The Four-Night Run (24 page)

38

C
IRILIO
V
EGA

Cirilio Vega, Esquire, looks left, then right upon climbing from his BMW and scans the landscape once more when hitting the street out of the lot. His caution is understandable, what with the craziness that has infected the city in the last three days. The courthouse is to his right, but he ignores it. His office is behind him, but it will have to wait. He needs to make his regular morning stop before he starts his day, he needs to hear the early morning word, and the best place for hearing the early morning word is at Sweeney’s Sunrise Club.

He picks up his pace, knowing he is later than usual, thinking of the sweet burn at the back of the throat, of the calm that settles like an alighting butterfly with the very first taste. And today, with a madman on the loose, his need for the calm is greater than usual.

He is handsome and dark, Cirilio Vega, with sharp feral features. He wears a double-breasted suit, small shiny shoes, a bright tie tied into a tight Windsor knot. Cirilio Vega. Cirilio. Not Cy, like some fat gym teacher. Not Cyrus, like some cabin boy on a Greek freighter. Not Cyril, like some poofy British writer. Not Rilio, not Leo, not Cirry, like some diseased drunk. Cirilio. Cirilio Vega, a Cuban fire-eater on the rise, you better believe it. They can’t keep him down, no matter how they try, and oh, how they try. On the rise, headed to the top, if he can just make it through all this craziness without losing his ticket or his mind.

The sign outside Sweeney’s is unlit, the neon in the windows is off, the place looks deserted, but that’s how it looks every morning. Sweeney opens the door just for them, the Sunrise Club, so they can have their morning pick-me-ups without a load of gawkers, so they can talk over the morning’s news without the gossip spreading beyond their narrow corps, so they can strategize their way through the minefields set for them by the County Prosecutor’s Office. They are criminal defense attorneys all, the Sunrise Club, men and women, defenders of the dispossessed, part of an elite club that went into law for all the right reasons, no matter how it has turned out. There are some in the defense bar who started out as prosecutors before falling into the private sector to earn more money, but those are not welcome in the Sunrise Club. Former prosecutors tend to maintain allegiance to the enemy. They tend to make deals, to convince their clients to flip and rat out former compatriots. The Sunrise Club frowns on such behavior. The names of its members—Vega, Gray, Pomerantz, Broida, Cannoni, Gonzalez, Scrbacek—read like an honor roll of the hard-core.

They’ll all be there, thinks Vega. All but Scrbacek, of course, though J.D. will undoubtedly continue to be the main subject of discussion. It is only rumors that are spreading through the Sunrise Club—rumors
the lawyers have learned from their clients or overheard in the cells below the courthouse—but rumors that have the ring of authenticity. Scrbacek burned down his own building to destroy his records; Scrbacek burned down a house on Ansonia Road; Scrbacek stole a red Cadillac
convertible and was on his way to Vegas; Scrbacek single-handedly
battled four gang members in the heart of Crapstown; Scrbacek embezzled millions from a trust fund and was already in Rio; Scrbacek was dead, his corpse buried so deep in the wetlands that it would never, ever be found. It is to this last rumor that Cirilio Vega gives the most credence. It is always that way, hope driving belief, but in this case Vega has a valid basis for so believing. He knows better than anyone what Scrbacek is actually up against.

Cirilio Vega pulls open the door and steps into Sweeney’s. It is cool inside, and dark, the morning light slatted dim by dusty venetian blinds, and it smells of camphor and spilled beer. It is not much of place, Sweeney’s—a long bar on the left, booths on the right, a jukebox, a pay phone, a video poker game—it is not much of a place, especially when it’s empty. Vega is running late, and he would have expected the whole of the Sunrise Club to have been there already, huddling at the bar, swapping rumors and stories, but all he sees is Sweeney, standing by the sink, polishing.

“Morning, Sweeney,” says Vega, bellying the bar, looking around. “Where is everybody?”

“I told ’em not to show,” says Sweeney, his voice a harsh Irish whisper. “I told them I’d be staying shut this morning. I told ’em I had a funeral to be going to.”

“Yeah? Then what are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t find meself a corpse to drink over,” says Sweeney before taking down a bottle, lifting up a glass, and pouring a double shot of vodka for Cirilio Vega. Vega likes vodka in the morning so his early appointments can’t detect from his breath that he’d treated himself to a dawn breaker.

Vega lifts the glass to Sweeney and takes a gulp, his eyes closing reflexively as he feels the burn and the calm. “You lose my number or something?”

“I was asked not to be calling you away.”

“Oh? Is that so? So who’s the practical joker? I’ll be sure to pay him back in triplicate.”

Sweeney nods to the back of the bar. Vega turns to see a hunched figure in a ratty raincoat sitting in a booth, his back to Vega.

And then the figure twists around in his seat.

And then fear ripples through Vega’s blood, and his lower lip begins to shake.

“Scrbacek.”

“Hello, Cirilio,” says J.D. Scrbacek, his normally booming voice soft and hoarse. “How’s tricks?”

Cirilio Vega spins to stare at Sweeney behind the bar. Sweeney looks at him with a hard, level gaze. Vega downs the rest of his vodka in a quick snatch. When he turns back to face Scrbacek, the shake in his lower lip is gone, willed to still. On his face now is the unctuous feigned concern of a trial lawyer.

“Scrbacek, my God. How are you? We’ve been so worried about you. Let me get you something. Your normal scotch and soda? Anything.”

“Club soda will be fine,” says Scrbacek.

“No scotch? No nothing?”

“Not this morning, Cirilio.”

Cirilio Vega turns and gestures for Sweeney to make up the club soda for Scrbacek and another double vodka for himself, and while he waits, he thinks desperately about what he should do.

He has the urge to run, but he fights it and holds his ground. Scrbacek doesn’t intend to kill him, Vega figures, or he’d already be dead. And Scrbacek wouldn’t try to start anything here, in the tavern, not with Sweeney and his shotgun behind the bar. No, Cirilio Vega figures he’s not in danger from Scrbacek, so long, he’s certain, as he doesn’t try to make a call. So he’ll act calm, make no urgent gestures, retain his normal cheerful manner. Scrbacek is there to talk, that is all, and so Vega will listen. He’ll hear what Scrbacek has to say, learn what he knows, promise to help, and then, when Scrbacek leaves, then and only then, he’ll let out his breath and take out his phone.

Cirilio Vega is smiling when he brings the vodka and the club soda to the booth. “Here,” says Vega as he sits across from Scrbacek and slides the club soda toward him.

Scrbacek’s face is misshapen with bruises, a filthy bandage spans the ridge of his nose, his five-o’clock shadow is well past midnight. Vega squints to get a look into his eyes and stiffens slightly at what he sees. There’s something fearsome and keen about the man across the table from him, something dangerous. Whatever blows he has taken, Vega imagines Scrbacek has given worse. Vega tells himself to be careful before he says, “My God, J.D., what happened to you? You look like you’ve been caught in a washing machine.”

“And then tumbled dry.”

“Are you all right?”

“For the time being.”

“We’ve been worried, so worried. Can I help? Do you need anything?”

“I could use some money,” says Scrbacek flatly.

“Sure, J.D. Yes, of course.” Vega digs out his wallet, pulls out a stack of bills, counts them quickly. “Two hundred? Two fifty?”

“As much as you can spare.”

“Here, take it all. I can get more at the bank if you want to wait.”

Scrbacek stuffs the money into his pocket and smiles. “No, I don’t want to wait. This is enough, thanks.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get the hell out of here. I’ve been hiding, running, but they’re getting closer.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, Cirilio. For a few hours I was hiding out at Jenny’s. Remember her? Jenny Ling.”

“Yeah, sure. Nice girl.”

“She speaks highly of you, too. She says you helped her out when we were going through our rough patch.”

“I try to be helpful.”

“And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Well, I went to our old place in the Marina District, tried to get just a few hours’ rest, but somehow they found out and came for me there. At Jenny’s house. With their guns. They killed her dog, our dog. They killed my dog, Cirilio. It’s that bad. All I know is that I have to lose myself. You want to get lost, the best way is to hunker down on a bus heading nowhere. It can take a week to get to California by Greyhound if you go first through Austin and then through Jackson Hole. Now I have enough for the ticket.” Scrbacek glances at the clock above the bar. “My ride leaves in an hour.”

“This is crazy, J.D. You can’t just run away. Go to the cops. Get yourself some real protection.”

“We never trusted the cops before, so what makes you think we can trust them now? No, it’s just you and me. That’s why I asked Sweeney to set up this meeting on the sly. I knew you carried enough money for me to get out, and I wanted to give you a chance to come with me.”

“What? Why would I want to come with you?”

“Because they’re after you too, Cirilio.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“No. They’re not. You’re crazy. No one wants to kill me. What are you talking about, J.D.?” He blows air out of his mouth. “You’re talking crazy.”

“That’s exactly what I said after they blew up Ethan Brummel. Surwin suggested they were trying to blow me up instead, and I used the exact same words. But, Cirilio, since then, as best I can count, there have been four more attempts on my life. They’re getting closer each time. Next time they win, I lose, game over.”

“Who’s trying to kill you? Kill me? Why? None of this makes any sense.”

Scrbacek leans toward Vega and lowers his voice. “They think I know something. When they burned down my building, they napalmed my files. There was something in my files they wanted to keep a secret, and I have no idea what it is. But it’s something brutal enough for them to kill me simply because I might have seen it. And, Cirilio, they’re going to kill you, too.”

“You keep saying that. Why, J.D.? Why me?”

“Because you’re Caleb’s lawyer now.”

“I was just trying to help you out. After you disappeared, Joey Torresdale called me to see if—”

“Somehow this thing I’m supposed to know involves Breest. You took over the case, so you’re involved, too. Do you have any idea what it is they’re trying to hide? Do you have any idea what was in my files?”

Scrbacek looks searchingly into the eyes of Cirilio Vega, and Vega knows better than to give in to his instincts and let his gaze fall away. You do that with a jury, let your gaze waver in the crucial moment of an argument, and all twelve know right away. What you do, instead, in the crux of the argument, is pin your eyes to the juror you know is most against you—the old man with the jowls and the American flag pinned to his lapel, or the woman with the pursed mouth and the hair done up church-tight—you keep your eyes right smack on that juror as you emphatically make the point until the doubts begin to dissolve under the shining light of your certainty. So that’s what he does, Cirilio Vega, well-trained trial lawyer that he is, keeps his gaze bolted on Scrbacek’s eyes as he says, “No, J.D. I don’t. I have no idea.”

Scrbacek’s eyes narrow, as if in pain. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “I was counting on you for answers.”

“I wish I had them. Believe me.”

Scrbacek sticks out his jaw, nods, and takes a gulp from his club soda. “Do you remember Remi Bozant?”

“The cop in the clown suit?”

“The bastard I got kicked off the force and into jail.”

“He left town, I heard, years ago.”

“He’s back, and he’s the one leading the hunt for me. When I was running through the depths of Crapstown, I met someone who heard him shooting his mouth off in a bar. He said Scrbacek was only the first, some fat shit was second, a crooked judge was third, and then the Cuban lawyer. This is what he was supposed to have said, Cirilio. He’s working for someone, I don’t know who, but someone who wants to wipe out anyone who might know anything he needs to keep secret.”

Cirilio Vega’s dark feral face turns two shades paler. His tongue licks his mustache nervously. He takes a sip of his vodka and then another. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know anything.”

“It doesn’t matter what you know, it only matters what they think you know.” Scrbacek checks the clock once more, finishes what is in his glass, stands. “I have to go. I have to catch a bus. Thanks for the money. You’ve always been a friend, Cirilio. Remember what I said and take care of yourself.”

“Wait, J.D. Wait. Where are you going? Where can I get in touch with you?”

“Santa Monica Pier, one week from today,” says Scrbacek. “Good luck, Cirilio.” And then he leaves, does J.D. Scrbacek, turns and walks out of the bar with only a quick nod toward Sweeney before closing the door behind him.

Cirilio Vega stares at Scrbacek’s back as it disappears through the door before violently throwing the rest of his vodka down his throat, coughing as it tumbles its way into his stomach.

Did Scrbacek see the panic in his face? Probably, yes, but it was understandable, considering. How else should he have reacted to being told someone was trying to kill him? No, he did fine, played the part of the unknowing friend to perfection. It was Scrbacek whose behavior was strange, no anger or fear twisting his features. His whole being was suffused with serenity, a dangerous serenity, something slow and suppressed and ready to erupt. Vesuvius the day before.

For the first time in all the years he had known him, Cirilio Vega had been afraid of Scrbacek, as if he had underestimated him from the first. It’s a good thing Scrbacek doesn’t know about that night with Jenny, a very good thing. Vega wouldn’t want to go head-to-head with that violently serene J.D. Scrbacek, and now, thankfully, with one call, he won’t have to. He grabs his cell, flicks through his contacts, and darkens it before he can dial. He can’t use his own phone, can’t have the call on his records. He heads to the pay phone on the wall to make the call, lifts the receiver, hesitates.