Hostile Witness Part 45

"The Bishop brothers have already begun to look for other counsel on the Valley Hunt Estates deal," continued Prescott. "And my clients in the Saltz case have withdrawn their offer. Permanently. Trial is scheduled in two weeks."

"We'll be ready."

"Ready to lose. You have stepped in it today, my friend, yes you have. Eye deep."

He started walking down the steps, away from me, and then he stopped and turned. "After today, Victor, your career is dead. Gone. It has sunk from the weight of your foolishness. After today you might just as well go back to living in that crumbling house with that bitter old man, spending your days cutting lawns."

Prescott's lawn-cutting remark sent me to the bar. I found a place just a few blocks from the courthouse, a bar called Sneakers, and I figured it was a sports bar, but whatever it was I didn't care. It was empty when I went in, dark, the mashy sour smell of beer, like a frat house the morning after. There was music playing, some throaty folksinger turned up too loud. The bartender was a pretty woman with a pug nose and freckles and a boyish haircut. I asked for a Sea Breeze. She looked at me funny and I shrugged and told her to send over a vodka martini while she was at it. When the drinks came I downed the martini with a quick snap and chased it with the Sea Breeze, and although the combination didn't quite send me off to a tropical paradise as I had hoped it was fine enough for me to order another round.

So Prescott had learned even more than what was in the sad sheaf of papers in file 716. He had researched my lowly family history, my father's lofty profession, he had spoken to my acquaintances, my friends, to Guthrie, that b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And of course there would have been the chats over lunch with his prep school mate Winston Osbourne, Prescott getting the lowdown on the greedy second-rater who had hounded poor Winston into desperation. How pathetic that even in his decrepitude, with his fingernails long and his hair stringy, Winston Osbourne was still more welcome at the club than I. But of course he was of n.o.ble blood, scion of the Bryn Mawr Osbournes, and so it was squarely within the finest and oldest traditions of his people for Osbourne to lunch at the club with Prescott and plot against the Jew. And then Prescott, after researching the whole of my life, after drawing a detailed psychological portrait, after reviewing his information with the best minds of Talbott, Kittredge and Chase, after all that Prescott had decided to hire me, knowing, knowing that I would sell out. Was my weakness that palpable? Well, at least the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had me wrong, but at that moment, sipping the Sea Breeze, watching the pretty bartender make up my next round, at that moment I wished he had been right.

It was the flip side of the lawn-cutting remark that was killing me. Prescott was right. My career, in all probability, was dead. Beth had jumped a sinking ship and none too soon. Well, good for her. I mean, who was I to think that I could pull off something as audacious as this? I didn't have the power or the skill or the b.a.l.l.s for it. I had chosen to take the opposite tack of my father and, with the inevitability of farce, that choice would lead me right back to the dark crumbling bungalow in Hollywood, Pennsylvania, or someplace very much like it, where I would spend my life sitting alone in a big faded chair, watching TV, hacking my lungs out into a paper towel, cursing myself for what might have been. I was not made for n.o.ble sacrifice or for the hard work of self-making. Let the Philip Marlowes of the world sit in sad satisfaction of their n.o.bility. I didn't want to be n.o.ble anymore, I wanted to be somebody, and for guys like me it was one or the other.

The bartender placed the drinks in front of me and I smiled at her. I took a sip of the martini, letting out a sigh when I was finished.

"Woman trouble," she said to me with a knowing smile.

"How could you tell?"

"We get that a lot around here."

"I bet you do," I said.

Veronica and her whippet body and her thrilling insatiability. I took a gulp of the Sea Breeze. I had never before met anyone like Veronica, she had taken me someplace I didn't know I could ever find. What had I meant when I said I loved her? What was the nugget that still lay in my chest? I had never felt about anyone else what I felt about her, but was that love? It was more like a thirst, a deep desperate thirst. I took another gulp and felt it even more strongly. I wondered whether Tony Baloney might have been wrong about everything, whether I might have jumped to the wrong conclusions, but even as I let my mind play with the thought I knew better. The cash withdrawals, the way she grew more harried as the evening aged, her kicking me out of bed every night so she could take care of her other needs in private. The wild greasy smell of her hair as she let herself go. She had told me half her story and I could figure out the rest. She had been hooked in Pakistan, cleaned up in Philadelphia by Jimmy, hooked again somewhere, and I was pretty certain where. There was a weakness to Veronica, a softness where she needed to be steel. You could see it in the way she drank, in the way she screwed. There was a need for indulgence that could never be satisfied, no matter how hard she tried. I figured she was up there now, in her apartment, desperately trying to figure out what to do. Jimmy, I'm sure, had called, warned her about what was happening. She was fluttering around her apartment now like a trapped bird. But I had something for her, something that would settle her down. I just needed a few more drinks to get up the courage to slip it to her.

Two women came in, nice looking, sharp-eyed women, women with faces that said they cared about politics and literature and saw the latest movies. That's what I needed, someone to bring me back into the world, someone like Beth. We could go to plays, the ball game, discuss the President and the budget and the Middle East. We could curse out Newt Gingrich together. Life would be just so grand. Veronica was not of this world, she was of her own. There was something sad and lost about her, something unconcerned. Maybe it was the accident outside Isfahan she had told me about, the van twisting down the slope, the fragility of life pressing itself over her face like a damp, smelly pillow. It was enough to drive anyone out of the present and that was precisely what it had done to her. But I wasn't going to follow anymore.

I waved at the bartender and she placed two more drinks before me. I was getting drunk and it felt good. Another woman walked in and eyed the place. She was heavy, dressed in jeans and flannel shirt, but with a nice ponytail. I always thought ponytails were s.e.xy. Like back in high school, well, not my high school, Archie's high school. Ponytailed and overweight, what more could I want? She would keep me rooted, I thought. A ton of fun, yes. Someone like her. Jesus, I was drinking too much, but it felt so good. What the h.e.l.l? It was a Tuesday, no court for another thirteen hours, plenty of time to prepare my cross-examination of Jimmy Moore. He was to be called tomorrow to testify in his own defense and he would bury Concannon. And what could I do about it? Gornisht. That was what was so sad about the whole thing. Even as I gave up everything I ever wanted, it wasn't going to do Chester a bit of good, it wasn't going to make the kind of name I needed to make for myself. Clients don't come roaring in to losers. Maybe I could call Prescott, tell him I was sorry, that I would go along, but to give that p.r.i.c.k a victory, s.h.i.t, I'd shoot him first.

Two women came into the bar with matching black leather jackets. Epaulets, belts hanging, zippers on the sleeves. Yes, tie me up with those jackets, wind the sleeves around my chest. One was pretty, one was not, I didn't care anymore. Tie me up with your leather, sweetheart, bind my arms and legs, flagellate, flagellate, dance to the music, tie me up and I'm yours. I downed the martini in front of me. What was that, my third, fourth? And then the Sea Breezes on top of them. Maybe Veronica was waiting for me, maybe she had been calling. I could use it tonight, yes. A few kisses, a few tweaks of those gorgeous nipples, and then slip it to her, that would be something.

One of the black leather jackets sat down at the bar beside me. My poor luck was holding, it wasn't the pretty one. She was thin, angular, her chin sharp, her hair like a sloppy Dorothy Hamill. And what was that on her cheek, that thin white line? It was a scar. Oh, G.o.d, now that was s.e.xy. Maybe my luck was changing, a leatherclad vixen with a scar on her cheek.

She leaned on the bar and faced me. "Enjoying the view?"

A line, I thought. What I needed to do was to give her a line. My thinking had grown thick, but I could come up with a line, at least. "It's fine," I said. "It just got better."

"Well, that's good," she said bitterly. "We just love to provide an evening's entertainment."

What had I done now, I wondered. I didn't understand what she was saying. Maybe she was for sale, but if so she was a strange looking hooker.

The bartender came over. "Back off, Sharon, we've talked about this before."

"I'm just sick of the gawkers," said Sharon.

"That's not why he's here."

"Then tell me, J.J., what is he doing here?"

"He came in for a drink. I can tell the ones who are here to look."

It dawned on me then. It came close to clarity, a thought just hovering out of reach, and then slammed into me.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I thought it was a sports bar."

"You got to change that name," said Sharon as she slid away from me.

"I was wondering where the televisions were," I said.

"Let me get you another round on the house," said J.J.

"Maybe I should get going."

"There's no rush. Sharon's just a b.i.t.c.h sometimes but basically she's all right."

So I had another round and by the end of it the place was spinning and I couldn't focus on anyone enough to gawk and so Sharon was finally safe from my gaze. The place filled up quickly, it was Tuesday night after all, and I watched them all as they came in. There were younger women and older women and pretty pretty women and ugly women and fat and fatter and skinny women. There were all kinds of women and for some reason, the drinks probably or the secret knowledge I had or some typical male perversion forcing its way to the surface, but for some reason I found them amazingly s.e.xy. I wanted to date them all, to make love to them all, to each of them become a friend and confidant. I was in love with the whole d.a.m.n room, J.J. especially, with her cute pug nose and freckles. Even Sharon with that scar, yes, I wanted her too. Every d.a.m.n d.y.k.e there I wanted so much it hurt. h.e.l.l is being surrounded by all that you want without any possibility of getting it: h.e.l.l is pure wanting without satisfaction. h.e.l.l was being in that bar, in love with the un.o.btainable. h.e.l.l was my life.

Enough with the self-pity already; I had things that needed doing. I slipped off my stool and crawled to the back of the bar, where there was one bathroom and a phone. I peed a river and afterwards fished in my pocket for a quarter and placed a call. Then I left a sweet tip for J.J. and staggered out of that palace of denial and into the soggy, moonless night.

47.

I WAITED PURPOSELY in the shadows of Veronica's building for another old lady with shopping bags to come along, but it was too late for that. The little courtyard was strangely silent, the plastic-encased elevator was still. The drinks started turning in my stomach and a flowering nausea rose in my throat. While I stood there, concentrating on that blossoming bud, it started raining. I panicked for a moment, not knowing what to do, and then sick and wet I rushed into the vestibule and rang doorbells up and down the metal grid, rang all but hers. One by one they shouted at me through the intercom. "Pizza," I shouted back in a series of badly accented responses and finally someone, hungry and with pepperoni on the mind, let me in. I walked up the stairs to her floor and then carefully down the thin carpet of her hallway. Her door was locked this time. I rapped it hard with my knuckles. There was no answer but I could see a light through her peephole. I knew she was there, so I rapped on, rapping hard enough and long enough to make my knuckles bleed. Through the alcohol I didn't feel pain so much as a numbed sensation that I knew would evolve into pain. I kept rapping until she shouted at me, "Go away."

"Oh, let me in, Veronica."

"I can't."

"Jimmy told you not to let me in, right?"

"He's furious."

"I have to see you. Let me in or I'll throw up right here in the hallway."

"Do it and go."

"Let me in," I said. "Let me explain, at least."

"Go away."

I leaned my head against the cool of her door and shouted, "Just tell me one thing, one little thing. Tell me one thing and I'll leave."

She didn't answer, but she didn't tell me to go away again either.

"Just tell me if Bissonette was better in the sack than me."

There was nothing for a long moment. Then the metallic click of her unlocking the door. By the time I pushed it open she was already walking away from me. She was dressed seriously, in jeans and a white shirt, heavy shoes. It was a different look for her, a good look, I thought as I lurched into the apartment, ever entranced by her shifting appearances. She sat on the couch, demurely, legs drawn beneath her, head turned to look out the back window onto the rear parking lot. The cast to her face was tense, locked. I got a hard-on looking at her.

On my way toward her I tripped over a suitcase standing upright not far from the door. With the little dignity I could muster I pulled myself up from the floor. She was making it a point not to look at me. I grabbed the handle of the offending suitcase and lifted. It was packed, but packed light, a bag packed for a weekend at the sh.o.r.e.

"Where the h.e.l.l are you going?" I asked.

"Any suggestions?" she said.

"I hear Cleveland is beautiful this time of year."

She wanted to smile but held back. I walked over to the couch and stood beside her, swaying a bit, my raincoat shedding tears, and then I dropped down hard onto my haunches and leaned back, trying to look natural sprawled on her floor. The room was spinning on me, but she wasn't, she was tightly in focus and breathtaking.

"So what about Bissonette?" I said.

"How do you know about Zack?" she asked calmly.

"The police found his little black book," I said. She was in there, under the name Ronnie, nothing else, no last name, no address, no phone number, just Ronnie. And five stars.

"He was so proud of that book, like a little boy showing off his baseball cards."

"Tell me about him."

"Was he better than you? Be a little different, Victor. That's your problem. You're so ordinary. You want the same things as every other guy and you have the same little worries. Am I big enough, is my girl pretty enough, do I make enough money. There's not one unique twitch in your entire body."

"They feel unique enough to me," I said. I would have been angry as h.e.l.l at her except that nausea tends to drive out all conflicting states and so instead of spitting back something devastating and witty I closed my eyes and lay down on her floor. This was a bad drunk. I was going to be sick. I wanted to get this over with before I got sick. I didn't want to get sick in front of her, I didn't want to be that vulnerable in front of her, kneeling over the toilet, retching uncontrollably while she leaned on the doorjamb, amused.

"So you met Bissonette at the club," I said, my eyes still closed. "He was attractive enough and you thought you'd give him a ride."

"I was bored," she said. "Zack looked different, that ponytail, the sharp clothes. And he had been a major leaguer. I thought there might be something there but he had turned boring too, like the rest. It happens to anyone who spends too much time in Philadelphia."

I opened one eye and it was like I was on a Tilt-A-Whirl, so I closed it again. "You dropped him?"

"We played around for a little, then I told him it was over. He didn't like that."

"I know how he felt. A man in love."

"Yeah, he fell, but not until I told him to pound dirt. Before then he thought he was doing me a favor. That's how to stir pa.s.sion in a man, I've learned. Walk out on him. But he wouldn't accept it. He acted like it was all a matter of his will and if he wanted me bad enough I could be had."

"And I guess he wanted you bad enough."

"He called incessantly. He sent me letters, flowers, Hallmark cards, like that would do it. A bottle of champagne brought by a bozo in a gorilla suit. He was a real charmer, all right. But one night, Jimmy was out of town with his wife. In a fit of absolute boredom, I called him."

"One last dance."

"Well, it was easy, you know. Just lift up the phone, like ordering Chinese food. You're sweating, Victor."

"It's hot in here."

"No, it isn't. You look like a sweating ghost. Were you drinking those sweet drinks of yours?"

"And those vodka things of yours."

"Together? Oh, you're going to be sick all right."

"Not yet," I said, though I knew it wouldn't be long. "And that last night together was when he pulled out the cocaine?"

"Victor, you little detective."

"Am I right?"

"Yes, Victor, you are right. You have that link ordinary men have with other ordinary men. You can see through their tactics. That's when he brought me my little gift."

"And he tricked you into getting high."

"G.o.d, no. He held it out and I nearly raped him to get my hands on it. A sweet vial with one perfect chunk."

"What about your twelve-step program?"

"Twelve steps to mediocrity. It was too boring without it, too sad. I didn't realize what was missing until he held out that vial at arm's length. Then I remembered."

"But it worked for Bissonette. You stayed with him."

"You don't understand. Neither did he. I wasn't with him anymore, I was with the drug. He was just the p.r.i.c.k who brought it."

"How did Jimmy find out?"

"It wasn't long before what Zack was bringing over wasn't enough. So I started back to buying from Norvel."

"And Jimmy found out."

"Yes. Henry is still somehow connected with Norvel, I don't understand in what way, but that's how Henry found out and he told Jimmy."

"And Jimmy went crazy."

"He has a thing about drugs," she said calmly. But it was more than just drugs, I knew. It was history repeating itself. If it was happening to anyone else Jimmy Moore might have handled it, but not to his surrogate daughter Veronica. He had saved her life, had cleaned her up, and now to see it happen all over again, like it had happened to Nadine, to be threatened with once again losing his daughter was too much to bear, even if it wasn't his daughter, even if it was only the piece of trim who had taken the place of his daughter. What anger he felt was coming from a deep, primal place within him and there was no soothing it with words, no arresting it with reason, no a.s.suaging it with anything other than blood.

"And then he killed Bissonette," I said.

"I didn't know what he was going to do. He came over in a rage and I told him."

"Who drove him here?"

"I don't know. He came in alone and I told him. But I didn't know what he was going to do."

"You knew."

"I knew he was going to do something."