John Lescroart - The Mercy Rule

A silence settled. They simply looked at each other. Graham told her he loved her. She bit at her lip and found she couldn’t respond. ‘What’s it like out there?’ he asked finally. ‘Outside.’

‘Windy. I’ve got a game tonight, you know. Thursdays.’ She sighed. ‘How are you holding up?’

‘Better now.’ But he couldn’t hide his uncertainty about it. ‘I think I got the right lawyer.’

Sarah nodded. ‘Did he tell you he talked to your brother? George won’t say where he was.’

A shake of the head. ‘Georgie didn’t kill Sal.’

‘Okay.’ She didn’t want to argue about it. She thought it was entirely possible, in fact, that George had killed Sal. Nothing Hardy had told her ruled him out in any way, and her training was to keep pushing until you got to something. ‘But I wish I could talk to him. I’d shake his tree a little harder than he’s used to.’

‘So why don’t you?’

‘I can’t. I’ve got no case. If I shake him down off duty and he complains, which he would, it’s harassment and there goes my job. Hardy’s trying to get my boss to move on it.’

‘Your boss?’

‘Lieutenant Glitsky – he and Hardy know each other. But it won’t matter. Glitsky won’t do it. There’s nothing to move on, especially since Glitsky’s already got a suspect in jail.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

‘I am looking at the other things, Graham. Craig Ising’s friends. The fish stuff.’

‘I know.’ Then, quietly. ‘I know you are.’

She could see him being brave and it was tearing her up. Say what she would about his chances at his trial, the fact remained that he was locked up, a prisoner. He wasn’t going out to play ball tonight the way she was. He was here, alone, scared. She felt like she had to hold him. He needed her. But she couldn’t do that, although if she stayed any longer, she might. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.

The headache had been bad this morning and he’d gotten a call near dawn. He came right on down and gave Sal his shot. His father hated to shoot himself up. Hated it!

After that Sal slept and Graham read for a while, some magazine, passing the time, dozing a little himself. He didn’t have to be in at work until midafternoon and had come to love these times with his dad, even to depend on them, difficult as they sometimes were. In his dad’s presence he felt like he belonged somewhere. He was loved for who he was. He felt important, needed. It was as simple as that. He didn’t feel that way anywhere else.

He heard Sal stirring in his room down past the kitchen and a minute later he appeared. ‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘Still here. How about I take you down for lunch at the Grotto. I love their cioppino. Nobody makes cioppino better than Bruno Giotti.’

Halfway out of his chair, Graham sat back down, his stomach churning, and not over the mention of food. Since his father’s headaches had started, the bouts of forgetfulness had become more frequent as well, but this morning was more than forgetfulness. This, to Graham, was new.

‘Dad, the Grotto isn’t there anymore. It’s Stagnola’s now, remember?’

Sal laughed. ‘What kind of boy am I raising here? What are you talking about, you don’t know your own backyard? Come on, get up, fish don’t bite all day.’

To look at him there was no change. He ‘d even dressed, for Sal, with a degree of proper conservatism: tennis shoes and khaki slacks and a blue workshirt that had been pressed before he ’d taken a nap in it. ‘So we going or not?’

Graham was going to have to talk to Russ Cutler, he thought. He didn’t know what to do, how to handle this – humor Sal or dig his heels in. He just didn’t know.

‘Yeah, we’re going,’ he said.

He’d stick with him until this passed, if it did.

In the alley, getting into the truck, Sal had another idea. ‘Hey, why don’t we swing by the Manor, surprise Georgie and Deb, take ’em out with us? They love the Grotto.‘

‘They went out with Mom, shopping, remember?’

Sal didn’t seem entirely sure, but said, ‘Oh, that’s right. Well, we can still go.’

‘Sure. I’ll drive, okay?’

Again, Sal hesitated before accepting this, but finally climbed up into the cab. ‘That fucking Mario,’ he said conversationally.

‘Who?’

‘Giotti.’

‘The judge?’

Sal gave his boy a look. ‘What are you talking about, the judge? No, I’m talking Mario Giotti, Bruno’s kid.’ He gave his son a hard whack on the arm. ‘You been smoking something, bambino?’

‘No. Sorry. What about Mario?’ Graham was heading east on Mission, down to the old Embarcadero – now Herb Caen Way. He’d turn north at the Bay and head up along the piers to Fisherman’s Wharf. Maybe by the time they arrived, Sal would know where he was. ‘What about Mario?’ he repeated .

Sal was smiling, remembering something. ‘That fucking guy, he’s in at work last night in his suit and tie, cutting garlic, tomatoes. Can’t decide if he wants to stay and help his old man or go on in the law. I tell him stay and help his old man. Family, huh? That’s what counts.’

Graham nodded, let his lungs go. ‘Yeah. You went to the Grotto last night?’

‘Yeah, shit, after work. Get some courage before I go home. Your mother… well, I won’t say anything bad about your mom, but this life, me, you kids… it’s the only one she’s got, you know. Her mom and dad fucked her up so bad. Wasn’t for me, she’d be some dried-up old society lady, only sometimes she forgets that and I gotta remind her.’

Sal was right, Graham thought. Helen never should have stopped loving him, no matter what Sal had done. Family counts. She should be here with them now, in this truck. She should see this, help them both. But she wasn’t, couldn’t be. Not now, not anymore. And Graham knew it was a tragedy for her as well.

He reached over and laid a hand for a moment on his father’s knee. ‘She loves you, Sal.’

‘I know,’ he answered breezily, this man who hadn’t seen his wife in fifteen years. ‘But 1 got to talk to her, straighten her out. She s all mixed up. We ought to go home maybe.’ They were getting to the Wharf. ‘After lunch.’ It wasn’t yet noon in midweek and there were plenty of places to park in the lot. The ferry had just disgorged a stream of commuters and Sal bounced out of the cab. ‘We better shake it.’ Graham hustled next to him to keep up. ‘This crowd’s going to beat us, we don’t get a move on. Smell that cioppino. I love that smell, nothing better.’

They came to the door of Stagnola’s and stopped. Sal’s face dropped and he reached a hand out to Graham, as though he needed to be steadied. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘This isn’t the Grotto!

‘ I know, Dad. The Grotto’s closed .’

‘Well, that’s just bullshit! I was here last night. Mario was in the kitchen in his suit cutting tomatoes.’

Graham said nothing. He put his arm around Sal, but the old man twisted away and walked out into the street, turning back to look at the building. He stood there a long time, squinting in the bright sunlight.

Graham walked out to him and put his arm around him again. This time his father leaned into him. ‘This ain’t the Grotto,’ he whispered hoarsely, his voice skirting the edges of panic. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

Graham shot up in his cot, breathing hard. He’d almost been asleep, almost been dreaming, wasn’t sure which.