Craig Johnson - Kindness Goes Unpunished

GO BACK TO THE INDIAN had been a location, and perhaps a portion of the note about CITY HALL was, too; if that was the case, then MEDICINE MAN might also be a location. I thought about the Indian sculpture at Logan Circle and started wondering about Billy White Eyes’ fixation with all things native and the public art of the greater Philadelphia region.

I woke up still wondering. When Vic came down the stairs in the morning in an oversized green T-shirt, I had coffee waiting for her.

I slid her the mug; she yawned and perched on a stool. I tried not to notice her legs. “What’re you doing up?”

I sipped my own coffee and sat down to look over the collection of books I had scattered over the surface of the counter. “I needed to call the hospital, and I had some thoughts.”

She looked at me for a moment. “Your hearing’s back?”

I continued to study the open books. “Not completely, but it’s a lot better.”

I had discovered Cady’s library along one of the long walls of the living area. When the law firm in Philadelphia had hired her, she had begun accumulating books on what was to be her adopted city. There were books on its history, its architecture, politics, food, sports and, most important for the moment, its statuary.

“Did you know that Philadelphia has one of the largest collections of public sculpture in the world?”

“So?”

I thought about the prophet having no honor in his own country and that if you wanted a shitty impression of Philadelphia all you had to do was ask a Philadelphian. I held up the note from the crease of the book. “I got another note last night.”

Now she was awake. “Where?”

“I literally pulled it out of my hat.” I looked at her. “Who gave it back to you last night?”

She studied the note and glanced up at me, distracted. “The coat check guys. They said that one of the serving staff had picked it up in the alley behind the Academy.”

I thought of the dark-haired kid smoking the cigarette. “I’ll be damned…”

“What?”

I shook my head at my own stupidity. “There was a kid at the back door of the Academy, and I ran into him when I was chasing Shankar DuVall.” I looked up at her. “It had to be William White Eyes.” I thought back. “He was wearing sunglasses and a cap to disguise himself, but it was the same voice as the one who was driving the SUV, using the same phrase ‘hey man’ or ‘yo man.’ Something like that.”

“Walt, I would say that a full 70 percent of the residents of Philadelphia use the term ‘yo man.’”

I kept my eyes steady with hers. “It was him, and that was also him on the bridge.”

“What bridge?”

“When I met you here in Philadelphia.”

“All right, just for argument’s sake, let’s say it was. Why is this kid following you around?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t think it’s possible that he’s involved with this Toy Diaz group and the recently deceased Shankar DuVall?”

“He was, but I don’t think he is now, and I don’t think he’s a killer. I think he was the cook and the accountant.” She started shaking her head before I could finish. “Look, the drug business is like any other business; if you don’t keep track of your money, you don’t make money.”

“Granted.”

“If you’re running a drug operation, you can’t exactly walk into the office of the nearest CPA. You need somebody good with numbers, somebody you can trust, but somebody under the radar.”

She nodded. “Gladwyne on the Main Line, Ivy League, Phi Beta Kappa, and Rhodes Scholar William Carlisle.”

I refilled my mug and held onto the pot. “But somehow Billy Carlisle became a loose cannon in the Diaz organization somewhere around the same time he became William White Eyes, and I think that happened because of Cady.”

“In the pro bono appeal?”

“Yep.”

She smiled. “You think your daughter had a strong enough moral influence on this guy that it turned him?”

I poured her some more coffee. “You’d be amazed at the influence a woman can have for good or bad.”

She grinned and nodded her head. “Uh huh.”

I set the pot back down. “I don’t think Billy Carlisle was that bad of a guy to begin with. I think he made some bad choices and got involved with some bad people. I think he got reminded of his conscience in his dealings with Cady, and I think she became emblematic of something.”

Vic nodded and looked down at the collection of books I had spread across the counter. “What’s all this shit, anyway?”

“Research. The kid’s a genius. What’s the one thing he figured I’d eventually pick up on and even be drawn to?”

She looked at the books. “Statues?”

“Indians.”

Her eyes widened. “Fuck me.”

“The first note wasn’t Henry. GO BACK TO THE INDIAN was the statue at Logan Circle. I think LOOK WEST, YOU CAN FIGHT CITY HALL means the Indian statues facing west at City Hall.” I turned one of the books and shoved it toward her and pointed at the photograph of a Plains medicine man on horseback, his arm raised above his buffalo headdress. “Dauphin at West Thirty-third Street, east Fairmount Park.”

“Medicine man.”

I nodded. “I’m headed over to the hospital, but I thought I might stop off at City Hall since it’s on the way. The City Hall note came before the medicine man one, and the sequence might be important.”

The wedding cake that is the City Hall of Philadelphia was designed to be the tallest building in the world, but by the time it was finished, the Eiffel Tower and the Washington Monument had surpassed it. On four and a half acres of Penn Square, its domed tower tops out just shy of 550 feet to the top of Willy Penn’s hat. There are 250 other statues that adorn the interior and exterior of the building to keep him company.

We got out of the cab at the west side of the building and walked across the sidewalk with Dog as though we were approaching some fantastic ship that had been docked at the center of the metropolis.

“I hate this building.”

I ignored her and studied the facade. “It’s Second Empire, the same as the Louvre.”

“It’s fruity.”

“This is quite possibly the greatest architectural achievement of the late nineteenth century.”

I allowed my eye to cast over the dormer pediment figures on the west side of the building and walked a little ahead of Vic as she stopped to buy an Italian ice from one of the vendors that populated the area. Dog strained a little at the leash and attempted to be a part of Vic’s transaction, but I gently yanked him back.

It was a beautiful day, and the skies and streets were washed clear with the previous night’s storms. I could feel the humidity, and the air felt like the breath of someone close. I dragged Dog along behind me as I angled a little to the left and stood there, studying the dormer caryatids. Above them were two colossal bronzes at the north corners of the tower, twenty-four to twenty-six feet in height: one was an Indian maiden, the other a brave.

I looked at the more than two hundred vertical feet between the statues and me as Vic came over with two cups of Italian ice. “We don’t have to climb this ugly fucker, do we?”

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do.” I took my ice and spooned out a mouthful; it was pina colada, and it was very good. “Is there a tour of the building?”

“Yeah, or at least there used to be.”

I clarified my question. “When?”

“When it used to be my division, it was Monday through Friday at 12:30.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“It’s Philadelphia; nothing’s easy.”

I sidled a little more to the left, continuing to study the massive sculptures. “A woman with a child, and a man with a dog.” I looked down at Dog, who seemed to be taking an inordinate interest in my ice. “You don’t have any notes on you, do you?” He sat in expectation of a treat. I turned back to Vic. “Do you think we’re supposed to figure it out from here?”