The Judgment (41 page)

“Did she get going-away presents? One big one?”

“Well, I contributed twenty bucks to something. But I don’t know the physical size, whatever it was. I’ll have to check on that.”

“Do you think the Mouse was in on it?”

“Sure.”

“Could she have delivered the take to the Mouse once she got out the door?”

“Sure.”

“If it happened the way I’m suggesting it did, then it would have taken a lot of nerve on her part. Is she cool enough to pull off something like this?”

“She has the reserves of cool you and I could only envy, Sloan.”

“But why would she have agreed to it? Why would she have done it?”

“Two reasons. Career insurance—she’s even more obsessed by her future, by getting ahead, than I was at her age.”

“Okay, what’s the other reason?”

“To get back at me.”

I let that go for the time being. I’d met her twice, talked at length with her once. I couldn’t understand the reason for the animosity she seemed to feel toward Conroy, but there was no denying that it was there. For what, though? What had he done to her to inspire such desire for revenge?

“Where are we headed, anyway?” I asked him.

“We’re going to hang a left at Flint and take Twenty-three down to Ann Arbor. I know a good place for lunch
right outside of town. We’re going to box the compass today, Sloan.”

I was saddened to find Ismail Carter in a convalescent home. Maybe it was temporary, a period of recovery from who knew what sort of surgery or illness. But remembering his political history, which must have begun some time in the Thirties, I realized he now had to be in his middle to late seventies, at least. I supposed that I expected him to look just as he did then. But I knew he would not.

The nursing home in question, the Parkview, lay out beyond Parker and UAW Headquarters and turned out to be, quite reasonably, at the corner of Parkview and Jefferson. Saturday traffic was light. Parking was easy. I left my car right on Jefferson no more than a half block beyond the nursing home and walked back to the entrance. It was a good-sized building in good repair and looked like it might have begun life many decades past as a hotel, or an apartment hotel. In any case, it looked a lot better than newer buildings around it.

I started up the steps in a purposeful march, entered the building, and continued up another short flight of stairs to the reception office. It, too, was protected by a wall of bulletproof plastic like the one in that convenience store near Mary Margaret Tucker’s place, though a nursing home did seem an unlikely target for armed robbery. I walked right up to the transparent wall and spoke through the three holes that had been drilled through it.

“I’d like to see one of your patients.”

The young black girl on the other side of the wall smiled prettily and said, “We call them guests.”

“Well, all right then, one of your guests—Mr. Ismail Carter.”

“Just a moment, please. If you’ll wait at the door, I’ll summon the superintendent of his floor.”

I did as directed, but the promised moment was more like a full five minutes. When she came, the floor superintendent
was apologetic in a no-nonsense professional way. She buzzed me in and started off rapidly down the hall. I assumed I was to follow.

“What sort of shape is he in?” I called out to her back.

“Not bad, considering.”

Considering what?

“Can he talk? Can he see visitors?”

“Oh, he likes visitors. You’ll see.”

I had just about caught up with her when she stopped suddenly and gestured to an open doorway from which football sounds emanated.

“Stay as long as you like,” she said. “Dinner isn’t until five-thirty.”

I muttered a thank-you and went into the room. He’d been there a while, I could tell. Mementos and framed photos seemed to cover every surface of the stark, institutional furniture. There were a few books piled on the night table by the bed. Ismail was sitting in the Eames chair that was somewhat out of harmony with the rest of the room but seemed right for him. He sat in it comfortably, dressed in silk pajamas and a handsome terry-cloth robe, his slippered feet propped on the Eames ottoman. I knew it had to be Ismail Carter, but age had changed him, whitened his hair completely, shrunk him, thinned him, lined his face. I had a moment to look, for as I entered, he was facing away, concentrating on the football game. It was then that I also noticed the oxygen cylinder on the far side of the chair. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

“Ismail?”

He looked up alertly, frowned for a moment, and then broke into a smile.

“Maybe I ought to come a little later,” I said. “You look pretty comfortable.”

Age had changed his voice—or maybe it was something more than age. He spoke weakly, not much above a whisper. Ismail held out the remote tuner and zapped off the football game, then reached out to shake my hand.

“Pull over that chair and sit down,” he said.

I did as directed and took a place next to him.

“It’s been a while,” I said.

“Yes it has, but my, wasn’t that an occasion! The way you ran them up there to the witness box, it was just like the Miss Bronze America Pageant right in the courtroom, wasn’t it? Now, wasn’t it?”

“No doubt about it.”

“Man, I could pick ’em, couldn’t I?”

“No doubt about that, either.”

He began laughing. His laugh ended in a cough, and he reached over to the oxygen tank, took the mask off the top, and put it over his face. After taking a couple of deep hits, he returned the mask to the cylinder and switched off the valve. The way he went about it, I could tell it was all strictly routine for him. It helped, though. He sat up a little straighter, seemed perceptibly stronger.

“Great stuff, oxygen, good for what ails you.” His voice was stronger, too.

“What’s the problem, Ismail?”

“Old age is the problem, Charley. I’m eighty. They never thought I’d make it to eighty with this emphysema I got. See, it was those damned little cigars I used to smoke put me in this condition. I used to inhale ’em just like cigarettes. Truth is, if they were cigarettes, I’d a been dead a long time ago. But I loved them, no doubt about that. You pays your money, and you takes your chances. That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it?”

“I guess when it comes right down to it, that’s what we all do. How long have you been in here?”

“Five years—ever since they put me on oxygen. They bring people around to see me like I was the eighth wonder of the world or somethin’. Doctor says it’s a marvel I’ve survived this long with these lungs of mine. My secret is, I keep eating. Whatever they put in front of me, man, I put it down.” He grinned. Then the grin faded quickly. “Yessir, I been he-re in Parkview .five years, but I keep in touch—read the papers, keep my ear to the ground, got
my own private communications network. I heard a lot about you lately, Charley Sloan.”

“Not much of it good, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, now, I wouldn’t say that.”

“I messed up pretty good, Ismail. Since we last met, I drank my way through two—no, three marriages, lost some cases I shouldn’t have, lost a big income, and a perfectly good Rolls-Royce—all to the bottle.”

“Well, some of us have problems like that. I never did.”

“I hit bottom—lost it all.”

“No, Charley, the way I heard it, you almost hit bottom. You got a year’s suspension from the Bar Association, then you went up to that little town by Port Huron, kicked the booze, and you been working your way back.”

I nodded. “Well, I’ve been trying. I’m what they call a recovering alcoholic.”

“They got all kinds of fancy names for things these days. Main thing is, you’re off the stuff now, and I hear you won a couple of pretty big cases. I know you did. I read it in the papers. I just couldn’t find which one of those little towns was yours. Charley, anybody can take a dive. One way or another, I did it myself a couple of times. It takes a man to come back up. You’ve done all right for yourself.”

I didn’t know quite what to say. Hearing this from an eighty-four-year-old man with an oxygen cylinder beside him lent considerable weight to his words. What he was saying was that I had his respect. That meant more to me than he would ever suppose.

“Well,” I managed at last, “thanks, Ismail.”

He looked at me, nodded, and said, “Now let’s talk about this new case of yours—Mark Conroy. I’ll be honest with you, Charley Sloan, there’s not many men I owe a damn thing to—not anymore, since most of them are dead. And I do believe you are the only white man still around I owe anything to. So tell me your situation on the case, and let’s see what we can do.”

“It’s not good, Ismail,” I said. “But I’m going all the way for him.”

“That doesn’t quite surprise me. I know the trouble he’s in. I knew you were his lawyer. The boy must be pretty desperate.”

“He is, but he hasn’t shown it to anyone but me.”

“Tough cop. I know the type.” He had something more to say, but he thought a long moment and decided to keep quiet.

“He didn’t take the money.” I said it firmly. I felt I ought to convince him.

“Well, that’s good to know. But I want to hear the story.”

“You mind if I close the door?”

“I’d be obliged if you did.”

I got up and did that. Then I sat down beside him and started to talk.

There were parts of it I left out, had to leave out, for different reasons. Telling Ismail Carter anything at all might well have been construed as a breach of client confidentiality. I knew if I’d consulted with Conroy beforehand, he would never have allowed it. But I felt he was in the sort of situation that called for extreme measures. So I tiptoed a fine line and did a little dance around the more sensitive areas—not a word about our adventure on John R last Saturday night.

Even so, Ismail was impressed. “That’s a lot,” he said with a grin. Then he reached over to the oxygen cylinder beside him and took another hit through the mask, three deep ones this time. When he finished the operation, he nodded. “Go on, Charley.”

I did, but just as carefully as before. I made the point that two other people knew the combination to the safe in Conroy’s office. The Mouse had it officially—he kept the books and handled the payouts through the ledger, now missing. I told Ismail, too, that Mary Margaret Tucker had it unofficially. As Conroy’s secretary, she had access to it. I made clear her relation to Mark Conroy,
before and after their breakup. I told him I thought she had managed the actual theft—though not necessarily as her own little get-rich-quick scheme.

All this and more I told Ismail Carter. He took everything in, for the most part without interruption. When I’d finished, I leaned back and realized I was sweating. I took out my handkerchief and mopped my face and neck.

“That’s it, huh?”

“More or less.”

“Probably less than more. But I realize you’ve got responsibilities to your client. I trust what you gave me, and what you gave me is a lot.”

“It’s more than anybody else knows about it except for me and Conroy.”

He frowned. “What do you want me to do with all this shit, Charley? I have some ideas myself.”

“That’s up to you, Ismail. I thought, hoped, you might still have a channel open to the mayor, and you could get him to read a letter I might send, something like that, I don’t know.”

“What would you say in it?”

“That’s just it. I’m not sure. Conroy is convinced that he’s been made the object of this frame because he’s been after the mayor in a series of investigations. He’s certain that the mayor’s out to get him. I’m less certain of that than he is—although I am sure one of the cops on the Mayor’s Squad is involved.”

“Guilt by association?”

“Maybe more than that, and maybe not. What do you think? You surprised me with that phone call the other night. You said you’d been trying to get hold of me. I hoped you’d have some ideas about getting him out.”

“Well, I think maybe I do,” he said.

Ismail fell silent, lost in thought for a while. With his eyes shut and his face at rest, I thought for a moment that he’d fallen asleep. But no, his eyes opened and he fixed them on me.

“You know, a lot of people make fun of us old-time
politicians. Some do worse than that: revile us and curse us, call us Uncle Toms, and all. They say what we did was just horse-tradin’, makin’ deals, and so on. And it’s true, I made a lot of deals in my time, but I never begged. I always had something to offer in return. That’s what politics is—something for something—and if you don’t keep your word, then you ain’t long for politics, my friend.

“My deals benefited my people—meaning black folks and specifically those in Black Bottom—but some benefited white folks, too. And some, I admit, benefited me as well. Just a few. I am not a rich man, and I wasn’t when I left office. Main thing is, I didn’t have my hand out, like so many did and do.

“Yessir, Charley, I am an unreconstructed, old-time pol. Only time I ever did anything to get modern, go with the flow and that shit, was when I changed my name.”

“What? I never heard about that.”

“Oh, I didn’t change it, really—just how I spelled it. I was born Ishmael, just the way it’s spelled in the Bible. My mama’s name was Hagar, and she thought Ishmael, therefore, the most fittin’ name for me. You do know your Bible, I hope, Charley.”

He looked at me severely, and in response I waggled a flat hand at him, as if to say so-so.

“Well, you should. It ain’t just a comfort. There’s a lot of wisdom in it, too. But anyhow, that’s what I was named, Ish-ma-el—means ‘God hears.’ But in the Sixties, when the Black Muslims was gettin’ so powerful, I decided it wouldn’t hurt nothin’ if I spelled my name their way, show I was with them, see? I ain’t sure it got me even one vote. Back then, mostly they didn’t vote at all.”

A knock interrupted him. A shy smile spread over his deeply lined face. “That’ll be my regular Saturday visitors,” he said. “I wonder, would you mind opening the door for them?”

As I got up to do that, Ismail reached over for the oxygen mask once again. I didn’t know quite what to expect,
but in no way did I expect what was just beyond the closed door.