Authors: Gerald Petievich
FIVE
Red Haynes, a lanky, sleepy-eyed
man with fiery tousled hair and over-sized ears, sat in the stuffy waiting room of the Federal Health Clinic. His arms were folded across his chest. Seated opposite him was an emaciated, stringy-haired woman wearing an extremely short skirt. He watched as, keeping her knees primly together, the woman nervously reapplied both lipstick and pancake makeup for the third time during the twenty minutes or so that he had been waiting. A wired-up pillhead, he said to himself.
To Haynes's right was a fortyish man dressed in a bureaucrat's uniform- short-sleeved white shirt with ballpoint-pen marks on the pocket, baggy trousers, and cheap wing-tipped shoes. Come to think of it, Haynes said to himself, except for the on-sale polyester sport coat that covered his gun and handcuffs, he was dressed the same way.
A door opened. A tall, bubble-butted black nurse stepped into the room. "Agent Haynes?"
"That's me."
"Dr. Rhodes will see you now."
Red Haynes came to his feet and shuffled behind bubble-butt into the doctor's office. The doctor, a parrot-nosed man much younger than Haynes, looked up from his paperwork and nodded. Haynes took a seat in front of the desk. On the walls were diplomas, psychiatric-internship certificates, other crapola which impressed Haynes about as much as a television commercial. The door closed behind him.
"Your file says you've been an FBI agent for twenty years," the doctor said as he removed his thick glasses and wiped the lenses, then the frames, on a small rag.
"Right."
"Do you know why you're here?"
"Because I received a low yearly performance evaluation and the agent-in-charge said I'm depressed."
"Do you think you're depressed?"
"No."
Dr. Rhodes nodded his parrot beak. "Why do you suppose your supervisor said you were depressed?"
"To screw me."
"Why do you think your supervisor would want to...uh...to cause you problems?"
Red Haynes interlaced his bony fingers. With a brisk, well-practiced movement, he loudly cracked his knuckles. The doctor winced.
"Because that's the way he is."
"What do you mean by that?"
"He is an asshole."
"And you feel he wants to cause you harm?"
Haynes shook his head. "If you are born an asshole you cause people harm whether you want to or not."
Dr. Rhodes lifted his eyeglasses from his nose for an unnecessary cleaning, lenses only this time, then tipped them back onto the deep eyeglass indentation on his beak. "Do you ever have nightmares?"
"I did a few years ago."
"What were they about?"
"Shooting somebody."
"Anyone in particular?"
"A bank robber."
"What was occurring in your life around the time you started having those nightmares?"
"I'd just shot a bank robber with a twelve-gauge shotgun.
Dr. Rhodes stared at Haynes for a moment, as if doing so would help solve some great riddle. "What did you do immediately after the shooting?"
"I went to a bar with the other agents. We celebrated."
"And it was after that you began to have nightmares?"
"That very night."
"What occurred during the nightmares?"
"I would shoot the guy and see the blood and gore all over again. It was in Technicolor."
"Perhaps you felt guilty about what had occurred?"
"I just told you we went and had a party after the shooting. Does that sound like I felt guilty?"
"You had nightmares."
"They went away after a while."
"There's a notation in your file that you received a reprimand after the shooting incident. What was this about?"
"I got written up for following the FBI manual."
"Please go on."
"It says in the FBI manual that all prisoners must be handcuffed, no matter what the circumstances of the arrest."
"So you handcuffed the man you shot?"
"That's right. If I hadn't, the supervisor at the scene would have written me up for not following procedure."
Dr. Rhodes maintained eye contact with Haynes. "Then what exactly was the dispute concerning the handcuffing of the...uh... prisoner?"
"The supervisor said what I did was unbecoming a federal officer."
"Why would he say that?"
"Probably because some of the onlookers in the bank got upset."
"I take it this was because the man you handcuffed was injured?"
"No. It was because he was headless."
"You handcuffed a headless corpse?"
"It was either that or be written up for not following procedure."
Dr. Rhodes stared at the personnel file for a moment, shook his head. "Did you really believe your supervisor would have reprimanded you for failing to handcuff a dead man?"
"Yes."
Dr. Rhodes swallowed a couple of times, reached for his eyeglasses, then stopped himself. He picked up a report, cleared his throat, spoke in a businesslike manner. "This rating report says that you lack initiative, seem constantly 'blue,' and that you have a 'tendency to find fault with everyone and everything.' What is your reaction to these comments?"
Red Haynes gave his right ear a tug. One by one, he cracked each of the knuckles on his right hand by tugging sharply on each finger. "My reaction is that the person who wrote that is a pencil-necked Bureau ass-kisser and a general all-around prick who's not qualified to write an evaluation on anyone."
"Nevertheless, he's someone you have to work with," Dr. Rhodes said.
"Not anymore. He transferred me from the Las Vegas field office to the Organized Crime Strike Force almost ten months ago."
Rhodes flipped the file folder's cover to check the date. He blushed as he noted it. "We are a little behind in consultations."
"The whole government is behind. That's because it has second-rate people working for it. In fact, if you were such a hot-shot psychiatrist you'd be out making big money somewhere, instead of collecting a federal paycheck to work in a chickenshit government clinic."
Dr. Rhodes made a notation in Haynes's file. "I think you are suffering from severe depression, Agent Haynes."
Haynes cracked his knuckles again. The sound was extra-loud, like twigs breaking.
Exasperated, Dr. Rhodes let out his breath. He made notations in the file. "I'm going to recommend that you get into an exercise program...jogging, maybe. When you feel stress coming on I want you to drop whatever you are doing and start jogging."
"I should start the moment I feel stress coming on?"
Dr. Rhodes stopped writing, looked up. "That's right."
Red Haynes came to his feet in a quick-step march. With his bony knees and arms working like pistons he jogged to the door. Keeping his legs moving, he opened the door and jogged directly from the room, through the reception area, and out the front door.
At the federal courthouse, Novak parked the G-car in his assigned spot in the parking lot.
Inside, he took an elevator to the third floor. At the end of a hallway he stopped in front of an unmarked door. He punched numbers on the door's cipher lock. The lock made a snapping sound, and he let himself into a drably decorated room which contained six government-issue desks, some filing cabinets, a radio base station, and a teletype machine. Next to the window was a bulletin board covered with black-and-white photographs -blown-up surveillance shots of Tony Parisi talking to men in casino parking lots.
At an immaculate desk in the corner of the room, Along-for-the-Ride Frank Tyde, a seedy, middle-aged U.S. Customs agent who invariably wore the same brown polyester sport coat and frayed necktie, sat with his feet up on his desk, head turned to face the window, hands behind his head with fingers interlaced, meerschaum pipe jutting from the side of his mouth emitting smoke. It was a position from which he seldom moved. Probably because it would have caused him an unnecessary expenditure of energy, he did not acknowledge Novak's arrival in any way.
John Novak sat down at his desk, rummaged through some paperwork.
"Big day planned, Frank?" Novak said as an aside.
"This afternoon I'll get a haircut, do some shopping at the government store, make a few phone calls around the country to see who's getting promoted...and brief Elliot, our fearless prick of a leader, on an old case. That'll be the hardest part of the day," Tyde said without taking the pipe out of his mouth.
"No overtime planned for today?"
"Already logged in my two hours. I came in early and made some phone calls."
"That sounds like an honest deuce at time-and-a-half," Novak said facetiously. He yanked open a file drawer.
Tyde swung his feet off the desk, ambled to a metal duty-schedule board. He picked up a magnetic metal dot, placed it under his name on a section of the board marked "Sick Leave." "Yes, these long hours can sure take a toll. I'll be taking sick leave tomorrow...to rest up." Then Along-for-the-Ride Tyde's lungs displaced precisely enough air to make a sound that could be recognized as a laugh. Having arranged the duty board, he checked his wristwatch, sat back down at his desk, returned to his pipe-smoking rest position.
Red Haynes shuffled into the room. He looked as if he had been running.
SIX
"How did it go?" Haynes said to Novak.
Novak smiled proudly. "Bruno went for it."
"The grand jury?" Haynes said.
"We pick him up tomorrow and take him straight to the witness stand."
Haynes extended a hand to his partner. They shook. "This could be the knockout punch for Parisi," he said excitedly. "What made him change his mind?"
"He finally realized there is no other way to go."
"Tomorrow's a long time from now."
"Don't be such a pessimist," Novak said. He walked from the room and down a short hallway to a door with a plastic name plate which read:
RONALD R ELLIOT
SPECIAL-ATTORNEY-IN-CHARGE
U.S. Dept. of Justice Strike Force
Against Organized Crime and Racketeering
The sound of a television emanated from inside.
Novak knocked on the door. There was the sound of movement, then of the television being turned off. Elliot said, "Come in." Inside, the walls were covered with cheap wooden appreciation plaques of the kind found in most government offices. Elliot, a slender man of Novak's age, sat at an uncluttered desk. Though coatless, he looked preppie-neat in a dark vest, long-sleeved white shirt, and gold collar pin, watch band, and cuff links. He wore eyeglasses with colorless frames and lightly tinted lenses.
"Bruno's ready to take the stand," Novak said.
Elliot raised his eyebrows. "And say what?"
"Everything. How Tony Parisi muscled in at the casinos, how the skim works, who carries it back east. And he knows about the count-room murders, extortion, all of it."
"Sounds real good," Elliot said as a matter of course. "I'll schedule him for next week's grand jury."
"Next week? This isn't just another grand-jury witness," Novak said. "This is the witness who's gonna spill the beans-give us direct evidence on Mr. Big in Las Vegas. I think we should get him on the witness stand immediately before he changes his mind."
"I want to proceed
by
the numbers
...make sure that everything is in order before we put him on the witness stand and swear him in."
"I've been playing cat-and-mouse with Bruno for six months to get him to come around," Novak said, straining to keep emotion out of his voice. "The longer we wait, the more chance there is of Parisi finding out that Bruno is a snitch."
"I can understand how you resent taking orders from a prosecutor like myself. After all, it wasn't your choice to be assigned here."
"If Bruno has a chance to think about it, he'll back out on us."
Elliot drummed his fingers nervously. "I admire the way you've handled this investigation. You've done a fine job. And Washington is going to be overjoyed if we can make a case on Parisi," he said, trying to avoid making a decision.
"I've already made arrangements to meet Bruno tomorrow morning at the Highland Coffee Shop. He's expecting me to take him directly from there to the grand jury. He wants to get it over with."
In an obvious manner, Elliot checked his wristwatch. He stood up and tucked in his shirt. "I don't want to second-guess you on this," he said as he picked his coat from the coat rack, punched arms into sleeves. "It's your case, and if you feel that strongly about it, we'll put him on the witness stand tomorrow morning. I'm behind you one hundred and fifty percent."
He smiled.
Back in the agents' room, John Novak looked out a window facing the rear of the Golden Nugget Casino. Because it was dusk, there was a glow emanating from the gigantic rooftop neon display, a miner panning for gold. In the distance he could see vehicles whizzing by on the four-lane highway which brought tourists and gambling degenerates into town every day like children hurrying to a birthday party. From the radio base station in the corner of the room came intermittent static and then the sound of an agent on surveillance describing a man who was exiting a vehicle. "...male, white, five-nine, one-fifty..."
Haynes left his desk and joined him at the window. "Did he want to do it
by the numbers?"
Haynes said, mimicking Elliot.
"He agreed to put him in front of the grand jury tomorrow morning," Novak said as he continued to gaze out the window.
Red Haynes moved to his partner, formed his facial muscles into a histrionic Elliot grin. "I'm behind you
one hundred and fifty percent
," he said.
Without taking his pipe out of his mouth, Frank Tyde reached inside a plastic shopping bag that was lying on top of his desk. He removed a white felt baseball cap, placed it firmly on his head. With smoke wafting from the bowl of his pipe, he left his desk, moved past them on his way to the window. Large red letters on the cap read: HAVE A NICE DAY. As Tyde checked himself in the window's reflection, Novak just looked at Haynes and shook his head.
"Don't let the pressure of the job get to ya, Frank," Novak said.
"Oh, I won't."
The next morning, Red Haynes, dressed for work, sat at the dinette table. His wife, Martha, a tiny woman who shunned makeup and fashionable attire for sweatshirts and jeans, stood at the stove. He stared out the window at his front yard-a patch of grass which was exactly the same size as all the others in the tract. As Martha refilled his coffee cup, his scornful teenage sons, both gangly and burdened with their ever-present athletic gear, stormed through the kitchen grabbing toast, gulping milk.
The car started and they sped off. Red Haynes stifled the urge to scream out the window at them to slow down. Martha returned the coffeepot to the stove.
"What kind of a case are you going to work on today?"
"Who cares?"
"You're doing it again."
"Whatsat?" he said as if he didn't understand what she was talking about.
Martha sat down at the table. She mixed cream into her coffee. "You're just sitting there and staring. The doctor said it was better for you to talk about the job...to share things."
"That's what shrinks get paid to say."
In a gesture of frustration, Martha let out her breath. "With that attitude you're going to stay depressed. The doctor told you that."
"He said I'm suffering from job burnout. Can you imagine that the government pays him good money for that?"
A car pulled up outside. It was Novak.
Haynes stood up, lifted his shapeless suit coat off the back of the chair. As he moved to the door, Martha hurried to a cupboard and took out a small bottle of pills. At the door, she held the bottle out to him. Red Haynes shook his head as if she were trying to hand him poison. He leaned down and gave her a kiss.
"The doctor said you should take these."
"All doctors are assholes," Red Haynes said on his way out the door.
A few minutes later, Novak steered into the parking lot of the Highland Coffee Shop. He cruised past rows of cars in the crowded lot until he found Bruno's, parked in the corner. It was empty. "He must be having coffee," Haynes said. "Should I go inside and let him know we re here.
Novak checked his wristwatch. "Let him come out on his own."
Inside the restaurant, Bruno Santoro was seated at the counter. Having noticed Novak's car, he tugged the sleeve of his sport coat, checked his Rolex. Leaving a breakfast he had ordered but was too nervous to eat, he stood and moved closer to the window. Novak and Haynes were parked at the edge of the lot. At an unmanned cash register, he left enough money to pay his bill, then headed for the door. As he reached it, he stopped for a moment and took a few deep breaths. For the hundredth time he considered whether he should just tell Novak he had changed his mind about testifying. "I can't do it," he pictured himself saying. In his mind, Novak just shook his head and drove off, leaving him alone in the parking lot.
Then, because he knew if he didn't testify he would end up going to prison, Bruno Santoro shoved open the door and moved directly across the parking lot to his Cadillac. He opened the driver's door and climbed in, tugged the headlight switch as a signal to Novak. The headlights of Novak's car flashed twice. Bruno Santoro removed keys from the pocket of his coat. As he shoved a key into the ignition, there was a sound like that of a clothespin snapping shut, then a buzzing.
"No!" he screamed, scrambling to open the driver's door. As his left foot touched the pavement there was a blinding explosion and Bruno Santoro felt a thousand-horsepower pile driver pierce the floorboard of the car and slam his balls and pecker through his body and out the top of his head.
The explosion, which had lifted the Cadillac fully off the ground, snapped Novak's head backward and made his ears ring. Stunned, he hoisted himself out of the G-car. Followed by Haynes, he ran toward the billowing flame and smoke...and stopped. The force of the blast had torn the roof open and transformed the vehicle into two twisted pieces of metal. The air was filled with an odor that reminded Novak of Vietnam.
An out-of-breath Haynes almost fell. "Goddam.
Goddam!"
John Novak suddenly realized that besides fragments of auto metal and upholstery, the parking lot around him was also covered with white-and-pink pieces of human matter. He started to speak and found he couldn't. He cleared his throat. "Block off the entrance to the lot, Red," he said without taking his eyes off the smoldering wreckage.
He willed himself to feel nothing.
It didn't work.