Bryan Gruley - The Hanging Tree

“You have plenty of one and not much of the other, huh?”

Haskell smiled.

“I see the River Rats didn’t go very far in the postseason.”

The Rats had won the regional title but lost in the state quarterfinals to-who else? — the Pipefitters, 3–2, in overtime. Dougie Baker played well in the net but surrendered a goal late in the third period that tied the game; some folks in town were griping that he should have stopped it, a wrist shot from the blue line, skimming just above the ice. But Soupy told me it had glanced off a Rats player’s toe and changed direction. “Handcuffed him,” Soupy said. “Tough break.”

I had been hoping to bump into the kid at the rink so I could tell him he had done a good job.

“They did fine,” I told Haskell. “Felicia says hello.”

He was straining now to keep the smile on. “Really? Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said you saw her.”

“I did. She’s gone.”

“How did you-” He looked impatiently at Gilbert. “Did we-never mind.” He looked back at me. “She has Taylor with her?”

“So far as I know.”

“That’s my son,” he said, stabbing an index finger into his chest. “It’s not even her son. It’s my son.”

“What about Gracie?”

He slowly sat down, setting his palms flat on the table. “I must say, I am sincerely shocked and dismayed-increasingly so, at my advancing age-at the ingratitude of people.”

“Who? Gracie? Are you kidding?”

“Of people who have absolutely no reason to be anything but grateful for what someone has given them. This town. My wife. Your family member. Every single one of them.”

“My family member?”

“Wake up, Gus. I didn’t hang her in the tree. That is an established fact. I didn’t do it. You had all of your life to keep her out of that tree. Do you feel responsible? Maybe you do. But she did it. She put herself there. With the help of my lovely wife. She’s the one who ought to be enduring this, not me.”

“How about Vend?” I said. “Do you think he was ungrateful for everything you did for him, all that business you brought in?”

Haskell looked to Gilbert again. Without raising his gaze from his folded hands, the attorney recited, “My client cannot comment on pending legal matters.”

Vend remained at large. Police supposedly were hunting him in Toronto, but they worried that he had fled overseas. Really they had no idea.

“Tell me, Laird,” I said. “You feeling a little trapped? Are you more afraid of going to prison or not going?”

Gilbert started to repeat what he’d just said, but Haskell stopped him.

“You’ve seen Vend?”

Crater Face, Jason Esper, and other of Vend’s cronies were in jail. But they were all flipping on Haskell and Vend so they wouldn’t be behind bars forever. That couldn’t have made Haskell feel too good. One of the rent-a-cops at his door was the fuzzy-lipped kid who’d told me to have a good day in Traverse. He was going to protect Haskell from Vend?

“Not recently,” I said.

“What does that mean?”

I let the question sit there while Haskell’s face got redder.

“‘Recently’ is one of those words newspapers find so useful when the only way to be accurate is to be vague,” I said. “Like ‘several.’ Or ‘expected.’ Words designed to disguise we’re not really sure what we’re talking about, or we don’t really want you to know we don’t know. ‘Recently’ could be yesterday or two months ago. Who knows?”

Haskell threw up his hands. “So what are we doing here? Did you come here to torture me? Or to ask questions? If it’s not-”

“I’m working on a follow-up story,” I said. “A more detailed look at the relationship between you and Vend. Who was the real mastermind behind it all? Who called the shots? Who was whose bitch?”

“You’ll never get that in your little rag.”

“Sure I will. Suddenly, this place can’t get enough stories that shit on Laird Haskell. Did you know the Pilot ’s circulation is up thirteen percent in the last month? And funny, but nobody seems to give a damn about the guy downstate. He didn’t screw them over on a hockey rink.”

Haskell shifted in his chair and looked out at the lake, idly rapping the fingers of one hand on the table. I watched him calculate. He turned back to me, the red washed out of his face for the moment.

“I can help you with that story,” he said. “I have documents. All sorts of documents. Boxes of them.” He leaned into the table. “Copies of handwritten ledgers. Credit card slips. Photographs. Voice mails. E-mails, even. We could put away some of the biggest names in Michigan. And Vend-we could put that twisted pervert in prison for the rest of his life.”

“You’re one of the biggest names in Michigan, Mr. Haskell.”

“Not even close. These are big. You can’t imagine. Dangerous big.”

I smiled. “I’ll take whatever you want to give me. On the record.”

“On the record?” Haskell said. “No. Be reasonable. I give you the papers, you quote from the papers. No need to say where you got it.”

“Sorry.” I stood to leave. “This is not a negotiation.”

“Are you crazy? Are you fucking crazy? Some of these people-they would-fucking Jarek Vend is-you don’t realize.” He was halfway out of his chair, sputtering, spittle whitening the corners of his mouth.

Gilbert lifted his head to watch. He looked fascinated, as if he’d never seen this particular client before.

“If I see Vend, I’ll be sure to tell him you said hello. Maybe he’ll give me the documents. What do you think?”

“Wait.” Haskell rushed around the table. He took me by an arm. I could smell the sweat on him. “Wait. Please, Gus, think about this.”

“You already offered all that stuff to the cops. Right? But they’re not playing, are they?” I pulled my arm away. “They’re taking you down, Mr. Haskell. Or Vend will take you down. Either way’s fine with me.”

“What-what did I ever do to you? I didn’t return your fucking phone calls, so you just hang me out to dry?”

I turned to Gilbert. “Thanks, Parm.”

“Feel free to call if you have follow-up questions,” he said.

“Follow-up questions?” Haskell said. “You don’t even have a story.”

“Well,” I said, “you did say you have all these ledgers and credit card slips that could bring down the biggest names in Michigan. Including Vend. What did you call him? A twisted pervert? I mean, I’d love to have the documents, but the quotes I got are pretty good.”

“We were off the record.”

“I never agreed to that.”

Haskell turned to Gilbert. The attorney looked at me, then at his client.

“It is customary,” Gilbert said, “to make those sorts of agreements explicit at the beginning of an interview.”

“Son of a bitch,” Haskell said. He turned back to me. “Come on, Gus. For old times’ sake. There must be some middle ground here.”

I looked at him. His silver hair was mussed. The second-to-last button on his shirt was undone. His eyes were sunken with fear and weariness. I could have put him in front of a mirror and he never would have seen it. He would never see anything but smiling Laird Haskell, scourge of the auto industry, friend of the victim, doting husband, father of a future NHL goaltender.

“Yeah, sure, Laird,” I said. “The middle ground is like this: You could have hung Gracie in that tree yourself. But you didn’t. That’s all.”

I could still hear him shouting, What in God’s good heaven does that mean? as I trudged up his driveway, ignored Kepsel and Sally and Mrs. Ford begging me to tell them what was going on, climbed into my pickup, and pulled away.