Stephen Cannell - King Con

Roger-the-Dodger rolled onto his side, sound asleep. He barked softly and growled, then his feet started running in the air. The terrier was on the foot of the motel bed, involved in some important canine adventure. Beano had the TV on, but was not paying much attention until he caught a glimpse of Victoria Hart. He lunged over Roger, across the room, and turned up the volume. The dog looked up, annoyed. Beano caught the last part of the interview where Victoria Hart stomped on Gil Green's balls, then turned to the camera and promised Joe Rina that she would get him.

Beano waited until the news came back on. Ted Calendar was at his anchor desk in a blue blazer; the red-haired co-anchor, Shelly September, was shaking her vinyl hair in disbelief.

"Quite an interview, Ted," she said.

"Yes, it was. We've asked Gil Green to comment, Shelly, and he said that the District Attorney's office doesn't support Miss Hart's position. In fact, he told me she had been demoted, and perhaps her anger over that produced these remarks. They also said they would have a full statement sometime tomorrow."

"A very strange ending to a very strange saga," Shelly said in mock amazement and then turned to other news.

Beano muted the TV and looked down at Roger. "What the fuck is she doing, attacking a monster like that? She's gonna get herself killed."

Roger had no answer, so Beano got up and went into the bathroom and slapped water on his face; then he started to gather up his cosmetics. He took them back into the bedroom, reached under the bed, and pulled out a canvas bag. Inside it was a three-gallon pickle jar with an air-tight metal top. Through the glass jar he could see rolls of hundred-dollar bills. He surveyed his layout money skeptically. "Ain't gonna be enough, Rog. For what I gotta pull, I'm gonna need a lot more." The dog yawned. "The answer is we gotta get Vicky Hart to tell us where Tommy and Joe have their money stashed. We better get to this woman before the Rinas do." He continued packing. He had seen Gil Green on TV three or four times already that afternoon. He turned the volume back up and started flipping around, looking for the District Attorney, who had been getting a lot of news play because of the abrupt dismissal of the high-profile case. He finally found him on Channel Two. It was a taped courthouse interview right after the Prosecution had waved the white flag.

"Of course… this was absolutely expected after the eyewitness was lost. Ms. Hart has made some serious errors in judgment here and we're going to be looking into it."

Beano was listening to the rhythm of Gil Green's speech, the soft low-energy presentation.

He turned to Roger. "Of course… this was absolutely expected after the eyewitness was lost. Ms. Hart has made some serious errors in judgment here and we're going to be looking into it." Beano's mimicking got very close to Gil Green's pinched voice on the first attempt. He thought it needed to be a Utile higher, a little reedier. He tried it a few more times. Finally, Roger barked at him.

"You think?" Beano asked. "Okay, let's try it."

He moved to the phone book, looked up the D.A.'s office, and dialed. Once he got the switchboard, he asked for Victoria Hart's extension. After several rings, he was forwarded to the Reception Desk just before it shut down for the night.

"Hi, who is this?" he asked in Gil Green's soft, non-confrontational, passive-aggressive voice.

"It's Donna. Is that you, Mr. Green?" the receptionist answered.

"Yes, Donna, this is Gilbert. I'm trying desperately to reach Victoria and I fear I've left my book in the office. Do you have her home telephone and perhaps her address?"

"Yes, Mr. Green," Donna said, eager to please, "but I don't think she's at home just now."

"Do you know where she might be?"

"She's at her parents' house in Wallingford, Connecticut. I don't have the number, but I think it's listed."

"And her father would be…?" He let it hang in the air with arch theatricality, liking the way he was doing the impression. Sometimes, he thought he could even give Dana Carvey a run for it.

"Her father's name is Harry Hart. Harry and Elizabeth Hart."

"How very American," he said condescendingly, and hung up without saying good-bye. Minutes later he had their phone number. He dialed, but got no answer. He tried calling again at seven-ten, then at seven-forty and at eight P.M., but still no answer. Maybe they're out to dinner, he thought, or maybe I'm already too late.

The restaurant was on the ninth fairway of the public links in Wallingford, Connecticut. The windows overlooked the course. Harry and Elizabeth Hart listened earnestly as their daughter finished her tale.

Harry was a retired insurance executive. He had a ruddy complexion and silver-white hair. After he retired, he'd started wearing out-of-style madras coats and white linen pants-clothes Victoria thought he would never have worn ten years ago. Harry was very proud of his daughter. He thought she was the most strikingly wonderful person he had ever known.

Elizabeth Hart had her wheelchair parked up close to the table. She was holding her daughter's hand under the drape of the tablecloth. Her hands were too slender and heavily veined. The right side of her face sagged and she had lost the ability to walk since her last stroke. Elizabeth Hart's mind was still tracking, even though she slurred her speech in her soft Texas accent. It was hard for Victoria to see her mother this way… She had always been so vital, so beautiful. It had been her mother who had constantly pried Victoria's hand off the achievement throttle as a child, urging her to develop her playful side. It had been a valiant, if unrewarding struggle.

"I suppose it's already aired by now. Thank God you don't get WTRN here in Connecticut," Victoria said, and then they sat in silence until a waiter cleared the plates.

"You did the right thing, Victoria," her father said. "You must do what you feel is right. From everything you've told me about Gil Green, he's not a good manager of his people." He was being the business expert now, falling back on twenty years of management experience at Penn Mutual Insurance.

"But see's been 'ere almos five 'ears, 'arry," her mother slurred, the Texas drawl making it even harder to understand. "Where 'ill see go?" Her mother, as usual, had caught the heart of the problem: Where could she go to practice law after all this?

"So, you stay up here for a while, till it all blows over." Her father raced ahead: "You hang up a shingle. I know some people who will throw work your way. Real estate or business contracts, lotta work like that around here."

"I'm a criminal attorney, Dad." Then she paused before going on. "… And I have another problem…"

They both anxiously waited for her.

"I… maybe…" She stopped and looked down. "Maybe I need to do something about these murders, prove what happened to Carol."

"Let the police do that," Harry said sternly, but Elizabeth squeezed her hand under the table.

"But, Dad, they won't be able to. Joseph Rina is very smart. He doesn't make mistakes. The only mistake I think he ever made was beating this John Doe, whoever he was, with a nine-iron in front of a witness. I need to find a way to get Rina. A police investigation won't do it; there are too many rules, plus evidentiary and procedural roadblocks. He'll never go down that way. I need something else, something…" She hesitated, looking for the right word, then chose the one that had been linked to her by the press. "… something tricky," she finished.

"I won't hear of this," her father said. "If Joe Rina is everything you say, and I'm sure he is, he's not somebody you want to be messing around with. I know I can't tell you what to do anymore, but, sweetheart, I can't bear the thought of you being in danger. It's not your job to go out and try to settle society's debts."