John Dobbyn - Neon Dragon

It’s like a babbling brook, where all of the happy molecules are monolithic and bouncing in easy rhythm with each other. Then a molecule from another kind of brook is introduced, and in a sort of instant chemical reaction, the brook freezes solid, but only under the top layer. On the surface, to the untrained eye, the brook babbles on.

My white face was the molecule from another brook. I was tuned to the snap freeze, as I’m sure Gail and Rasheed were. I was equally sure that none of the three gave me credit for being in on the phenomenon.

I didn’t sense it at all when I walked in on Gail and Rasheed, but the meter was pinning with our new arrival. What it meant was that the surface bopping would go on, but any information I would get from then on would be carefully screened for white ears. With him present, I’d probably had the best of the harvest from the others as well.

Gail took the lead. “Abdul, this is Mr. Knight. He’s Anthony’s lawyer. This is Abdul Shabaz.”

I pegged him at about the junior year, but somehow the Harvard accent had not adulterated his singy-swingy dialect.

“Hey, Anthony’s ma man. Please to make your acquaintance, Mr. Knight.”

I couldn’t tell if he wanted to shake or high-five, so I just nodded. “Nice to meet you, Abdul.”

“How’s ma man doin’?”

I suddenly realized that I didn’t really know. I mentally filled that in as my next appointment.

“He’s all right, considering.”

“Whachu want us to do? You name it. You got it.”

“Give me six Phi Beta Kappa divinity students who’ll swear they were with Anthony all day Sunday.”

I thought it, but I didn’t say it. If I had, I had a feeling that Abdul would have had them at my doorstep in the morning.

“I need to find a friend of Anthony’s by the name of Terry Blocher. Do you know him?”

“Terry’s a member. You just cool it. I’ll get him up here.”

I cooled it, while Abdul walked the walk into the next room. I could hear phone sounds and a pause. Then I heard Abdul in a semimuffled tone that only carried through both rooms. Abdul was not cut out for espionage.

“Terry, ma man. Git yourself over here. We got Anthony’s mouthpiece. He wants to see you.”

With my eyebrows up and a restrained smile, I looked at Gail. “‘ Mouthpiece ’? Are they running a forties’ film festival? I haven’t heard that since Little Caesar on AMC.”

Her eyes went to the ceiling, and she just shook her head.

In about five minutes, a white student of about nineteen, shorter and heftier than Abdul, walked in. He had a roundish face crowned with the kind of dull blond curls that never seem to need a comb.

Introductions were made, and I got down to it.

“Terry, Anthony tells me that you went with him to Chinatown on Sunday. He said you suggested having dinner there.”

“It was his idea, but that’s right. I went with him.”

I was slightly jangled by the correction, but it was a minor point.

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, we went in on the train about two. We went to a place called the Ming Tree.”

“Did you pick the restaurant or did Anthony?”

“No, he did. I’d never been there before.”

“Had he?”

“I don’t know. He just picked it.”

“OK. Then what?”

“We had dinner. Then we went down to the street. It was like… pandemonium. I had to get out of there.”

“So you left him where?”

“Outside the restaurant. I walked to Park Street.”

“Did Anthony have a gun?”

He gave me one of those whose-side-are-you-on looks and silence.

“I’d be happy to hear, ‘no.’”

“OK, no.”

“Did you see anyone there with a gun?”

“No.”

I racked my brain for any nugget of gold that I should dig while I was still at the mine. None occurred at the moment, but now I knew where I could find him.

I turned my mind to surviving the recrossing of Mass. Avenue. If I made it, I was going to take the train to the Suffolk County prison.

Over the years, I’ve found that visits to clients in prison fall roughly into two categories. First, there are those where the visitee shows some combination of hostility, fear, sullenness, whatever, but also a hefty flavoring of embarrassment at being confined in housing that does not exactly reek of honor. The second involves those where the disgrace aspect of the confines is as far removed from the outlook of the client as anchovies from a chocolate milkshake. My guess is that the second group has its own moral code that exists on a nonintersecting plane with that of “the system.” They have therefore not failed under the system; they’ve merely been caught by it.

When Anthony walked into that sterile interviewing room, he still looked like a classic example of the first type. While some slip into prison garb like a loose bathrobe, it seemed to clash with every aspect of Anthony’s bearing, as if the clerk had dressed the mannequin in the wrong suit. He was beginning to show the wear of confinement with an excess of time to suffer the bombardment of negative thoughts. He forced a smile that said acting was not his forte.

“All things considered, Anthony, how’re you doing?”

“I’m OK, Mr. Knight. How are you?”

I was impressed that he asked.

“Good. We’re covering all the bases. I hope you know that Mr. Devlin is the best there is. And this is the only case I’m working on. So you have our full attention. Have you heard from your dad?”

“He’s been in every day.” His voice was full of something that I took for shame.

“How’s he taking it?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t see him.”

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head. He was looking somewhere between the table and his shoes, and I think if he looked up, I’d have seen drops of moisture.

“I can’t… I let him down so much. I just can’t be what he is.”

“Did he ever say you should?”

He thought about it and shook his head rather than try an unsteady voice.

“Did you ever think that what he wants is a son, not a clone? Maybe he just wants you at your best, whatever direction you take.”

He looked up, past me to the ceiling. I was right about the moisture. There was some despair in there, too.

“I guess my direction is pretty clear now.”

I caught his eyes and brought them back to mine.

“Anthony. Did you murder Mr. Chen?”

He seemed surprised at the question. “No, Mr. Knight. I didn’t.”

“Then don’t even consider giving up. Mr. Devlin and I can do everything for you except keep your spirits up. That’s your full-time job right now. Maybe seeing your father would help both of you.”

I can’t say that I made any inroads, but he looked as if he was thinking.

“Anthony, I’d like to have the luxury of being able to lead up to this slowly, but I’ve got to make every minute count. For your sake. I was over at Harvard. I talked to Gail and Rasheed.”

For the first time in the conversation I saw the lights go on. “And the Big Bopper, Abdul.”

I even caught the makings of a grin on that one. I regretted having to get heavy.

“They told me about the suicide attempt.” So much for the grin. “You don’t have to explain it. I just feel terribly sorry about the pain you must have been in at the time. What I’ve got to ask you now is this. Is there any chance at all that you could be there again?”

The tears had dried. He was looking right at me, which helped with the belief factor.

“No.” He shook his head for emphasis. “Whatever pain my dad’s going through, I won’t put him through that.”

I had to make a judgment. I came down on the side of running the risk. “OK, Anthony. I haven’t said anything to anyone here. I won’t.”