James Grippando - The Pardon

“I’m here,” he said into the phone.

“So you are, my man.” There was still that thick sucking sound to the man’s speech. “Let’s make this quick.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not tracing the call.”

The man seemed to scoff. “I’m not worried at all. You’re not about to call in the cops.”

Harry bristled, annoyed that the caller had him figured for an easy mark. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I can read you like a book. I saw the way your eyes lit up when I told you I had information about Fernandez. You’ve been thinking about that one for a while, haven’t you?”

The governor listened carefully as pedestrians and buzzed by outside the booth. It disturbed him that this stranger understood him so well-this stranger who spoke like a punk but had the insight of a shrink. Part of his disguise, he figured. “What’s your proposal?” he asked.

“Simple. I’ll give you the evidence. The same evidence I showed your son two years ago, so you can see with your own eyes it was me who slit the bitch’s throat. All you gotta do is come up with the cash.”

Harry’s mind was reeling. This was the man who had visited Jack the night of the Fernandez execution? Could he be on the level-could he really be the killer?

“Wait a minute, you’re saying you killed that young girl?”

“You need a hearing aid, old man? That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

The governor felt as if a deep chasm were opening up in front of him and he was plummeting downward with no end in sight. It took a few seconds to collect himself. “You said something about money?”

“Ten thousand. Unmarked fifties.”

“How do I get it to you?” he asked, though he could hardly believe he was actually negotiating. “And how do I get this evidence you claim you have?”

“Just bring the money to Bayfront Park in Miami. Go to where the carriage rides start, by the big statue of Christopher Columbus. Get in the white carriage with the red velvet seats. The driver’s an old nigger named Calvin. Get the nine p.m. ride. When you get to the amphitheater, he’ll stop for a break and get himself an iced tea from the roach-coach senorita with the big tits. When he does, check under your seat on the right-hand side. The seat cushion flips up, and there’s storage space underneath. You’ll find a shoe box and a note. Leave the money, take the box, read the note-and do exactly as it says. Got it?”

“What if the carriage driver doesn’t stop?”

“He’ll stop, if you get the nine o’clock ride. You can set a fucking clock by him. He always stops.”

“I can’t just go for a carriage ride with a sack full of money.”

“You can-and you will. ”

The governor quickly sensed the nonnegotiability of the terms. “I’ll need a little time. When do you want it?”

“Saturday night. And like I said: Take the nine o’clock ride. Gotta go, my man. I don’t think you’re tracing the call, but just in case you are, my seventy seconds is about up.”

The governor heard a click on the other end of the line. Slowly he placed the receiver back in the cradle, then took a deep breath. He worried about getting in deeper, but he had to be certain that what this man was telling him was the truth. He didn’t know what he’d do once he confirmed it, how he’d be able to live with himself or explain it to Jack, but he had to be certain.

Besides, it could be worse. Paying a single dime to this low-life would be too much, but the truth was that ten thousand dollars would not devastate his and Agnes’s finances. The man could easily have asked for much more.

He wondered why the man hadn’t asked for more. He was taking quite a risk exposing himself like this. Why not go for the big payday? Unless he was playing a different game altogether, one Harry couldn’t even begin to fathom.

Somehow the possibility of that filled him with an even deeper dread.

“To my good buddy, Jack,” said Crazy Mike Mannon, proprietor of Mike’s Bikes and Jack Swyteck’s best friend. He raised a bottle of Michelob. “May you come to your senses and never find another job as a lawyer.”

Jack smiled, then tipped back his Amstel and took a long pull. After a day of phone calls to friends about potential job openings, he’d let Mike talk him into dinner on South Beach. A couple of beers and cheeseburgers at a sidewalk cafe sounded good.

They enjoyed the ocean breezes and watched bronzed bodies on roller blades weave in and out of bright-red convertibles, classic Corvettes, and fat-tired jeeps blaring reggae and Cuban salsa. By eight o’clock the sun had gone down and everything trendy, sexy, and borderline illegal was parading down Ocean Drive beneath colorful neon hues.

“Whoa,” said Mike as a deeply tanned blonde with a seriously plunging neckline sent a ripple of whiplash through the cafe.

Jack smiled with amusement. Mike was one of those guys who was forever on the make-a frat boy stuck in a man’s body. Even so, he had an irrepressible spirit that most people found charming. He had a way of not taking life too seriously, of following his own desires and not worrying about what others thought or said. Jack envied him for that.

“You know, Mike, there’s an orthopedic surgeon over at Jackson Memorial who would love to see your X rays. She’s doing a paper on swivel heads.”

“Easy for you to be so pious, Mr. Monogamous. But some of us don’t go to bed every night with Cindy Paige.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack said, looking away, “I’m beginning to wonder how much longer that’s going to last.”

“Uh-oh. Trouble in Camelot. That’s okay, I’ll find a honey for you, too. How about that one?” Mike said, nodding at a leather-clad bodybuilder with spiked burgundy hair.

“Perfect. She looks like the type who’d go for a guy without a job. And if she seems undecided, I’ll just mention that some maniac wants to turn me into roadkill.”

Mike gave him an assessing look. “Any new theories about that car thing yesterday?”

“Your guess is still as good as mine,” Jack said, shrugging. “I suppose it could be Goss having fun with me. This ‘killer on the loose’ stuff is his style. But I’m not sure he has the attention span. First the phone call three days ago. Now this. It’s a real campaign. Someone is obviously furious about the verdict.”

Mike’s head swiveled to follow two halter-topped women who’d emerged from the ladies’ room. “Maybe you should call the cops.”

Jack smiled. “The Miami Police Department would like nothing better than to hear Jack Swyteck is being hassled. They’d probably offer the guy the key to the city. I don’t think the cops are an option right now.”

“Well, you watch your back,” Mike said with emphasis. He grinned. “You might even want to consider a new line of work-you know, greeting-card salesman or something.”

Jack nodded. Maybe Mike had a point. Maybe he did need a clean break-even a move to another state. Away from Goss, and out of the shadow of his father, for whom the best was never enough, and Cindy who was always pushing him to open up. Hell, why couldn’t he open up? Everyone else in America was unloading their thoughts. You couldn’t turn on a talk show these days without watching someone turn his guts inside out in front of the camera.

“Hey, Mike,” Jack asked, his mind drifting. “Do you get along with your family-you know, do you chew the fat regularly with your mom and dad?”

Mannon had made eye contact with some woman in tight purple capri pants. “Huh,” he said, refocusing on Jack. “Oh, family. . well, yeah, you know. My mom and I talk. It’s mostly her that does the ear-bending. Always wants to know when I’m going to get married and give her grandchildren.”