Hostile Witness Part 53

"Step on out, Victor," I heard Dominic say and when I got out I saw him sitting on top of Wayman, his knees holding Wayman's arms to the ground, his bony hands tight around Wayman's throat.

"Hey, Dominic, where do you want this package?" asked the man bear-hugging the drummer. From behind the thug's shoulders I could see it was Giovanni, his hard face illuminated now with a wide grin.

"Throw it in the garbage," said Dominic, hands still around Wayman's throat.

Jasper leaned over Wayman, still held down by Dominic, and started searching him. He reached into Wayman's sweatpants and pulled out the huge revolver I had seen Wayman brandis.h.i.+ng before I had kicked the Honda into gear and fled from the hotel. "Whoa, what do you know?" said Jasper. "What a nasty piece of work this little s.h.i.+t is."

Jasper checked the gun, unloaded it sh.e.l.l by sh.e.l.l, and then took hold of the barrel. He raised the gun about a foot and a half and dropped the b.u.t.t end onto Wayman's shoulder blade. Wayman shouted out something wild and started struggling, cursing even as Dominic's hands tightened around his neck. Jasper lifted the gun again, just a foot and a half, and let it drop. He hammered at the shoulder blade again, and again, raising the gun a foot and a half and dropping it, over and over and over.

There was a loud crack, Wayman let out a howl and his right arm went dead.

Calmly, methodically, raising the gun the same height of a foot and a half and then dropping it over and over, Jasper went to work on the other shoulder. There was a practiced air about his movements, the fulfillment of a familiar and somewhat pleasant ch.o.r.e.

"Jesus, this feels good," said Dominic, still atop the struggling Wayman. He couldn't help but smile again, a smile filled with satisfied blood l.u.s.t.

I rubbed at my neck, my hand came away slick with my own blood.

"It's not too often us old goombahs get a chance to work out," said Dominic.

"What we need," said Jasper as he kept hammering at the collarbone, "is a gym, you know, a few weights, a ring to spar in, a punching bag."

"You got the punching bag right there," said Dominic.

"I need something tougher, something with heft," said Jasper over Wayman's shouts. "Something to give me a real workout."

Across the street Giovanni was slamming the drummer's head into the side of a construction dumpster once, twice, thrice for good effect. Then he lifted him like a sack of lime and threw him in.

"What is going on, Victor?" said Beth, who was also out of the car. "What just happened?"

"We've been saved by the cavalry," I said. "Beth, I want you to meet some friends. The young kid is Giovanni, the fellow banging on our friend Wayman is Jasper."

Just then there was another sickening crack and Wayman let out a desperate wild howl.

Wayman had killed Chuckie, had stuck the point of his knife far enough into my neck to draw blood, had promised to kill me, but even still I couldn't help but wince.

"And this here is Dominic," I continued. "Don't play poker with Dominic, Beth, he's a shark."

"A weekend player," said Dominic as he rose from the helpless Wayman, slapping his hands clean. "Here you go, pal," he said, reaching into his pocket and handing me a handkerchief.

I wiped my hand and neck clean. So I had become Dominic's pal. We had fought the common enemy and come through as blood brothers.

"He's bawling like a G.o.dd.a.m.n baby," said Jasper. "What's this sc.u.mbag's name, Sport?"

"Wayman," I said. And then on the spur of the moment, like some all-powerful don, I added, "Don't kill him."

"What are you, an idiot? I wouldn't have gone to the trouble of hurting him if I was going to kill him," said Jasper over Wayman's moans. "Now - Wayman," he shouted, loud and slow as if he were talking to a Frenchman. "I - don't - want - you - should - bother - Victor - no - more - do - you - understand?"

Wayman let out a little shriek of a.s.sent.

"I - don't - want - I - should - hear - that - he - is - troubled - or - that - he - is - dead - because - then - I - will - be - angry - do - you - understand?"

Another shriek of a.s.sent.

"That's - good - Wayman," said Jasper, patting his cheek. "You're - in - no - condition - to - drive. - We're - going - to - let - your - friend - drive - you - home."

Giovanni shrugged and reached into the dumpster, pulling out the dazed and bleeding drummer by his collar and his crotch. The drummer collapsed to the ground and tried to half crawl away. Giovanni kicked him in the ribs so hard the drummer shook uncontrollably for a moment before letting out a breathless cry. Then Giovanni lifted him to his feet by his neck and kicked him in the rear, sending him lurching for the car. He fell on its hood like a drunken beggar at an intersection offering to clean the winds.h.i.+eld. Dominic opened the front door for him. He took hold of the drummer, pulled him around the front of the car, and shoved him inside. Jasper lifted Wayman by his belt. Wayman, bent and bowed, cradling both arms into his chest, hunched his way over to the car. I opened the pa.s.senger door. Without looking at me, he dropped onto the seat.

"Stay the f.u.c.k out of South Philly," said Dominic. When there was no movement from the battered occupants, he shouted, "Get out of here. Now."

The car didn't speed away from the scene, it sort of staggered. First it swerved to the right, then stopped suddenly, then drifted to the left, sideswiping a maroon meat van parked in front of a store. There was the loud crinkle of metal bending and plastic cracking. The car dipped back to the right before it shot forward and stopped and moved slowly forward again.

"Where did they come from?" asked Beth as she stood beside me, watching the silver BMW painfully make its way down 7th Street. "And how are they your friends?"

I shrugged. "Poker buddies. Remember the phone call I made just before we left the hotel?"

"Yes."

"That's who I called."

Just then a great white Cadillac, rear windows tinted so dark it was impossible to see inside, slid to a stop right in front of us. Lenny was driving. He waved at me. With a hum, the rear window opened and the ugly pitted face of Enrico Raffaello appeared.

"Everything is all right, I see," he said.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Raffaello," I said. "He would have killed me if you hadn't stepped in."

"You're welcome, Victor. Protection is what we do, but generally we don't do it for free."

"I'm very grateful."

"Well, grateful is something, yes, but it doesn't pay for the ricotta. Consider this a favor, Victor. We take pride in doing favors for the citizens of this city. We expect, of course, that the favor will be reciprocated when the time comes."

"I understand, sir."

"Now about that project you were to do for me. I hope you haven't disappointed."

I gestured at the silver BMW slowly making its way down 7th. "If you follow that car it will take you right to the money, Mr. Raffaello. A man named Norvel Goodwin ended up with it."

"Now that's almost too ironic, Jimmy's money ending up with a drug kingpin. There must be quite a story in this. You will tell it to me sometime, Victor, but not now. Now I think we'll follow that car. Come here, son, I have something for you."

Sheepishly I stepped forward. Raffaello lifted a white bag out of the window. I took it from him and stepped back.

"We'll be in touch, Victor, you can be sure."

He nodded his head and the window rose, concealing his face. Dominic, Jasper, and Giovanni slipped into the car and slowly, carefully, it drove off.

Beth stepped to my side. She was staring at the car. "Was that who I think it was?" she managed to say.

"Yes," I said. I opened the bag and looked inside. "What kind of custard do you like in your cannoli, Beth, chocolate or vanilla?"

"Vanilla," she said.

I reached into the bag and took out the vanilla cannoli and gave it to her and then reached in and gave her the chocolate one too. "Hold this for me a moment, will you?"

With the bag in hand, I walked a bit down 7th, scanning the street, searching. Finally I found it. It had slid up against the curb and was resting there, its blade pointing due north like a compa.s.s. I took one of the paper napkins graciously supplied by my new liege Enrico Raffaello and, with the napkin between my fingers, took hold of the blade, lifting it carefully before dropping it into the bag. I figured Sloc.u.m would be delighted to get hold of the knife that had killed Chuckie Lamb, complete with a clean set of prints. I just wanted to be sure that the prints on the knife weren't mine.

55.

THE MOMENT WHEN a lawyer stands in court and calls the next witness is a moment fraught with expectation. As the witness walks the long distance down the aisle, the jury, the judge, the opponents, the gawkers, the entire community of that courtroom wonder what evidence will be disclosed, what devastating story will be told, in what way will this witness's testimony be decisive. It is a glorious moment for the trial lawyer, full of drama, full of mystery. No matter how many trials, no matter how many witnesses, no matter how pedestrian the matter at issue, standing in the courtroom and calling the next witness never becomes routine. And the key to that moment is logistics. In every courtroom across this country there is a lawyer with neck craned, examining the benches and the door in the back, wondering if the next witness is waiting to respond to the call. It is not enough to prepare the questions, to practice the testimony, to hone the arguments to razor sharpness. Logistics are all. Standing in the courtroom, calling the next witness and having nothing happen, you might just as well be standing there naked.

"Do you have your witness yet, Mr. Carl?" asked Judge Gimbel, and none too kindly. The judge had a docket of 478 cases, and waiting for a witness to magically appear was doing nothing to reduce that number.

"If I can just have another minute, Your Honor," I said.

"Sixty seconds," said Judge Gimbel. I was hoping he would leave the bench, tell his clerk to get him when I was ready, take me off the hook, but the judge had brought his paperwork with him and as he sat up on high and scrawled in big letters across some important legal doc.u.ment I sweated like a thief. Like a naked thief.

From the defense table I dashed up the courtroom aisle, suffering the smirks of Jimmy and Prescott and Prescott's coterie, and burst into the cool, cruelly empty hallway. I looked left and then right and then left again. Nothing. The plan had been that I would flee the Society Hill Sheraton with Beth, in brown wig and overcoat, drawing the chase while Morris and Veronica, in blonde wig and jacket, simply strolled out the front door past Sheldon, acting as lookout, and stay on their way straight to the courthouse. Then Morris would bring her here, to the courtroom, to await my call. It was the awaiting my call part that was causing the problem. Beth was outside the courthouse, waiting for their arrival at the main entrance on Market Street. I was rus.h.i.+ng crazily about inside, hoping they would magically appear.

Beside the courtroom doors there was a bank of pay phones and quickly I called Morris's office.

"Kapustin and Son, Investigations," said Morris.

"Morris, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, where are you?"

"There is no one here to take your call, but we are checking in with this machine like crazy. Just leave a message and we'll be with you so quick your head will do a somersault, that quick."

I cursed into the phone in loud, precise language before the machine beeped me shut.

I called my office, to see if Morris had left me a message, but Rita only sneered. "Any calls? My, here's a shocker, Mr. Carl. No calls this morning. Maybe I'll ring up the Inquirer about this breaking story. No calls for Mr. Carl."

I hung up on her and spun out of the phone alcove in frustration, whirling into the frail figure of Herm Finklebaum, the toy king of 44th Street, sending him sprawling backwards on the cold white floor of the courthouse. I leaned over him. He wore his regular plaid s.h.i.+rt, ragged houndstooth jacket, lime-green slacks. He lay there, unconscious, the blood throbbing only faintly beneath the skin stretching over the hole in his head.

"Jesus, Herm. I'm sorry. Are you all right? Herm? Herm?"

He lay there quite still. He was a small, frail man. The skin clung tightly to his cadaverous skull. My already fraying nerves writhed into a panic.

"Herm? Oh, G.o.d, Herm? Are you all right, Herm? Herm? Jesus, Herm. Wake up."

One eye popped opened.

"Next time, buddy boy, you watch where you're going or it will end in a lawsuit."

I helped him up. He turned his neck carefully from side to side.

"It feels a little stiff," he said.

"Do you need a doctor?"

"Not really, it's been stiff since 'seventy-two." His laugh was an annoying, rhythmic wheeze, like an asthma attack.

"Look, I'm sorry, Herm, but I have to go. I have to find someone."

I was already past him, hustling off in my vain search for Morris when he said, "You maybe looking for that pretty little Miss Ashland?"

I slid to a stop on the waxed floors and spun around. "You know where she is?"

"Maybe I do and maybe I don't."

"Oh, come on, Herm."

"Okay, I do. Morris has her down on the sixth floor. He told me to find you to ask when you wanted her."

"Now," I said. "I want her right now."

"Morris thought it better to keep her hidden until she was really needed."

"I need her right this instant."

"It's going to be interesting?"

"It's going to be dynamite."

"All right, buddy boy. One dishy little number coming up. Save me a seat."

Logistics are all until they're solved, then they disappear like a dream upon waking. I had my questions ready, I had prepared the testimony, I had my arguments honed, and now, best of all, I had my witness. I took a moment to slow myself down. I took three deep breaths and gave myself a slight oxygen buzz. When it wore off I straightened my jacket, shot my cuffs, and walked with as much confidence as I could muster into the courtroom.

All gazes were upon me as I strode down the aisle. The judge asked me if I was now ready to proceed and I said I was. The jury sat straighter in their seats. The court reporter wriggled his fingers in preparation. Prescott sat with pen poised over his pad. Much had been paid for this moment and I meant to enjoy it. I scanned the jury, I looked at Jimmy Moore, the wild expectation grew. Before the judge could break the mood with one of his admonitions to get moving, I spoke in a loud and clear voice, "On behalf of Chester Concannon, I call to the stand Veronica Ashland."

Right on cue she opened the courtroom door, peered in, and then pensively, awkwardly, with just the right amount of hesitation and awe, she walked down the aisle, her head held nervously forward. She was wearing a white blouse, a black pleated skirt, she looked more like a Catholic schoolgirl than a councilman's mistress. Without glancing at either Chester or Jimmy she took the stand. With hand raised and voice low she said, "I do," to the clerk's swearing-in and then sat demurely in the witness chair, hands on her lap, waiting for me to draw out her story.

56.

"DID YOU WANT TO come to testify today, Ms. Ashland?" I asked.

"No," she said.

"Then why are you here?"