Phillip Margolin - Heartstone

“It’s okay.”

“Are your parents filthy rich?” he asked.

Sarah’s mouth opened in surprise. Then she threw her head back and laughed.

“You are bold.”

Mark shrugged.

“You said you were well off and you live in a ritzy part of town.”

“Yes. We have scads of money,” she answered. She was beginning to like Mark. She was glad that she had hired such a nice person to represent Bobby. “Are you jealous?”

Mark thought about it.

“I wouldn’t mind being rich. It would solve a lot of problems.”

“Oh, you’ll soon be rolling in the dough. Lawyers make a lot of money.”

“Some do.”

“I have faith in you,” she said, smiling. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have hired you.”

Mark looked at Sarah and their eyes met for a moment. He looked away, feeling very unsure of himself. Was it his imagination or had she meant more than she said?

Mark drove up into the hills. Sarah looked out the window, not wanting to meet Mark’s eyes, because the look he had given her confused her. She was glad when they arrived at her apartment. She didn’t want to come on with Mark, but it would be to her advantage to have him interested in her, because of her indecision about the money. Besides, it wouldn’t be hard to make Mark think she found him attractive, because she did. He had cheered her up on the ride home and, until that moment when she had looked into his eyes, he had made her forget her problems.

She watched Mark’s car disappear over the hill and she suddenly felt guilty. Bobby was her boyfriend and he was in jail charged with murder. The situation was getting too complex for her. Too many things were happening at once. It would be better not to think for a while. She put on a record and sat in the dark, listening to the music.

“Mr. Toller, I’m Albert Caproni and I’m with the district attorney’s office. I understand that you have some information on the Murray-Walters case.”

Toller looked Caproni over and looked past him toward the door of the private interview room.

“Where’s Heidman? Ain’t he tryin’ the case?”

“I’m Mr. Heider’s assistant. Mr. Heider would have come himself, but a matter came up that required his personal attention.”

“Yeah? Well this matter’s gonna require attention too, if you want to find out what happened to that girl.”

“What girl?”

“The one you say those Coolidge boys killed. I know it wasn’t them.”

“You mean Elaine Murray?”

“I don’t remember the name, but she’s the right one. I seen her picture in the paper and I knew her right off.”

“If the Coolidge brothers didn’t kill Elaine Murray, who did?”

Toller leaned back in his chair and took a long look at Albert Caproni. Then he started to laugh.

“Jesus, you must think I’m awful stupid. I’m sittin’ here with the evidence on the biggest case that hit this town in years and I’m sittin’ here lookin’ at possibly twenty years and you want me to give you what I know for nothin’. Well, I ain’t givin’ this away. I want to deal, understand?”

“Mr. Toller, I am not authorized to make any ‘deals.’ Mr. Heider has the authority to plea negotiate any case, but he won’t even consider negotiating until he knows what you have to offer.”

“If I tell you everything, what guarantee do I have that you won’t just tell me to screw off?”

“You don’t have any guarantee. On the other hand, if I walk out of here I can guarantee you one thing-no other district attorney is going to come back.”

Toller’s bravado began to dissipate and Caproni could see that he was thinking hard.

“Mr. Toller, why don’t you just tell your attorney what you know and let him handle this?”

Toller waved his hand at Caproni, brushing the suggestion aside.

“He’s some young kid that’s wet behind the ears. I don’t think he has the brains to remember it all. Look, if I tell you, and the information checks out, what can you do for me? I was plannin’ to get married before I got busted. Then I lost my job. I knew I was actin’ stupid, but I was real down and I never act smart when I’m down.”

“Mr. Toller, you really shouldn’t be discussing the facts of your case with me. It’s my office that will be prosecuting you.”

Toller laughed again. Only this time the laughter was bitter.

“Son, there’s no way I can beat this one. I know that. I just want a break for once. I’m desperate. I found this girl, Joyce, for the first time. A real stand-up girl, ya know? Then I went ahead and blew it. I don’t even know if she’ll still stick by me, even if I do get out. But, I’m just gettin’ too old for prison and I know that’s where I’m headed if I don’t make this deal.”

“I sympathize with you,” Al said, and he really did, “but I can’t guarantee anything. You’ll just have to trust me. If I think you’re leveling with me, I will promise you that I’ll try to help you out. That is, if the information is important.”

Toller examined his fingernails and Caproni said nothing. Toller raised his head and sighed.

“I guess I gotta take the chance.”

Caproni took a writing pad out of his attaché case.

It was the second week in January, 1961, and Eddie Toller felt like shit. He always felt like shit from late November to late January of every year. Come February the feeling would gradually begin to wear off.

The cause of his spiritual malaise was the cornerstone of American democracy, capitalism, and the commercialism that this theory of economics fostered. From the end of November until the beginning of January Thanksgiving was followed by Christmas and Christmas by New Year’s and for each one there was a flood of commercials and advertisements that glorified the American family and the joys of spending these holiday seasons with one.

And that was Eddie’s problem in a nutshell. He missed his momma, ’cause she was dead, and his daddy was long gone, so that meant no American family, no firesides and two months of depression.

As it was the second week of January, Eddie’s depression was on the downswing, but it was still strong enough that he had sought solace in the cups at the bar down the corner from the fleabag hotel he was staying in until he could find work in Portsmouth.

Eddie wasn’t alone at the bar tonight. He had made the acquaintance of an unshaven young man who wore a black leather motorcycle jacket and who combed his hair in what was popularly called a “duck’s ass.” It was the motorcycle jacket that had started the conversation. Eddie knew a lot about ’cycles and so did the fellow in the jacket who introduced himself as Willie Heartstone.

They talked motorcycles for a while, then drifted into other areas of discussion, finally arriving, when they were both good and drunk, at the end point of most male bar conversations that aren’t about sports: pussy.

Eddie told Willie about this great black pussy he had eaten in Georgia, while in the army, when he was so drunk that his piss had risen level with his eyeballs, and Willie told him that he wouldn’t fuck nigger pussy ’cause he heard it would bite you back. They both howled at that and the bartender had to caution them when they laughed so hard that Eddie knocked the pitcher off the bar.

“I’ll tell ya,” Eddie said, buying the next round, “a little pussy right now would sure cure all my ills.”

Heartstone was as drunk as Eddie. The beer from his mug slopped onto his clothes every time he waved his arm to make a point.

“How about a big pussy,” he said, making a point. Eddie roared and Willie spilled some of his beer on Eddie’s chino slacks.

“Any old size pussy,” Eddie conceded. “Just as long as it don’t have teeth.”