I signaled to the barmaid and ordered another Scotch.
A double.
With the rain plucking at the glazed window of
Arnold’s bar, I kept drinking until I was good and drunk.
32
AROUND one-thirty I left the bar, found the Pinto,
and weaved my way out to Finneytown—to Cindy’s house. As drunk as
I was, I wasn’t even sure why I went. I just knew I didn’t want
to go home. I parked cockeyed in her driveway and managed to stagger
up to the door and bang on it. A light came on in the living room,
and she opened up, dressed in that T-shirt, looking sleepy.
"Good Lord," she said, "what happened
to you?"
"Got drunk."
"I can see that. Come on in."
She guided me by the arm through the door and over to
the couch.
"Told you I drank," I said, settling
heavily on the cushions.
"Yes, you did."
She bent down and unlaced my shoes, pulling them off.
She came up on the couch and started unbuttoning my shirt.
"Sorry," I said, smelling her hair, her
smell, as she undressed me.
"Why’d you get loaded?"
"You really want to know?"
She stopped fiddling with my shirt and sat back
beside me on the couch, cocking her head on her hand and staring
fondly into my face.
"Sure I want to know."
"It’s not a nice story."
She passed her hand across my forehead, combing back
my hair.
"I want to hear it. No matter what it is."
"It’s about Mason. I know what happened."
She tensed up, pulling her hand back from my face.
"What happened?"
It dawned on me that that was why I’d gotten drunk.
It was the only condition in which I could bring myself to tell Cindy
the truth. I told her about Paul Grandin, Jr. About where Mason had
been those last five days of his life, searching for a facility that
would take the kid in.
"Why didn’t he tell me?" she said,
breaking down in tears.
"He felt guilty about him," I said. "He
didn’t want you to think he’d been betraying you. Didn’t want
to explain to his friends. Maybe he didn’t want to explain it to
himself."
She threw her hands to her face and wept. I sat there
beside her, stupid drunk, while she cried and cried.
"What happened to Paul Grandin?" she said,
when she finally calmed down.
"He’s in a rest home in Columbus."
"Where Sully went?"
I nodded. "He went to visit him."
"Why?"
"He wanted to ask him some questions about the
night Mason was in the bar."
"What happened at the bar, Harry?"
I told her the truth—or most of it. The meeting
with Stiehl and Sabato. The attempt to talk them out of pressing
charges against Grandin. Stiehl’s fury and threats. I didn’t tell
her about the beating in the parking lot—it was something she could
live without knowing.
"It was the cops?" she said when I’d
finished. Not really grasping it, yet. Not ready to.
"It was a lot of things, Cindy. The cops were
just the last thing."
Her face went white. She bolted off the couch, up the
half-stairs into the john. I heard her retching violently. The sound
of the john flushing. It went on for a while.
When she came back down, her T-shirt was soaked with
sweat, her face wet with it. She walked over to the couch and simply
curled up beside me, hiding her head under my arms. l stroked her
hair, her back.
"I could go to the DA," I said. "But
it’s going to be hard for a prosecutor to make a case. And this
thing with Grandin will certainly come out. A good defense attorney
could make it ugly for that kid—and for Mason’s reputation,
friends, family."
"What are they going to do about Grandin?"
she said weakly. "I don’t know yet."
Most of the drunken high had gone away by then, and I
just felt heavy-headed and weary and sorry for the girl.
"Have you talked to this one, this Stiehl?"
"No. I figure he’ll come to me—after he
talks to Sabato."
"Don’t do it," she said sharply, lifting
her head. "It’s over. I don’t want any more violence."
"We’ll see."
"No, we won’t see." She laid her head on
my legs, and wrapped her arms around me. "We won’t see. It’s
over now. It’s already cost Sully’s life. I will not have it cost
you any further part of yours. You’ve done enough."
"We’ll see," I told her.
I didn’t sleep well,
partly because of the liquor, partly because of Greenleaf. I did a
good deal of tossing and turning, enough to wake Cindy up once in the
middle of the stormy night. She pulled me to her and held me until I
fell back asleep.
***
In the morning neither of us said very much, until
I’d gotten dressed and was about to leave.
"You’re not going to see that man, Harry,"
she said as we stood at the door. "You’re working for me, and
I ’m telling you that the job is finished."
"What about Grandin?"
"I’ve thought about it, and if he meant that
much to Mason, I’ll talk to Mace’s brother and see if he’s
willing to foot the bill for the rest home, like Mason was going to
do."
"I doubt if he’ll go for that."
"I won’t give him a choice," she said
quickly. "I’ll make it clear to him that if he doesn’t
provide the funds, I will go to the papers about Mason’s death.
He’ll cave in—I guarantee you."
I laughed. "He probably will."
"You’ll call me?" she said, as I opened
the door.
"In the afternoon."
"Promise?"
I promised.
She had it figured out fairly shrewdly, except for
one thing. Paul Grandin was still under indictment for solicitation.
Sick or not, he could still be brought to trial and locked down in a
prison ward for the rest of his life, however short that might be.
Even though the kid didn’t really deserve much better, Greenleaf’s
death and Sullivan’s after it made it seem important that that
didn’t happen. It was about the only thing that could be salvaged
from the whole business: the last days of Paul Grandin, Jr.’s,
miserable life.
So when I got to the office I started making the
calls. The first one was to Ron Sabato at Vice. I told him what I
proposed: my silence for Grandin’s freedom. Like Mason Greenleaf
redux.
"We don’t make deals like that, Harry,"
he said, when I got through explaining it. "I thought I made
that clear last night. We don’t get bribed or threatened?
"You’ll make this deal, Ron. Before the day’s
out. Or I’ll call Art Spiegalman at the Enquirer. And then Dave
Ratner at the FBI. They may not nail you and your pal, but they’ll
make life interesting for the next six to nine months—for the whole
damn Vice division. You ever seen the FeeBees work an internal
affairs investigation? They’re pesky bastards."
"Harry, you’re making a mistake. I’m telling
you."
"Just do it, Ron. And that’ll be the end of
it."
After I got done with Sabato, I called Nate Segal at
Six. "You get the results of those blood tests yet, Nate?"
"Yeah," he said sourly. "It was
Greenleaf’s blood. So what?"
"It’s interesting, that’s all. Him bleeding
all over the backseat of the car before he offed himself."
"He fell down and busted his nose."
"No, he didn’t. He got slugged by Art Stiehl."
There was a silence on the line. Then Segal started
to laugh a phony laugh. I really didn’t want to go through the
whole bit. so I cut him off before he could start.
"Let’s skip the bullshit. I know it was Sabato
and Stiehl in the bar. I know why they were there, and I know what
happened. I also know you and Taylor covered it up."
"Now, just a second—"
"Don’t insult my intelligence, okay? I don’t
much care why you did it. All I care about is getting the charges
against Paul Grandin, Jr., dropped. You see to that, this thing stays
quiet. You don’t, and your name is going to be in the newspaper
tomorrow morning."
"Hey, fuck you, Stoner. You don’t threaten
me."
"I am threatening you, Nate. You got two years
to retirement, right? How’d you like to spend half of them
answering questions for newspaper reporters and the FBI and lying
through your teeth?"
"Nobody covered up anything," he said
sullenly. "The cocksucker killed himself."
"He got pushed, Nate. Hard. You think it over.
Talk to Taylor and your pals at Vice. I’ll be in the office all
day."
It occurred to me, as I hung up, that I was really
asking for it. From guys who could deliver—and get away scot-free.
It made some sense to talk to a lawyer. So I called Laurel Gould at
her office and gave her the names of the principals and the details
of the Greenleaf case. I also told her that if I ended up in a cell
or dead in a ditch, she was to do her best to nail the bastards.
"That’ll be a great solace to your survivors,"
she said acidly.
"Why don’t you let me handle this for you? I
have friends in the DA’s office."
"So do Art Stiehl and Ron Sabato. Tell me the DA
in this town is going to do a pair of cops in a fag suicide without
ironclad proof. Jesus Christ, this is Cincinnati."
"You’re crying over spilt milk, Harry. It’s
not like you."
"I have my reasons."
"You have a death wish, my boy," she said,
hanging up.
What I had was a few deaths on my conscience.
As the morning wore on, I felt more and more as if I
was doing the right thing. It gave me a short-lived feeling of
decency. Which, when it died out, left me feeling in the right and
afraid. I dug my Gold Cup out of the safe, where I’d left it for
the last five years in an oiled rag. Field-stripped it. Cleaned and
reoiled it. Found a clip, loaded eight rounds of hollow-point.
Chambered a round. Stuck the thing in the desk drawer and waited.
Around noon, I called Cindy. She’d talked to Sam
Greenleaf in Nashville. He’d agreed to the blackmail.
"I didn’t tell him all of it. He didn’t
really want to know the details—like I figured."
"You did good," I said. "Phone Nancy
Grandin and tell her. She’s probably at her father’s house in
Indian Hill. On Camargo."
"Why don’t you call it a day, and we’ll both
tell her."
"I have things to do."
"Like what?"
"Things. I’ll be home tonight. We’ll talk."
"You kind of like this domestic routine, don’t
you?" she said with a laugh.
"It’s good that I met you," I said. "It’s
good that I feel like I feel again. I didn’t think I could."
"Come out here, won’t you? I don’t want to
be alone."
"You won’t be alone. I’ll finish up here
soon."
About an hour after I got done talking to Cindy,
Stiehl and Ron Sabato showed up at my office door. It had begun to
rain again. The sky was dark, and the thunder rattled the windows.
They both came into the inner office and sat down on chairs across
from my desk, like something from the street blown in by the storm.
I’d never seen Stiehl before. He was a big, muscular man in his
early thirties, reddish blond, with a trim mustache that covered some
of his upper lip. He had a flat, red, unsmiling face and cold blue
eyes. Even if he hadn’t been provoked, he looked like trouble.
Sabato was nervous. He kept glancing from the door,
to me, to his partner—all the time pumping his right leg like he
had to pee. Stiehl crossed his legs and stared at me. "One way
or another, this is going to end right here, right now," he said
with a mild vehemence.
"You can end it quick," I said. "Just
drop the charges against Grandin."
He smiled coldly. "Just like that. ’Cause you
said so?"
"It’s the right thing to do."
"’Cause you said so?" He stopped smiling.
"Let me tell you where I’m coming from. I’d just as soon
march you out of here right now. Take you downstairs to the alley,
throw you in the trunk, drive you out to a place I know, and leave
you there." He leaned forward menacingly. He was so worked up,
he had begun to spit. "You threaten me! Without even knowing
what the fuck you’re talking about!"
"Art," Sabato said uneasily.
Under the desk, out of sight, I pulled the top drawer
open slightly, enough to where I could see the Gold Cup, its oiled
blue barrel gleaming in the stormy light.
Stiehl breathed hard for a few moments, staring at
me, while I stared back at him—my hand just below the desk drawer.
After a time he leaned back slowly in the chair.
"You want us to let that kid walk," he said
with a dismissive laugh. " ’Cause you think you know what’s
going down. You don’t know shit.
"There’s a fucking fire burning in this
country," he said, jerking at his coat sleeves, straightening
himself up. "And the way I look at it, it’s killing the right
people—the people who started it. Don’t expect me to feel sorry
for them."