Richard Greener - The Knowland Retribution

Despite the moderate temperatures, Ike disliked this time of year because of the crowds. They turned Billy’s into a madhouse. Billy’s first-rate kitchen did not help. Nor did his well-stocked bar. The tourists wanted Billy’s signature drink. It was called the “Bushwacker,” a word locals also used in place of “tourist” to indicate the absence of respect and affection.

Except for lunchtime, when he preferred to sit outside and sneer at the Bushwhackers’ colorful get-ups, the staff knew to keep Ike’s table free even while he was out stretching his legs-a few yards this way, a few yards that-or in the back relieving himself, which could be a prolonged affair. His table was his until he announced that he was gone for the day. He didn’t drive anymore, not at his age, and he couldn’t walk very far. But one of his many grandsons was always somewhere around, ready to take him wherever he wanted. Grandson Roosevelt drove him most often, but today he was on another island attending to family business. Walter and Billy were never sure they knew all of Ike’s family businesses. Ike himself was long since retired. Grandson Kennedy picked him up at Billy’s soon after Walter and Isobel left. When Billy first arrived on St. John, he asked Walter if Ike’s whole family had been named after dead Presidents. “Not the girls,” Walter said.

Now Ike was back. He liked to walk in on his own, so Kennedy dropped him off to the side of the square. Ike shuffled into Billy’s with the slow, elegant step that seemed to most a matter of choice. Jenna, a nineteen-year-old waitress from Indianapolis who’d been at Billy’s almost a year now, said, “Hey,” and looked toward his table, agreeably free of colonists.

“Seen Walter?”

“No.” She had Ike’s usual in hand, and set it onto one of Billy’s fancy new bevel-edged coasters.

“Billy,” he called out. “Where’s Walter?”

“Beats me.” Billy was boisterous with the huge success of the lunchtime shift. “Where’s Jimmy Hoffa, Judge whatshisname, or the guys who really killed OJ’s wife? They ain’t here neither, in case you need to know.”

Ike exchanged sympathetic glances with Jenna. He raised his glass to her and she smiled before moving on to other more profitable duties.

Ike saw Billy sending him a long, significant glance across the room. It said, “I make it a hundred to one they been fucking their brains out all day long.” It also said, “What do you think?”

Ike fixed his mouth to turn his smile down at the sides. He did this to reinforce the silent message he sent back to Billy. The message was this: “More chance you fucked three different goats during lunchtime!”

In this kind of situation, Billy accepted Ike’s “no argument” rule. These small subtleties mystified Billy, but Ike always seemed to get them straight.

At that moment Walter and Isobel were dissecting Isobel’s meeting with Leonard Martin. In terms of method, they picked up where they’d left off in New York. That process exhilarated Isobel. It was what she’d tasted in Oxford, savored in Annapolis, quickly given up on at the New York Times: a truly pure collaboration; a protracted scientific conversation in words; an authentic treasure hunt of the mind-unencumbered by emotion; tightly disciplined. That was the word: “disciplined.” This time, of course, there was an added element, a kind of secret. But it was metaphysical to the issue; strictly a preface to the play, nothing to do with the action; nothing to do with who, where, what. It was, in fact, about herself, nothing to do with, not precisely about, the business at hand. Certainly not the kind of thing to throw in the mix just now. Isobel kept her secret secret.

The magic was in the rhythm of the thing. Each led until it was time to switch; both knew exactly when that time arrived. As Isobel had the new information, Walter led with questions most of the time. When something came up that gave her a sense of direction, she led for as long as that lasted. Most of what they said was questions and answers, or back-and-forth construction of ideas. Parallel issues and brainstorm items got noted, or just remembered, and put to the side, then brought into play when a line of discussion had run its course. Things used to go that way with her father until he lost patience or interest. There were times she thought the Moose had potential.

Walter’s focus was single-minded; he wanted clues to help him find Leonard. If he could not see how a fact or a thought would get him there, he put it aside for later discussion, if Isobel wished, but not for immediate scrutiny. Isobel could only report that Leonard had refused to talk about the past two years. He only wanted to lay out his case. They spent some time on that. They went over the four targets Leonard had named for Isobel, and his brief against each. They went over and over each one. But Walter said he was suspicious; for all they knew, Leonard had mixed in details designed to mislead. His purpose was to not get caught-or help Isobel prevent another crime. All Leonard had to do was give details after the fact, as he’d already done in letter two, which saved Harlan Jennings. Walter wasn’t sure why Leonard wanted to meet her at all. Leonard knew she would publish the points he wanted made. He’d already given her journalistic presence. Why should Leonard doubt that she’d continue to serve? He had other ways to plead his case for preventing false convictions: via e-mail, snail-mail, telephone, throwaway cell phone-many safer ways. Why risk a meeting at all? It baffled him. And why the blindfold? Why refuse to acknowledge his identity absolutely? Leonard’s lawyerly explanation did not sell with Walter. When he asked Isobel, she shook her head, returned his searching look, proclaimed with her eyes that she only wished she could offer an explanation.

Ganga Roy’s complete report was on the disc Leonard gave Isobel, together with her notes and written comments about the rancorous, ominous meeting in Nathan Stein’s office. They printed out two copies and each of them worked from their own. What Leonard told Isobel about Ganga Roy’s revelations, what they could plainly read for themselves, and what Tom Maloney confided in Walter did not jibe. They spent an hour on those points of difference, talked about Ganga Roy’s notes-her presentation and observations-and speculated briefly on the inner struggle that very likely ended in suicide. Walter never assumed that Tom Maloney had been fully truthful. He allowed as much for every client. The Roy materials helped him draw a more confident picture of where Tom lied. What else had been a lie? Walter kept thinking about Maloney saying, “How do I make the check out, Sister?”

They went over and over Isobel’s “kidnap” and interview. She repeated the story twice from beginning to end, printout in hand, original notebook next to her. Isobel told Walter how she told Leonard Martin she knew who he was-even repeating her assertion that she couldn’t see him-and of his refusal to admit his identity. Despite that, they spoke of details exclusive to Leonard’s experience. There was no doubt in her mind that she met with and spoke to Leonard Martin. When Isobel described her pique at being felt up by the driver, something seemed to flash in Walter’s eyes. Something boyish. .. jealousy? That did not seem right, anyway, not enough. “Do you know who that guy was?” she asked again.

Walter did not respond. Given the rhythm they’d established, his hesitation signaled a moment. She felt it. Probably he did too. “Do you know who Kermit is?” she said.

“Maybe.” Walter said.

She gave him what she intended to be a curious, dissatisfied look. Then a series of unconnected thoughts brought Laticia’s voice to mind and she knew that must be leading somewhere.