Pagan Babies (14 page)

IT WAS FRAN'S LIBRARY THAT
reminded her of the home where she grew up: the distressed paneling and the sets of leather-bound books no one had ever read. She told Terry and it led to a short version of her life: Really, a lot like the home she left to go to Ann Arbor and only came back for holidays and the summer her mom and dad divorced and that was the end of pre-law and the idea of following her dad into what was possibly the world's most boring fucking profession. She never really wanted to be a lawyer. Switched to psychology, hated it and switched to English Lit, since she'd be reading anyway, she might as well get credit for it. Dug Restoration comedy, nutty stuff like Love in a Tub, and thought she might want to act. No, dance. In a chorus line. Do funky Bob Fosse numbers in a derby. No, do stand-up comedy because her friends thought she was funny and Goldie Hawn became her idol till she trimmed her goal to a comedy tap routine, telling jokes while clickety-clicking. Shit, but that was vaudeville. Strip and tell jokes. That was burlesque. There was good money in go-go dancing, dirty guys stuffing your G-string with dollar bills, but it was too scary, crack a major threat. So after her dad's funeral, where she met the legal assistant who'd become his second wife and liked her and agreed to stay in touch, and her mom moved to a condo in Florida, pre-Alzheimer's, she never went back to go-going, saved the tap shoes she finally gave her mom, took the advice of her dad's second wife and went to work in the murky fringes of law doing investigations, stand-up on the side, "Minding my own fucking business when that snake slithered into my life, cost me three years and all my money."

Terry said, "You've done a lot without really doing anything, haven't you?"

"All I want now," Debbie said, "is a normal life."

He went out to the kitchen, came back to the library with a bottle of beer, a double Scotch neat and her vodka on a silver tray. They sat down in the sofa to talk, Debbie saying, "There's something I better tell you."

"You're married," Terry said.

"No, I'm not married."

"Well, since you're telling me everything there is to know about you, were you ever?"

"I came close, but realized in time the guy was a control freak. He'd try to tell me how to dress, how to fix my hair, how much makeup to use. He'd buy me tailored outfits, a polo coat with the little belt in back? I looked like I was from Grosse Pointe. He was a doctor, so my mom loved him. The whole time I went with Michael I think he laughed maybe twice and we saw one movie."

"What was it?"

"Rain Man." Debbie said, "You're acting frisky 'cause you're off the hook. If you'll shut up for a minute and drink your drink--" This time he didn't interrupt and she said, "I've been in touch with a friend of mine, a lawyer I've done investigations for, Ed Bernacki. I asked if he knew anything about Randy."

"Why would he?"

"Ed's big time, he knows what's happening downtown and likes to gossip, as long as it isn't about his clients. His law firm represents the two top guys in the Detroit Mafia. Or I should say the alleged Detroit Mafia. When Ed Bernacki uses the term he always qualifies it with, 'If in fact such an organization exists.' He got back to me while I was waiting for you, outside the Frank Murphy."

"Why didn't you mention it then?"

"I didn't want to talk about it on the street or in some bar or while I'm driving. It's something we have to discuss. Then you decide if you still want to help me."

Terry said, "Randy's in the Mafia? If such an organization in anyone's wildest imagination exists?"

"You got by in Africa," Debbie said, "on Scotch and that smarty-innocent attitude, didn't you? Like nothing really bothers you." She said, "No, Randy's not in the Mafia. But he has a silent partner, a guy who does exist and you'd better believe it, who is. Right at the top. Randy only acts like he's in the mob. It's his new thing. He even has a gangster for a bodyguard, a guy Ed says is called Mutt, or the Mutt. And do you know where Randy got his bodyguard? From Vincent Moraco."

Terry said, "Oh."

"Oh is right. When you were in the cigarette business didn't you see a Mrs. Moraco to get paid?"

"Yeah, but I never believed she was Vincent Moraco's wife. He's an older guy and she was pretty young."

"You knew Vincent?"

"I'd hear about him from Johnny, he had the connection."

"Well, listen to this," Debbie said. "I tried to get Bernacki to represent me on the assault thing? He would've got me off with time served, three months in the lovely Palm Beach County Stockade 'cause I couldn't raise the bond. But Ed was busy with racketeering indictments. That was three years ago and they've finally come to trial, here in federal court--the Tony Twins, Anthony Amilia and the underboss Anthony Verona. They could get like twenty-five to life if convicted."

"Those guys've been around forever."

"Both in their seventies," Debbie said. "There're six defendants on trial, the Tonys and some other guys I've never heard of. But Verona has a heart condition and may not stand trial."

Terry said, "I'm beginning to see where you're going with this."

"I thought you might," Debbie said. "It turns out cigarette tax fraud is on the RICO indictment, going back five years." She took a sip of vodka, giving herself a few beats before springing the punch line. "So then I wondered if they might call you as a witness."

He said, "Testify against the mob in federal court."

Looking at her with that quiet gaze.

She wanted to kiss him. "You're a cool guy, Terr, even if you did see it coming."

He said, "Witness for the Prosecution. That wasn't a bad movie, Charles Laughton, Marlene Dietrich . . . But this sounds a little different. You told Bernacki I was in the cigarette business?"

"He asked what I was doing at the Frank Murphy. I told him and that's when he told me cigarette tax fraud was on the indictment, going back to when you were involved."

"He said I could be called?"

"Well, actually," Debbie said, "I brought it up. I asked Ed if it was a possibility, and he said if you haven't been subpoenaed by now the chances are you won't be. Ed says the U.S. Attorney refuses to give him their witness list, afraid Ed's clients might get to them. If you want, he'll find out if you're on the list."

"You gave him my name?"

"No, I wanted to tell you about it first."

"See if I'd panic?"

"I know you better than that."

"But you're not sure. What do you think I'd do if I was subpoenaed? Leave town?"

"I don't know, would you?"

He kept looking at her in his quiet way, but didn't say anything and she didn't have a clue as to what he was thinking. She said, "I mentioned it so you'd know, that's all, in case you are called. But the chances are you won't be, so why don't we forget it, okay? What we have to talk about is Randy's situation. If he's in tight with gangsters--and Ed says he's starting to act like one--you might want to forget the whole thing. I wouldn't blame you if you did."

"You tell Bernacki what you're up to?"

"Only that I want to get my money back."

"What'd he say?"

"Forget about it. Write it off to experience."

"Well?"

"You know I'm not gonna back off," Debbie said, "whether you're with me or not." She watched Terry finish his drink and wipe the back of his hand across his mouth.

He said, "I decide to walk away, you'll slip and fall all by yourself?"

"I'm not sure what I'll do."

"Have dinner there and get food poisoning?"

"That's not bad."

"Throw up on the table?"

They were playing again, back in business.

"Or, once a day walk in the door and throw up," Debbie said, "till people stop coming and his business falls off. His restaurant business."

"Or," Terry said, "you try the direct approach, ask Randy to pay what he owes you."

Debbie said, "Now why didn't I think of that?"

"How much you make a year?"

"Why?"

"Come on, tell me."

"Never less than fifty thousand."

"That's not bad, but let's make it sixty-one thousand. Times three, that's a hundred and eighty-three grand you didn't make while you were locked up. Add that to the sixty-seven he ripped off, he owes you two hundred and fifty thousand. Can you slip and fall and win an award like that?"

"You figured that out in your head?"

"Stay with me. Can you win that much in court?"

"Not unless you break your back and you'll never walk again. You could even get a lot more."

"But two-fifty, does that sound about right, being realistic, something he can handle without too much trouble? We split it, you still get back almost twice what he scored off you."

"But when we take this direct approach," Debbie said, "and get thrown out on the street--"

"Okay, let's say I do slip and fall in his restaurant, injure my back. We can begin by threatening him with a lawsuit. He says no to the two-fifty, we show him how he can write the entire amount off on his income tax."

"Wait a minute--how?"

"By making the check out to the Little Orphans of Rwanda Fund, a charitable write-off."

She watched him take a sip of beer, from the bottle. "You've been working this out, haven't you?"

"It's what priests do mainly, figure out how to raise money. Buy a new organ, repair the roof of the church--"

"He still won't pay."

"Maybe--"

"I know he won't."

"Let's talk to him and see what happens."

"He'll sic the Mutt on us, that thug he's got working for him."

Terry said, "Now we're getting to what I know something about."

It scared her a little, the way he said it.

Later on Terry left in Fran's car to pick up his suit. Debbie offered to take him, but he said he wanted to try the Lexus. He'd already tooled around in Mary Pat's Cadillac and thought they'd take it downtown tomorrow night to see Randy. Terry said he liked to drive. Not having a license or knowing exactly where he was going didn't seem to bother him. He said don't worry, he'd find it, a giant mall on both sides of Big Beaver, right? Debbie told him it was called Somerset Collection, very upscale, Tiffany, Saks, Neiman Marcus, no Sears or JC Penney . . . He said right, and drove off. Confident.

No longer coming off as a simple soul. Confident in a very low-key way, not trying to be cool and yet he was.

Debbie went in the kitchen and took one of Mary Pat's casseroles out of the freezer, in a hard-as-a-rock plastic bag, chicken delight neatly handprinted on the bag in green Magic Marker. Yeah, well, we'll see. Debbie turned to place the casserole on the counter and saw the machete lying there. This morning they'd brought Johnny out to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, Johnny still holding the machete, playing around with it, swiping it in the air. Terry told him he was going to cut himself and he laid it down. They stood sipping coffee and talking, Terry telling about the piles of machetes you'd see, hundreds that were confiscated: in the kitchen talking about the genocide the same way she and Terry had stood talking about it in her kitchen, last night. Terry telling about the guys, the Hutu thugs, in the beer lady's house . . . No, get it right, in the words she told him she'd never forget.

They were sitting at a table in the beer lady's house drinking banana beer and I shot them with my housekeeper's pistol.

Sitting there. He said not giving them a chance to make a move. Just walked in and shot them? He said no, they exchanged a few words.

But I knew going in I was gonna kill them.

Telling her that in the same quiet way he had told her a little while ago:

Now we're getting to what I know something about.

She thought about it making herself a drink while hot water from the faucet ran on the plastic-covered casserole in the sink.

It scared her, even though there was no reason to think he'd want to do it again. Or that he liked doing it. Or the time would come when he'd have to do it. What bothered her was the fact he had lived for years among people who had killed their neighbors because they were told to and the victims had accepted being killed. He had said to her, "How do you understand that . . ." Like saying it had nothing to do with reason. Why had he brought the machete home? He said as a memento. She told herself not to assume anything. She wasn't even that sure what he meant by "getting to what I know something about." It could mean talking his way out of a tight spot, the way he handled Johnny Pajonny, turning the situation around on him. Randy tries to get tough, Terry talks him out of doing anything drastic.

Except Randy wasn't like Johnny.

And Terry . . .

She heard the garage door open, raising automatically on its tracks, then heard it closing as the door to the kitchen opened and Terry came in pulling his new black suit out of the Brooks Brothers hanging bag, held it up for her to see, proud of it--she could tell--and asked how she liked it.

. . . Terry wasn't like anyone she'd ever met in her life.