes to silence. Someone has to have seen something. Someone has to have a lead on where Scrbacek is now. Someone. He tells himself to calm down, but he can’t stop shivering. He’s too tense, he’s too scared, he’s useless. He needs something to regain his nerve.

He finds her at her usual spot, under the streetlamp beside the shuttered newspaper shack. She stands before him, her eyes dark sockets, her collarbone protruding.

“Five dollars,” he says.

“Twenty-five.”

“Now you’re being silly.”

“Get lost, then, you cheap smelly bastard.”

“And who am I bidding against, Mia?” he says, waving his arm to take in the whole of the empty street.

“I’ve got standards.”

“You’ve got nothing but me.”

“You’re a pig.”

“A pig with a fiver, what needs a blow job.”

“He’ll beat me if I settle for that.”

“What do I care what the likes of him does to the likes of you? Come on up or not—it’s your decision.”

She hesitates a moment, looks around, and then begins to follow him to the building, saying under her breath, “You walking fart.”

He stops, turns around, takes a step toward her. “What did you say, you whore?”

“I said you’re a walking fart.”

He looks at her for a moment, at the defiant hatred in her eyes, and feels himself grow hard. He takes another step forward, slaps her across the face, and then grabs her hand and rubs it across his swelling crotch. “Be sure to take it all in. It’s pure protein, baby, and you could use some meat on those bones.”

Up the stairs, he opens the door for her. She walks, hunched over, through the doorway and stops suddenly.

“My Lord,” she says. “What died?”

He locks the door behind him and opens his belt.

It is dark in the office, only a crack of light slipping from the barely open door of the lit bathroom and the dim glow of the streetlight bathing everything in a tarnished silver. He lets his jeans fall, and his boxers; they pool around his ankles like a Great Lake. He stands in front of her wearing only his T-shirt and holster and boots.

The bottom of his stomach glistens with sweat in the narrow light as it sags below the shirt, his thighs are huge and lumpy as if injected with great mounds of curdled lard, his knees are grossly dimpled, his calves are overstuffed sausages erupting from his boots, and his ass, his ass is as big as all creation. From the matted, twisted hair of his crotch protrudes his skinny uncircumcised dick, like the probing proboscis of an anteater.

“God, you’re ugly,” she says.

“You better believe it, baby. Now on your knees. And if you want to dig your nails into my ass while you’re at it, feel free.”

She’s a few minutes in, squatting on her haunches, gagging at the gamy, coffee-flavored taste of him, thinking of the glamorous life of the call girl for which she left the secretarial pool. Her mouth feels to him like a sink of warm soapy water. He grips her head with both hands and jams it back and forth, into and away from his crotch, back and forth, back and forth—baby, yes, baby—back and forth, and forth, and fucking forth, when he glances up and sees a shadow slip through the darkness of the storage room.

“What the—?” is all he can get out before the shadow splits into two.

He can see only silhouettes, one taller, in a long coat, the other shorter, thin, a girl with broad shoulders and an assault rifle held at the ready. He pushes the whore away, starts to run to his right. His feet tangle in the clothes at his ankles and he falls so hard the room shakes.

On the floor he rolls onto his back and is reaching for the Colt Detective Special still holstered in his armpit when the girl with the gun says, “Don’t,” and he freezes.

“Hey, Trent,” says the second silhouette, stepping forward until it stands over his half-naked, supine figure. In the thin silver light, Trent Fallow, PI, can detect the silhouette’s features. J.D. Scrbacek, as if he didn’t already know. “How’s it going, buddy? Sorry about barging in like this. Am I interrupting something?”

“Well, you know, I was—”

“Good. I’m glad it was nothing important. Word I got is you’ve been looking for me.”

“You know, J.D., as a matter of fact, with all this stuff happening I was concerned about—”

“You were concerned? Really?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m touched, Trent, touched.”

Scrbacek kneels down over Trent Fallow’s torso, swats Fallow’s hand away from the holster beneath Fallow’s armpit, and himself pulls out the Colt Detective Special, hefting it in his hand.

“Nice piece.”

“Thanks.”

Scrbacek takes hold of the gun by the grip, his finger on the trigger, and starts aiming it around the room. “You could do some damage with this baby.”

“Careful with that. It’s loaded.”

“Is it?” says Scrbacek, waving it loosely now back and forth between Fallow’s head, eyes bulging, and his bulging stomach. “But I’m sure the safety’s on.”

“There is no safety.”

“No safety? That could be dangerous.”

“Yo, J.D., what are you doing here?”

“Trent, buddy, remember that time when you called and asked about the file you had given me about your case, that Mendoza matter, where you were just helping the man vacate unsafe premises, and I told you we’d talk about it after the Breest trial was finished?”

“Yeah, I remember. So?”

“Well, good news, you fat fuck. Trial’s over. Time to talk.”

37

M
ONEY AND
H
APPINESS

Trent Fallow, PI, sat behind his desk, pants back up, thank God, ankles and hands bound with duct tape, his torso and legs taped tightly to the chair, trussed like a well-stuffed turkey ready for roasting. Feed a family of forty with plenty left over for sandwiches the next day.

Mia the whore was back on the street, three Ben Franklins warming her breasts in exchange for her promise to tell no one what she had seen, wondering at the price of a bus ticket to Chicago. The Nightingale was perched atop the roof of Fallow’s building, scanning the streets below. And J.D. Scrbacek, on the loose again after being allowed by Surwin to just walk away, was searching through Trent Fallow’s files, one by one, as he spoke to the man in the chair. “Mendoza,” he said. “Let’s start with Mendoza.”

“I got nothing to say,” said Trent Fallow.

Scrbacek stopped, lifted the Colt Detective Special from the top of the cabinet, aimed it at Fallow’s face.

Fallow winced.

“Who painted your face bruise?”

“Bozant.”

“He did such a nice job it would be a shame to ruin it.” Scrbacek lowered the muzzle until it was approximately in line with Fallow’s crotch. “Mendoza,” said Scrbacek.

“You wouldn’t,” said Fallow. “Your balls aren’t big enough.”

Scrbacek cocked the gun and waited for a moment. Then he gently pulled the hammer and let it slide harmlessly back into place. “You’re right,” he said.

A broad smile broke out on Fallow’s swollen face. “I knew it. You’re too pussy to pull this off. Just let me go, J.D. I won’t tell a soul where you are. I promise. You have my word.”

“Your word? Please. I don’t have what it takes to shoot off your nuts, true, but the Nightingale does. Wait just a minute while I get her.”

“No, don’t,” he said, his face red from the pressure of the tape with which she had so tightly bound him. “She’s cold, that bitch. Stone-cold.”

“So they say.”

“She’ll do it.”

“Not only that,” said Scrbacek. “She’ll do it well, and she’ll like it. Mendoza.”

“You read the file.”

“But it’s gone. They burned it. I need the original.”

“I gave the original to you.”

“Then where are the copies?”

“I didn’t make any copies.”

“What kind of idiot doesn’t make any copies?” Scrbacek looked up and down at Fallow, taped to the chair, and shrugged. “All right, you’ll just have to tell it to me. Mendoza.”

“I thought you read the file.”

“I lied. I was too busy with the Breest case to look over your crappy file. Whenever a lawyer says he looked at the file, it means he intends to, sometime in the future, probably on the way to court.”

“So you could have given it back to me when I asked and never known what was inside?”

“That’s right.”

“But you had to lie.” Fallow laughed. “You’re a lawyer. You couldn’t help yourself.” He laughed harder. “And none of this would have happened. None of it.” He laughed until his body convulsed with laughter. “Who’s the idiot now, Scrbacek?”

Scrbacek let him laugh, let the hysteria build until tears streamed down as Fallow fought for breath, waited without a trace of amusement for the guffaws to devolve into chuckles, and the chuckles to peter out like a choked outboard until the jag ended with a high-pitched sigh.

“Tell me about Mendoza,” said Scrbacek when it was over.

“I can’t,” said Fallow, laughter tears drying on his cheek, the afterburn of a smile still on his face. “Bozant will kill me. He’ll fillet my ass off the bone with his knife.”

“Must be a hell of a knife. Who’s he working for?”

“Does it matter? He’ll kill me.”

Scrbacek took some crumpled bills out of his pocket, sorted them out, tossed several onto the desktop. “Five hundred dollars. You can get out of town as soon as we’re through here. Burrow in someplace, hide so he’ll never find you. Start over. A new job, a new life. Maybe find an all-you-can-eat buffet that doesn’t have your photo posted.”

“He won’t stop until he finds me.”

“The Nightingale doesn’t even have to search.”

Trent Fallow stared at the five bills on the desk.

“I’ll go get her,” said Scrbacek.

“No. Don’t.” Fallow eyed the bills on his desk. “You got any more to add to that pile?”

Scrbacek took out another hundred and tossed it atop the others.

Fallow stared.

Scrbacek took out another. “That’s it.”

“A man’s got to eat.”

“Mendoza,” said Scrbacek.

Fallow looked at him, down at the seven hundred dollars on the desk, back up at Scrbacek.

Scrbacek waited a moment more. He was just reaching to take the money back when Fallow said, “Mendoza was nothing.”

“Tell it.”

“He was just a guy who wouldn’t leave. I lost control, and when the doctor saw what he looked like, she called in the cops and the loser talked. That’s all Mendoza was, one of hundreds. The job was to clear them out. A sharp lawyer got some judge named Dick or something to declare the buildings unsafe so I could clear them legally.”

“Judge Dickerson?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Chief Judge Dickerson?”

“I suppose. He was the one what signed the orders.”

“Condemnation orders?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“How many buildings did Judge Dickerson condemn?”

“Dozens. I hated that job, tramping door to door to give the bad news, roaches falling on my head. It’s not like these places were palaces. 63 West Polk. 694 Fillmore. 38 North Taft—that was Mendoza’s building. The vultures in the city had already pretty much taken these places apart. It was like they had been squeezed already for anything of any worth. My job was to evict the hangers-on, the ones like Mendoza who stayed only because they had no place left to go.”

“Who was the client?”

“Galloway.”

“The developer?”

“Yeah, sure, if that’s what you want to call her, though all she develops is slums. She owns half the city, Frances Galloway, and still she’s the cheapest bitch I ever met. Said she’d take me to lunch to set the thing up. Dragged me to some hot dog vendor. And then after she took her dog, she turned her back. I had to pay. Woman’s worth fucking millions and can’t even buy herself a hot dog. So there we were, this millionaire slut, all dressed to the nines, and me, eating hot dogs on the street as she told me the plan. She wanted to redo the buildings, she said, make them shiny and nice. But to do that, she needed them cleared, so she got her lawyer to do the legal work and wanted me to make sure of the evictions. I was going to be her Sherman, she said, which I understood completely. She wanted me to be strong like a Sherman tank, to roll over obstacles and blow away anything got in my way. That’s what I did with Mendoza, just like she said.”

“How’d a loser like you end up with a big-time operator like Frances Galloway?”

“Torresdale set it up. I mean, not for free. Not out of the goodness of his heart, you know what I mean? He got his twenty percent just like when I worked for you. But he set it up, and Galloway’s got pockets, know what I mean?”

“So Joey Torresdale and Frances Galloway are somehow linked. That means Breest is involved.” Scrbacek sidled over to the map of the city hanging on one of the dingy office walls. “Any idea who brought Caleb Breest and Frances Galloway together?”

“They tell me nothing but what to do and when to do it. I’d love to get inside one of them deals, take some points, make some real money, but I’m just a drone to them.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Trent,” said Scrbacek, staring now at the map. “What were those addresses again?”

“63 West Polk.”

He searched for the location on the map. The map had street numbers indicated, and he quickly found the spot. “All right. Next.”

“694 Fillmore.”

“Okay. Next.”

“There was one at 79 West Polk.”

“Go ahead.”

“And 223 Harrison.”

“Right. And you said something about North Taft?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Son of a bitch. Hey, Fallow, give me a pen.”

“Fuck you. I look like I’m in any condition to play your butler?”

Scrbacek turned to look at Trent Fallow, trussed in his chair, and shrugged out a “Sorry” before darting to the desk, searching through the junk on top to find a pen, and then heading back to the map to mark the locations. “Give me some more addresses.”

“I don’t remember them all.”

“Just give me what you know, all right?”

Trent Fallow let loose a string of numbers linked to names: Pierce, Hayes, Van Buren, Tyler, Taylor, Arthur, Cleveland, Harding, the whole gamut of undistinguished presidents after whom many of the streets in Crapstown were named. The greater presidential names—Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Kennedy—were reserved for the boulevards of Casinoland. One by one Scrbacek marked the locations on the map, and when it was over it looked like he had drawn a graph, something like a supply curve in an economics textbook or a well-correlated example of money and happiness, not a bell-shaped curve but something straight and wide, moving upward to the right.

Scrbacek took a step back from the map and stared at it for a moment. “You remember the Ever-Dry factory?”

“Sure,” said Trent Fallow. “‘Keeping the rain off your parade.’ What they needed was a little more rain to put out that fire.”

“What was the address of that place, do you remember?”

“I don’t know. Something like Ninth and Garfield.”

Scrbacek stepped slowly to the map, made another mark, and then stepped back again, shaking his head and sucking his teeth, staring and staring.

“You got it wrong, Trent,” Scrbacek said, finally, “the remark about Sherman.”

“What do you mean?”

“Galloway wasn’t talking about the tank, she was talking about William Tecumseh and his march from Atlanta to the sea. Look what you’ve done here. You’ve cleared out a direct path from Diamond’s Mount Olympus to the Marina District, where James E. Diamond plans to build his new casino resort. Galloway and Caleb Breest have somehow gotten together to buy up and clear the land for Diamond’s highway straight through the heart of Crapstown. Breest ruins the properties with crime, Galloway buys them cheap, and Chief Judge Dickerson signs the orders that lets you clear them of tenants so they can be knocked down with no fuss, no muss. It’s like a highway through the heart of the city to Diamond’s new casino has already been built.”

“I thought the politicians hadn’t yet given the Marina District plan the okay.”

“Well, Breest and Galloway have sort of preempted City Council, wouldn’t you say? Either they figure it’s a done deal and are working together to make a killing when they sell out to Diamond, or . . .”

“Or what?”

Scrbacek stared for a moment more at the map.

“Who’s Bozant working for?” Scrbacek said.

“Breest, I thought. Or maybe Galloway. While he was beating the shit out of me he wasn’t, like, into answering my questions. He told me what to do, and I did it.”

“Galloway ever mention Diamond?”

“Never.”

“Never mentioned some business partner or some big megaplan?”

“It’s not like she confided in me.”

“How often did you guys meet?”

“That one time, with the hot dogs, was all. After that she told me I should deal with her lawyer, the one that was getting all those orders from that Judge Dick.”

“Chief Judge Dickerson. Who was the lawyer?”

“A cocky little Cuban asshole. Treated me like shit.”

“What was his name, Trent?”

“Vega. Yeah. Like the car. Something something Vega.”