Steve Martini - The Judge

“Jungle drums and smoke signals?” he says.

This means that what is about to follow comes from the office grapevine, rumors that have no confirmation this side of the grave.

“It’s my life on the line,” he tells me. “You gotta promise it goes no further.”

I give him three fingers in the air, poking out from my beer can, like some blood oath between brother inebriants. Leo cannot wait to tell me, which, knowing the man, is a good hint that what is to follow is bad news.

“There was a case, maybe six months ago, a cop named Wiley, shot in a raid out by the park, a crack house.”

“Killed, as I recall,” I tell him. “I remember reading about it. Some controversy.”

“He was off duty at the time, which raised a few eyebrows,” says Leo. “Part of a rat pack. Hotshots with battering rams in the trunk of their cars like other people carry fishing rods. Their idea of a good time was picking some pusher’s nose with the barrel of a Beretta. You know the type,” he says.

To Leo this is a mortal sin, a violation of the wages and hours rule that governs all life. Leo has never worked a minute of overtime for which he was not paid.

“They made some kid for the killing. Sixteen. They tried him as an adult,” says Leo.

“Sounds like justice to me,” I tell him.

“Except for one thing,” he says. “The kid denied he did it. Said the gun wasn’t his.”

“Imagine that,” I say. “Novel defense.”

“Yeah, very novel,” says Leo. “Novel-type story. That’s why nobody gave it much credence. They checked the serial number. This is no Saturday night special, mind you. Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. Well, lo and behold,” says Leo, “the piece was stolen. Household burglary. So everybody figures the kid for it. Right?”

I give him an expression, the picture of logic.

“Except there’s more history to this particular piece. Seems one of the clerks down in Property is going through records doing a little inventory, trying to see how much they lost over the course of the year, cars, planes, hotels, that kinda shit, and what do you think he finds?”

I give him a shrug.

“One thirty-eight Smith and Wesson-missing.”

“Let me guess. The same serial number.”

“Bingo,” says Leo. “Theory is somebody, one of the cops, dropped the piece on the kid at the scene.”

“What? An accidental shooting? One of them panicked?”

“You’re too trusting,” says Leo. The only man more cynical than me.

“Then why?”

“That’s the other shoe,” says Leo. “We been hearin’ rumblings-no complaints, mind you-but tom-toms from the street for over a year that some cops have gone into business for themselves, shaking down dealers, taking cash, and when they can, drugs. Nothing too big,” says Leo. “A little here, a little there, a grand here, a kilo there. It all adds up. Now, mind you, these guys, the victims, are in no position to file a consumer complaint. So what we hear is just informal.” Leo’s getting animated, into the story.

“Like, Officer,” he says. “See that son of a bitch over there? He took my bag of crack and this month’s supply of horse. Yeah, that’s right, the one over there, wearing the uniform just like yours.”

“I can imagine how it might chill a complaint,” I tell him.

“You think that’s chilling,” says Leo. “Try this one. All of the officers on the raid with Wiley that night were part of Lano’s clique. Two of them were officers in the association. On the board,” he says.

Leo is zeroing in.

“What does that have to do with Tony Arguillo? You’re not telling me. .?”

He starts to nod his head.

“Your man Tony,” he says, “was the one who took the gun off the kid.”

I have been calling Lenore’s apartment all evening with no success. Sarah is now asleep in her bedroom and I while away the time going over some files from the office. Ten minutes later I pick up the phone and have one of those extrasensory experiences that occur once in an eon. I go to dial and there is a voice on the other end. It is Lenore.

“Mental telepathy,” I tell her. I look at my watch. It’s after ten. “You must be burning the oil,” I add.

“Clearing the cobwebs from my life,” she tells me. Her voice is thick with a nasal quality. I’m wondering if she has a cold.

“I was calling to find out if you know where Tony Arguillo is. I’ve been leaving messages on his phone for two days. He isn’t returning my calls.” I don’t tell her about my meeting with Gus Lano, or the icy information from Leo Kerns, the reasons I have to talk with Tony.

“I haven’t a clue,” she says. “I haven’t seen him since our meeting in your office.”

There follows that awkward kind of silence on the line-the pause that might normally accompany news of a death in the family.

“Your turn,” I say.

“I need to talk to somebody,” she tells me. “If just a friendly voice.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been fired.”

Ahalf hour later there is a quiet knock on my door. When I open it, Lenore is standing on the porch, with hair as disheveled as I can ever imagine hers becoming. There is a slight odor of alcohol as she says, “Hello.” She looks like a smoldering Mount Saint Helens after the main explosion, a great deal of psychic smoke with the fire mostly out.

I usher her in and offer her coffee or a drink.

“What have you got?”

In her current state hydrochloric acid is probably too mild. I lead her to the kitchen and throw open the cabinet door so she can take her pick.

“You weren’t surprised?” she says. “By the news of my demise?”

“A little,” I tell her. “But then I figured you and Kline for different management styles.”

She laughs. “A graceful way to put it. Always the diplomat.”

“Now you’re going to tell me you didn’t see it coming,” I say.

“I saw it,” she says. “It’s just that you’re always most surprised by your own obituary.” It’s the kind of bravado that covers a lot of hurt. She has a few choice words for her former employer, but most of the invective seems gone, consumed, I suspect, in some earlier heat. I am wondering who among her cadre of friends got most of this, maybe over drinks after leaving the office.

She takes Johnnie Walker by the neck in one hand, and pours half a glass into a large tumbler, talking to me all the while, like “who’s measuring.” She uses no water or ice to cut this. Lenore doesn’t want to remember any of this tomorrow.

“So tell me what happened. Another argument?”

She shakes her head and sniffles just a little. “Uh-uh. He’s too calculating for that. He wanted to think about it, and plan it. Savor the moment,” she says.

“I get back from court in the afternoon, about four-thirty, and my office door is open.” She takes a long drink from the glass and coughs a little, like some kid after his first drag on a cigarette.

“This is awful.”

“You picked it.”

“Got any wine?” Lenore is not a serious drinker. She is looking for pain medication, something to add to the buzz she is already feeling.

“You can get just as drunk on that.”

“But wine takes longer, and I’ve got a ten-hanky story,” she says.

I rummage through my cupboard and come up with a couple of bottles.

“The Gewurtz,” she says.

“Remind me never to seduce you with liquor,” I tell her.

“If you can’t take the time to do it right, you shouldn’t do it at all,” she says.

“Anyway, you get back from court and your office door is open.” I pick up the point while I look for a corkscrew.