Joel Goldman - Final judgment

Just before he left his office, he opened the dry erase board and studied the hieroglyphics he’d written in an effort to make sense out of everyone and everything. Picking up a black marker, he wrote two words in large block letters across the maze of names, questions, and lines that connected them- ANIMAL HOUSE.

Meeting Pete Samuelson and Kelly Holt at Blues on Broadway had been Fish’s idea.

“All this mishegas about blackmail, anonymous tip-offs, pictures from cell phones, and intercepted e-mails, it’s enough to give me a headache,” Fish had said. “But, I’ll tell you this much. In a noisy, crowded bar, it’s hard to intercept anything. Besides, we’ve been to their place enough. Let them come to us this time.”

Mason had suggested the late hour, explaining that Monday night was Jam Night, when local musicians crowded the small stage, drawing appreciative crowds that let the musicians know when they got it right. If they wanted the security of a noisy crowd, it was the perfect time and place.

“We’ll be lucky to hear each other. No one could eavesdrop if they tried,” Mason had said.

“Good, but what if one of them is wearing-what do they call those things? — a wire?”

“Avery,” Mason had answered, “wires are what undercover guys wear. Besides, we’re not confessing to anything. We’re there to listen. They ask you to do something that even smells hinky, we’ll get it in writing signed by their boss, Roosevelt Holmes. They want to use you, not entrap you.”

After reassuring Fish, Mason told Blues about the meeting with Samuelson and Kelly.

“Where do you want me?” Blues asked.

“Someplace where you can watch.”

“You want me to wire the booth, I can do it. They’ll never know.”

Mason thought about it, but remembered his conversation with Fish. “I’ll pass. Samuelson might be green enough to stick his foot in his mouth, but Kelly’s too smart for that. Besides, as good as you are, if Kelly found out, we’re finished.”

Blues hung a reserved sign on the booth that was farthest from the door and the stage and unscrewed the recessed lightbulbs above the table. The bar was lit with soft whites and pale greens that blended into a smokeless haze. He sat in the corner of the booth and looked out. With the overhead bulbs removed, the booth sunk into a shadow that was like a one-way mirror. It was as if he could see out but no one could see in.

Mason settled into the booth at nine-thirty and waited. His eyes adjusted to the dim light. He watched the people clustered around the bar, servers dodging between them.

The Myles Cartwright Trio was packed tight on the stage mixing it up. Sonny Freeman joined them, Myles on piano giving him a nod. Sonny was a short, skinny black man with bony shoulders and close-cropped hair, his face as shiny as the sax he carried. He was a Jam Night regular, always welcome. The crowd let him know it, saying amen as he wet his mouthpiece. He tapped his foot a few times to pick up the beat and laid down a track following Myles’s lead, wrapping his notes around the others like clinging ivy.

People walked past Mason as if he wasn’t there, not seeing him in the shaded booth. Blues, tall enough to see over his customers, roamed behind the length of the bar. He filled glasses and made change, his eyes on the door.

Mason caught a hitch in Blues’s shoulder and a moment later Fish materialized at the booth, hanging his coat on a nearby hook. He was wearing dark slacks and a mock turtleneck shirt under a cardigan sweater. He looked like everyone’s grandpa, but when he slid in across from Mason, grunting with the effort as his belly fought with the table, he gave Mason a hungry look, like a night prowler. He rubbed his hands together.

“So,” he said, “you think they’ll be early or late?”

“Why wouldn’t they be on time?”

“On time is for marks. Early and late are for players. Early means they don’t trust you and want to get a lay of the land. Late means they want to make you nervous. Are they coming? Are they not coming? Did they make you sweat?”

“What if they just get caught in traffic?”

“Cute,” Fish said, pointing a meaty finger at him. “You don’t want to pay attention, don’t pay attention. They get caught in traffic it’s because they don’t care if they’re late. You understand? You want to figure out a con, you start with the setup. Early, late-it’s like choosing an outfit. It sends a message. You watch.”

Mason looked at Blues, who dipped his head at the door. Mason checked his watch. It was ten straight up. Pete Samuelson found them at their booth, and Mason stepped out, switching to Fish’s side. As he did so, Kelly Holt emerged from another booth, leaving a glass of wine and cash on the table as she walked toward them. Mason looked over her shoulder at Blues, who shook his head. He didn’t know how long she’d been there, but it was long enough to prove Fish’s point.

Samuelson was wearing a suit. He loosened his tie, but the effort didn’t loosen him up. He twisted his head in every direction like he was waiting for a camera flash. Fish watched him fidget, his mouth locked in a patient smile.

Mason and Kelly studied each other. He offered her a wry smile slicker than a come-on, the shrug of his shoulders pretending they were just having a drink for old times. She cut him off with an icy look that said Nice try, but don’t go there. He got the message, leaned back into the booth, and started the dance.

“My client is ready to make a deal. Tell us what you want,” Mason said.

Samuelson cleared his throat. “It’s not quite that simple.”

“What’s so complicated?” Fish asked. “You want me to do something, I’ll do it. Whatever it is, as long as it’s not dangerous. I’m too old and fat for dangerous.”

“And,” Mason added, “as long as it includes dismissal of the mail fraud charge.”

“That’s what makes it complicated,” Samuelson said. “Before we found a body in Mr. Fish’s car, we were arguing over jail time and dollars. Now you want us to dismiss the charges in return for what? Mr. Fish’s cooperation? I don’t think so.”

“Look,” Mason said. “My client is agreeing to work for you without having so much as a job description. He’s the cops’ number-one suspect for a murder he didn’t commit, so getting rid of the mail fraud charge won’t exactly make him sleep better at night. You want him, you got him. But you’ve got to give us something worth having in return.”

Samuelson looked at Kelly, who leaned into him, whispering. He let out a sigh. “I’ll take it to Roosevelt Holmes. It’s his call.”

“You do that,” Mason said and slid his cell phone across the table to Samuelson. “Right now, or we can just order a round and enjoy the music.”

Kelly snapped the phone off the table. “I’ll work it out with Holmes myself. Is that good enough for you, Lou?”

Mason hadn’t figured out the pecking order, but it was clear that this was more Kelly’s show than Samuelson’s. She wouldn’t have made the offer unless she knew it was already done.

“Good enough. What’s the deal?”

Samuelson pulled an envelope from his suit coat, extracted a piece of paper, and handed it to Mason. In the dim light, Mason had trouble making it out, but quickly understood what it was.

“What is it?” Fish asked.

“It’s a plea agreement, also known as your get-out-of-jail-free card. It says you agree to assist the Justice Department with an investigation and they agree to fill in the blank identifying the investigation after you sign.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you sign first and they promise later. After Kelly talks to Roosevelt Holmes.”