He drained his glass. “That’s one of the perks of havin’ a boss runnin’ for high office. He’s never at his desk. So when the cat’s away, et cetera. Another one?”
I shook my head and raised my beer.
“I’m good.”
“At this rate, Danny, you’ll never catch up.”
He laughed and signaled for our waitress to come to the table. She was a real beauty. Young, Mediterranean features. Large breasts rising like creamy smooth mounds in a scoop-necked blouse.
Parnelli ordered another Scotch, gave the girl a leering smile, and sent her on her way.
He leaned back in his chair.
“Smart girl. The bigger the tits, the bigger the tips. It’s the way of the world.”
Parnelli eyed me carefully.
“You don’t say much, do ya?”
“I’m a therapist. I mostly listen.”
“Uh-huh. Though I get the feelin’ you have somethin’ on your mind.”
“I do. I’m wondering about what you did after leaving New York. And before coming to Pittsburgh.”
“No big secret. I worked at McCloskey, Singer.”
“Funny you didn’t mention that before. Like when we were talking about Stubbs having the goods on McCloskey.”
“
You
were talking about it. Truth is, I didn’t think it was relevant. Like I said, it’s not like it’s a secret.”
I let that pass. “How long were you there?”
“Just over a year.”
“Not long. Why’d you leave?”
“I don’t think private practice is in my DNA, to be honest. Whether I’m keepin’ people outta jail or tryin’ to put ’em in, I’m a public servant to the core. Probably ’cause my old man was a quasi-Socialist. Give him a soapbox and he’d climb up on the damn thing and start rantin’ about the big shots keepin’ the little guys down.”
I took another pull of my beer. The same one I’d been nursing for an hour.
“Then what the hell were you doing at McCloskey’s firm? Trying the good life on for size?”
He grinned. “Score one for the shrink. Exactly right. I thought, hell, since I’m leavin’ the PD’s office, why not make some real money for a change? Hang out with the country club crowd. Screw some rich WASP divorcees and help keep rock stars and CEO’s out of jail.”
“Well? What happened?”
“My old man’s voice in my head’s what happened. My goddam DNA’s what happened.”
He looked up as our waitress returned with his Scotch. When she placed the glass on a napkin in front of him, Parnelli put his fingers lightly on her wrist.
“You have beautiful hands, young lady. Anybody ever tell you that?”
She shrugged. “That’s not usually the first thing most people comment on.”
He shook his head. “That’s because most people are shallow. Unlike me. I’m more of a poet, see? I appreciate the little things, the subtle aspects of beauty.”
The waitress turned to me.
“Don’t let him drive, okay?” she said dryly. Then she walked away.
“Smooth,” I said to him.
“Never fear, Danny. The best things in life take time to develop. And the night is young. Now, where were we?”
“You were telling me about Evan McCloskey.”
He took a large swallow of Scotch, carefully replaced the glass, and leaned forward. Elbows on either side of his drink, hands laced together.
“Let me put it this way. Back in New York, I had this case. Well, two cases, really. One was defending this crack whore who’d thrown her baby out the window of her tenement apartment. Baby was cryin’. Starvin’, probably. But Mom just needed her junk, didn’t care about nothin’ else. So the kid screamin’ and cryin’ is really settin’ her nerves on edge, right? So out the window goes the kid. Baby hits the ground, nobody says nothin’. Nobody comes outta their little holes to check up on the infant. So it just lies there, in the dirt between two tall apartment buildings. Maybe dead, maybe dyin’. And then the night comes…and the dogs. And there ain’t no hungrier dogs than ghetto dogs.”
Parnelli lifted his glass, took another swallow.
“The next day, cops come. Take what’s left of the kid away. M.E. says there’s no way to even tell if the baby was male or female. That’s how little there was left.”
He raised a forefinger.
“That’s case number one. My second client was this Russian day-laborer. Did construction, odd jobs, whatever. Fresh off the boat from Minsk or wherever the fuck, right? Old world values, this specimen. His idea of a good time is to take his pay, get drunk, and beat up hookers. Doesn’t
fuck
’em, you understand. They’re too old. He saves his man juice for his twin ten-year-old nieces. His brother’s kids. Which the brother—another real piece of work—rents to him on an hourly basis. Just to supplement the family income. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Like I said, my client likes to beat up on prostitutes. I mean, beat ’em real bad. Like, they-don’t-walk-so-good-again bad. Like the-docs-can-maybe-save-an-eye bad, ya know? But the girls, they don’t say nothin’. Don’t press charges. ’Cause they know their pimps will only beat ’em worse.”
Parnelli turned his head, looked out at the darkening sky. As though an answer lay out there somewhere.
“Now, by the time I get this Russian guy as a client, he’s upped the ante. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not. But one of the hookers he beats the shit out of suddenly dies. Heart stops, whatever. So now he’s got a dead hooker on his hands. So he goes to his brother—these fuckin’ Ruskies, it’s all about family, ya know? Kinda touchin’. Anyway, he goes to the brother and says, hey, I got a dead hooker in the trunk of my car. Brother says, what am I supposed to do about it? My guy says, well, let’s not waste an opportunity here. Which, bein’ enterprisin’ young men, they don’t. So here’s what they do: they sell tickets to guys in the neighborhood, who take turns pissing on the dead girl in the trunk. Then they hold a raffle, winner gets to pour gasoline in the trunk and light it up. A nice little bonfire in the back of a Chevy Impala. One of the eyewitnesses said it smelled like burnt pork. Stupid bastard thought someone was havin’ a barbeque. Brought some beer down from his apartment. Imagine his disappointment.”
I’d said nothing throughout Parnelli’s narrative. Just watched his eyes as they grew dark and cold and sad.
He took a breath, finished the rest of his drink. Leaned in again, eyes flattening to narrow slits.
“So, here’s the thing: you take those two cases, those two clients. The crack-whore momma and the Russian psycho. Hell, throw in the psycho’s brother. Put all these folks together and stick ’em in one room. Just you and these fuckin’ monsters. And guess what?”
“What?”
“I’d still rather spend a whole night in that room than one hour with Evan McCloskey in his corner office. The one with the windows overlooking the state capitol.”
“Jesus Christ. Why? He’s that bad? That violent?”
“Hell, no. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Probably faint at the sight of blood, his or anyone else’s. I mean, the guy’s a deacon of his church. And faithful to his wife, I hear.”
“Then what is it? About McCloskey?”
“He’s
loyal
. To his clients. To the money they spend with his firm. To the things that money buys. The lifestyle it supports. For himself and his family. He’s loyal. Not to truth, or honor, or the facts. Not to the law. Loyal to himself and his kind. What they’ve built. What they represent. Who they are in the scheme of things. And in the name of that loyalty, he’ll rip off competitors, bribe government officials, blackmail his clients’ enemies. He’ll pay off judges and support political candidates who share his agenda. He’s the
paterfamilias
of corporate law. The sentinel protecting his interests against all comers.”
Parnelli gave me a slow smile.
“He’s the devil, Danny. One of ’em, anyway. And we got a lot of ’em now. See, guys like him run the whole show. Where government and business and law and Wall Street all mix together, one big stew of corporate greed. The power elite, you might call ’em. And it’s as removed from the world you and I live in as Paris is removed from Calcutta.”
I frowned. “I hate to interrupt, Parnelli, but you’re starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist.”
“Bullshit, there’s no conspiracy. Nothing dark and sinister. It’s just the way it is. Always has been. You think it mattered who the king was when the Medicis were in power? Think of it this way: there are basically two groups. There’re the guys who run things, and then there’s everybody else. Let’s say McCloskey is in that first group, okay? And leave it at that.”
“And that’s why you left the firm?”
“Yep. And I never saw one dishonest, illegal act take place. Never was asked to participate in anything criminal. I just read the tea leaves. Smelled it on the wind. Pick your fuckin’ metaphor. All I know is, every time I passed Evan McCloskey in the hall, the little hairs on my forearms stood straight up.”
I let everything he’d said sink in. It was a lot to digest. More importantly, putting aside the “corporate overlords” paranoia, I had to ask myself if I believed him. If Evan McCloskey was indeed this behind-the-scenes power-broker, as Henry Stubbs had maintained as well, could I believe that Dave Parnelli had never been a part of it? That he’d intuited the true nature of the firm and decided he couldn’t stay?
“I know what you’re thinking.” Parnelli pondered his empty glass as though it were Yorik’s skull. “And, yes, you can believe me. I can’t prove a thing, but McCloskey, Singer is corrupt to its core, and I couldn’t in good conscience stay in its employ. Maybe all big private firms are like that. I wouldn’t know. As I say, I think I’m destined to be a public employee for life. Seed of my poor old man, the quasi-Socialist. God rest his soul.”
He grew quiet. Sullen. Maybe thinking about his late father. Or the choices he’d made in life. Maybe thinking about nothing at all.
Regardless, I had two questions to ask.
“Do you know the name Henry Stubbs? Worked for the Federal Trade Commission?”
“Never heard of him.”
That had been the easy one. Next question was riskier. “You mentioned that McCloskey’s firm often threw its support, financial and otherwise, behind friendly political candidates. People who could be bought. Ever hear anything in that regard about Lee Sinclair?”
“Not a peep.” He looked at me askance. “What kinda crap are you still tryin’ to sell?”
“I’m not selling anything. Just asked a question.”
“Yeah? Well, watch your goddam mouth, that’s my boss you’re talkin’ about. And probably the future governor.” He tapped his empty glass on the table, agitation mounting. “Christ, Rinaldi, what are you gettin’ at here?”
“Not sure. I’m just wondering—”
“Wonderin’
what
? You tryin’ to get me in the shitter with Sinclair? Get me jammed up or somethin’? What’s with all these questions, all of a sudden?”
“Jesus, Parnelli, get a grip—”
But he just grew more belligerent. A drunk’s outrage. “Listen, asshole, do you have somethin’ on Sinclair—somethin’
real
—or are you just shootin’ off your mouth? I mean, everybody
knows
there’s bad blood between you two—”
I grabbed his forearm, forced it down on the table.
“I said, chill out.
Now
.”
“What the fuck—?”
He stared, taken aback. Unsure of his next move. Or even if there was any to make.
He let out a long, slow breath. Calming himself.
“Let go of my goddam arm, will ya?”
I kept my grip on his arm. At the same time, I was suddenly aware of the few other customers in the lounge. All looking our way. Embarrassed. Concerned.
Parnelli noisily cleared his throat.
“Enough already, okay, Rinaldi? End of rant.”
I hesitated.
“I mean it, Danny. I’ll chill out.”
I nodded finally. Let my hand fall away from his arm.
Parnelli pulled it back, rubbing it where I’d held it. Offering me a wounded, indignant look. Followed, strangely enough, by a broad wink.
Then he swiveled in his seat, gaze sweeping the room. As though challenging our onlookers to say anything.
“That’s it for tonight’s entertainment, ladies and gentlemen.” Voice booming. “Show’s over. Feel free to go back to your meaningless little lives.”
Ignoring a few audible grumbles from the other side of the room, Parnelli turned back around and gave me a boozy, satisfied grin.
“I assume this impromptu meeting is adjourned?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Cool.” Raising his voice again. “Now where the fuck is that big-titted bitch with the smart mouth? A guy could die of thirst around here.”
Ten minutes later, I said good-bye to Parnelli. I took the elevator down to the parking lot, got my car from the valet, and rolled into sluggish night-time traffic. I’d just cranked up a “best-of” Nancy Wilson CD when my cell rang. Eleanor Lowrey. Upset.