Читать книгу Balling the Jack - Frank Baldwin - Страница 12

NOTHING complements a killer hangover quite like a packed subway car. One more whiff of the guy next to me and I’m going to lose it. At Fourteenth Street it empties out a bit and I lower myself into a seat. That’s better. My bleary eyes meet the stare of the guy across from me, who looks to be on his way to church. A Sunday suit on, the Bible open in his lap, a crucifix soft against his neck. My headache worsens and I look away.

Church. Christ. The last time I went to Mass I was home on the base for the summer. I had written from school that I wasn’t making service anymore, but moms have a way of forgetting what they don’t like to hear. I spent the night before in the bars, showing my old high school buddies I’d learned something useful in college, so when Mom woke me at seven-thirty, my suit over her arm, I was more dead than alive. I might have come out okay pleading sickness, but I was a freshman in college, so I gave her a speech. Told her the way I felt that morning I didn’t doubt He was up there, and a mean one He was, too. She slapped me across the mouth, I put my suit on without a word, and we walked to church. Sat next to her in the pew, biting my lip till it bled to keep my stomach down. After the service we walked home in silence and I haven’t been back since.

At Delancey Street the train fills up again and I’m thankful for the open window behind me.

Here’s my two cents on religion: I don’t buy it. Sometimes I wish I did. It’s not easy thinking you get one crack at this place. I’ve looked at it up and down, though, and if you ask me the whole thing is a racket.

Take Joe Catholic across from me. He hasn’t lifted his face from the Book since Fourteenth Street. I’ll bet the guy is a real all-star. Been doing it by the Church’s rules all his life. Never misses a service, digs deep when the plate comes around, steers clear of the books they don’t want him to read. The works. All to make sure he’s taken care of when the time comes.

Now that’s a hell of a reason, sure, but look at the deal from the Church’s side a second. Seems to me they milk this guy pretty good. Take him for thousands of bucks, over the years, and when he’s not cutting them a check he’s out stumping in his free time, bringing in more business. Don’t think he sees any commission, either. Then you have his kids. Years of unpaid labor as altar boys and helpers, and when they get a little older the Church has the inside track on signing them up for the distance, too. Hey, if he ever stops to do the math, he’ll see the bill is starting to mount. I won’t even get into the opportunity cost.

And when does the guy get his payoff? When does the Church have to ante up, to show him all that soul work they were selling him wasn’t just a bill of goods? The second he dies. Now that’s what I call a smooth scam.

Up he went, they can say, we did our part, and no one can prove them wrong.

That’s what gets me about the whole business—they never have to prove anything. They have a little trick called faith to get around all that. The pastors used to spring it on me all the time. Thirteen years I kept asking how can you prove it and thirteen years they gave me the same answer: faith. “How can a man live in a whale, Father?” Faith. “How can a man part the ocean, Father?” Faith.

I didn’t want to hear about faith. I wanted to know did the stuff really happen or didn’t it? If it did where was the proof? If you can’t show the proof, well, that pretty much pulls the rug out from under the whole deal, doesn’t it? Faith, Tom. If you have faith you don’t ask those questions. Hell, any other salesman tried that line you’d boot him out the door. Put a robe on him and a steeple behind him, though, and I’m supposed to go along.

I’m not trying to pin everything on the Catholics. I’m just sore at them for all the Sundays I wasted in the pew. I’m sure the other religions are about the same.

Look around the subway car. Next to the Bible guy is a Rastafarian. Down from him a Hasidic Jew. You think they chose their faiths after looking hard at all the others and deciding where the truth was? Hell no. The one guy is Catholic and the other Jewish and the other a Rasta because that’s who got ahold of them first. By that logic any one of them could have wound up a Nazi.

I look at them. Each sits there with all the answers, knowing he’s all set come the big day, and at least two of them are dead wrong. I wouldn’t put a dime on the third one, either. Thanks anyway, guys, but I’ll take my chances.

At Wall Street I climb the sooty stairs into the August-morning heat. It isn’t even 9 A.M. and already my shirt sticks to me. As I walk the short block to work, picking my way through the throng, I fight back my hangover and the nagging feeling that I’m forgetting something. Something important about last night. The match is all pretty clear in my head, especially the big finish, but the rest is a little fuzzy. The victory party comes back in fits and starts. I remember shots, and singing, and taking off our shirts in the bar. I remember walking Stella home. And just how did I get home, anyway? Split a cab with Jimmy, I guess.

Kay smiles as I limp through the oak doors. Someone else’s hangover is always a riot.

“What happened to you, Tom?”

“Just something going around.”

“Right. The Irish flu.” She laughs loudly and I grip the edge of her desk.

“Jesus, Kay, don’t do that. You got any aspirin?”

“Take my last two.”

Kay is a sweetheart. Our terminally cheerful receptionist, the only one in the firm who knows about my bets. She’s always setting me up with her girlfriends, and it’s only thanks to a cousin of hers that I’m not zero for ’96 in the sleepover department. Kay herself is cute as they come. From the shoulders up, anyway. Start moving downstairs and it’s a different story. She got married six months ago and already she’s put on twenty pounds. I feel bad for the new hubby. It’s probably just dawning on him what he’s let himself in for. From what I remember of her mom at the reception, the long-term outlook isn’t promising, either. I’m with Dave on this one. Once you fork over the ring, there ought to be a weight clause in there somewhere.

“Take one of my doughnuts, Tom. It will settle your stomach.”

There’s no way I can keep it down but I take it out of respect for her hubby. He always seemed like a nice guy.

At my desk I ditch the doughnut, wash down the aspirin with water, bury my face in a case file and close my eyes. Just let today be an easy one. The phone rings.

“Farrell Hawthorne.”

“How’s the head, college boy?”

Duggan. Why do I think I’ve just seen him?

“What do you want, Duggan?”

“Wanted to give you a chance to yellow out.”

Duggan. Duggan. It all comes back in a rush. The two of us in the street. Something about a rematch. For money this time. But how much? I stall him.

“I’d love to chat, Duggan, but some of us have real jobs to do.”

“Still talking a good game, I see. I assume we’re on then, college boy.”

Think, Tom, think.

“Sure we’re on. Only, aren’t you a little embarrassed to play for those stakes?”

“What’s that?”

“You want to play for money, Duggan, let’s play for money.” Silence on the line. What the hell—sometimes you floor it and hope the other guy moves. How much can it be, anyway? “Let’s double it.”

More silence.

“What’s the matter—don’t have that kind of dough? Or can’t your backers count that high?”

I can feel his hatred through the cord. When he speaks it’s through his teeth.

“Double it is, college boy—forty grand. But we see the dough before the match. And listen good. You’re not wanking for drinks with the frat boys anymore. If I gotta come get you …”

Click.

I walk to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Forty grand? Jesus, Tom, what the hell did you do last night? I splash myself again. Forty grand? Add up all the dough I’ve spent in my life and it doesn’t make forty grand. I towel off.

So call him back. Tell him it’s no go. I look at myself in the mirror and a strange feeling starts in the pit of my stomach. What a charge if I could raise it, though, huh? All that money riding on a night of darts. And the chance to stick it to Duggan, besides. I look myself over again. One thing I’m not up for, right now, is calling Duggan back to chicken out. No way.

Not that I have the first clue where I’d get the money. Even so. I shake my head. Maybe if I give myself a few days I can come up with something. I’m strictly in survival mode today, anyway, not in any shape to make a big decision. I’ll get through the day, sleep on it and see what I think in the morning.

I walk back to my desk and take a seat. I’m wondering if my stomach can handle a soda when the phone rings again. It’s Carter.

“Reasons, I need to see you in here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Carter is in high spirits, pacing the carpet behind his desk like a football coach walking the sidelines. He stops and looks me up and down.

“What’s wrong with you? You look awful.”

“Stomach flu, sir.”

“Yes. Well. I don’t want you having any late nights while the Garrett case is on. We need to be in peak form on this one.

Yeah, right.

“Yes, sir.”

He starts to pace again. “I thought the depositions went very well. No surprises. I want them summarized by Friday, and this afternoon I need you to sit in on two more. Prego’s, wife, and Winston Garrett.”

“Winston Garrett?”

“He was at the party, too. Not one of the sick ones, luckily. He’ll back up Regina on her cooking and catering knowhow. His word will look good.”

“Sir, can I ask you something? About Mrs. Garrett?”

“What is it?”

“Well … is it just me, or does her story seem pretty shaky?”

Carter frowns. “Her story is her story, Reasons. And as our client her story is gospel. It’s not our job to poke holes in it. It’s our job to poke holes in the other side. Capisce?”

“Yes, sir. It’s just that … well, don’t you think, given her appearance, and her money, and her—demeanor—that she’s not going to cut a very sympathetic figure at trial? That a jury might side with the hardworking immigrant, and jump at the chance to stick it to a rich old broad?”

Carter rubs his hands. “Ah. Now you’re thinking, Reasons. That is precisely why this case is not going near a jury.”

“Sir?”

“Prego does all right, but he’s no moneybags. Once he realizes what this trial is going to cost him, he’ll settle.”

“But he can’t, sir. Settling would kill his business. Nobody would ever hire him again. His only hope is to save his reputation by winning at trial. He’s got nothing to lose.”

Carter paces again, turning with a bounce at each end of the room.

“Let’s just say there are ways of making him settle.”

“Like what, sir?”

Carter slows. “Okay, Reasons. Welcome to the law as it’s not taught in law school. Think along with me here.”

I don’t like the sound of this.

“Prego is one of these guys with a lot of ties to the home country. Always shuttling over cousins, nephews to work in his place. You know—the whole immigrant shtick.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t think we’ll have to look real hard to find someone in the pack without a green card. Maybe they’re working in his place, maybe for his brother in construction. Either way, we’re talking big fines. And if we want to press it—end of business, deportation, the works. Trust me, Reasons. Between us and Immigration, Prego will settle.”

My stomach hints at starting up on me and I fight it down.

“Which leads me to today. I’ve got a friend over at INS who owes me a favor. I want you to meet with him. Ask him to see what he can dig up. Tell him to start with the niece who worked the party. Wouldn’t surprise me if little Rosie is missing some papers. Tell him not to act on anything he finds, though. For now it stays just between us.”

Back at my desk I stare at the wall. Life sure can be a barrel of shit sometimes. I start in on the depositions, but it’s slow going. Reading over Prego’s testimony I can’t help but think of him back in his shop, mixing his sauces. Full of worry, a crease in his brow, but confident the good lawyers can iron everything out. You don’t know what you’re in for, Giuseppe. In my year here I’ve seen a few cases with the truth on one side and the money on the other.

I don’t like your chances.