Thrust (11 page)

"Yes."

"He was also the prime suspect in two unsolved homicides. He was arrested but never indicted for the crimes.
 
Former friends helped him knock over a small trucking company.
 
Before the cops closed in, they turned up dead."

"Where was this?"

"In Jersey.
 
Newark."

"Mob related?"

"I did say trucking," Ellis said.

"How much did they rip off?"

"The payroll and some cargo off the trucks.
 
Maybe ten grand."

"No repercussions?"

The attorney sat back, appraised Chase again, trying to figure out how down in the dirt he could get.
 
He didn't like to explain himself, that was clear, but maybe the more he brought out at the moment, the more helpful Chase might prove in the long run.
 

He hung forward again, placed his palms flat on the cherry oak table, and the glint of melancholy faded.
 
It reignited as something else.
 
Chase had his number now—Ellis had a
jones
for melodrama.

"What do you mean by that?" Ellis asked.

Cue the stabbing violins.

"If it was mob-related," Chase said, "why didn't they handle it themselves?
 
Why would Singleton turn on his pals when it left him holding the bag alone?"

Ellis drummed his fingers, enjoying this but not showing it.
 
"It's one of the reasons he was cleared.
 
He had no real motive."

But of course he did.
 
Singleton was vicious, maybe even dumb, and he liked to ride the big edge.
 
He was probably disappointed with the haul and decided to lay his buddies out for the mob as an offering.
 
An example was made, they got their revenge, and they probably tossed Singleton small jobs from time to time.
 

But it could've gone the other way.
 
They could've just as easily taken him out for the fun of it.
 
Tie up all ends.
 
Singleton balanced his boredom with great patience.
 
Chase saw it all in that little nod Singleton had given him.
 

"So he's a killer."

"Not that anyone's proven," Ellis said.
 
"I just thought you should know some of the pertinent information about him."
 
He eased back in his chair, as if ready for a brandy and a cigar now.
 
He appeared to want to frown, if only his eyelids weren't paralyzed.
 
"The fact that you've never been in trouble before weighs heavily in your favor.
 
How'd you manage to keep from getting any DWI's before this?
 
You've been a hard drinker for a while, I can see."

"I'm careful."

"And these psychiatric reports… you haven't been keeping up on your prescriptions."

He was afraid to agree with the lawyer again, so Chase buttoned it, just nodded.

"What made you go out that night, Grayson?" Ellis asked.

"It's part of the pattern."

"What pattern?"

"It helps to calm me."
 

Somehow it had become ingrained in him, the obsessive need for movement as he kept circling town, driving back and forth between the community college and the library, heading out on the parkway to gun past Garden Falls.
 
It was always the same, and thinking about it now was like reciting a poem—the first line preceded the second, which preceded the third.
 
Even thinking about the pattern was a pattern itself, and he had to follow the flow.
 

Compelled now to remember
heading out on the parkway to gun past Garden Falls, where the shadow of the buildings sliced down alongside the moon.
 
He'd stop off at bars and have a few more, speaking to no one
.
 
He wanted to think about something else but couldn't get loose until it had all finished out the way it was supposed to be.
 
He did that for a couple of years, biding time, feeling a slow movement and rise under his skin.

That was all right
.

Chase gasped in relief as the memory, the poem, finally finished and he managed to slump in his chair.
 
The movement caused such a knifelike pain in his neck and shoulders that he had to grit his teeth, gripping his belly harder.

"We'll play it up for the jury," Ellis said.
 
"How you're a noted performance poet with a history of mental illness, who attempts to deal with the traumas of his past through his body of work.
 
A cult figure in New York City, you're as well known for your mania as for your poetry."

"Sure," Chase said.

"Singleton's a white trash career criminal, a wife-beater, the kidnapper of his own child.
 
He'll be up on criminal contempt of court charges.
 
Assault, violating the order of protection, fleeing police, endangering the welfare of a minor, and possibly kidnapping.
 
We'll focus the case away from your accidental involvement in it.
 
You'll admit yourself to Garden Falls tomorrow."
 
It struck him then, so that he let out a huff of air.
 
"Ironic.
 
That's the parkway exit where the collision occurred?"

"Yes."

"I'll make the preparations tonight."

Ellis looked down and started to riffle through paperwork.
 
Chase realized he'd been dismissed, but still had a question.
 
"What happens if they make the case against me?"

"
Fortwell
, I'd guess.
 
It's bad, but not as bad as some of the others.
 
Sing
Sing
.
 
Arlingville
.
 
Hardwick."

"For how long?"

"Worst case… five years at the outside for criminally negligent homicide. A child died and the media frenzy's already begun.
 
There will be a hell of a lot of pressure from the likes of M.A.D.D. and other watchdog groups. You'll probably get eighteen to twenty-four months.
 
It's a good thing you're a calm drunk and didn't give the officers any trouble."

"How about Singleton?"

"At least three years for violating the order of protection and running from the cops, another one or two for endangering his kid.
 
Since he's not considered a violent criminal, he'll get the lighter sentence."

"I haven't seen anything about his wife.
 
She's not talking to the papers."

"She's terrified of what Singleton might do, I'd guess."

"Did he make bail?"

"No.
 
He'll be off the street until the trial starts in six months.
 
This isn't a cake walk, Grayson.
 
Joe Singleton's gained some points because of his daughter's death.
 
They'll play you as the scapegoat here, but you'll both be held accountable.
 
It evens the books out."

Chase could understand them hedging their bets.
  
Everybody had to get a touch of satisfaction or the whole thing would just fall apart.
 

He got up, listening to sirens shriek down on the street, heading uptown.
 
You could tune in to the soundtrack of your life on occasion, the world outside underscoring everything going on in your soul.
 
A harsh breeze blew and clattered the window in its frame.

"How'd Singleton kill his friends?" Chase asked.
 
"If it was him."

Ellis couldn't quite purse his lips, but he made the effort, still trying to get a bead on Chase and decide whether he was asking a smart question or a really foolish one.
 

"With a knife.
 
Four inch blade.
 
None of this sloppy slitting-the-throat shit either.
 
One thrust, under the left ribs, directly into the heart.
 
He's a pro."

Chase had five years to worry about it, and did.

I
saac
Barth collapsed in his bathroom that afternoon and went into the hospital for further testing.
 

Chase stopped by for a visit and found Shake already there sitting at Isaac's bedside, reading some of his new poetry.
 

And the solitary chicken, like ear-top flamingo stands arcing before the false Rod.
 
O
Serling
, you who deserve so much more, rise from the Mayo jar of hell and twist your hands about their peppermint throats, the damnable
mick
Connor and his cotton ball claws of Pandemonium.
 
Swaying with his eyes half-closed. Hands out, snapping his powerful fingers softly, so that they whispered along with him.
 
Get behind me fear.
 
Get the gum drum behind me, black man without
dem
hang
thang
! Wear not the pirate togs of linen on your way to heaven.
 
These are the
drapings
of hell.
 
Forward, forward forever against the steel cage of
Triboro
.
 
O George!
 
O Jeff!
 
Where are
thy
loving ministrations?

Chase wasn't the only one coming a bit unglued.
 
Isaac's injuries had outraged and scared Shake, and thrown him off his own game.
 
It could happen to you, when this kind of affront reached into your own comfortable sphere.

The room was filled with flowers and gifts, three vases of tulips and irises lining the sill.
 
A foot-high stack of books sat on the night stand. Conrad Rice had sent a
porta
-potty and signed it on the plastic lid in black marker:
 
The more you toot, the better you feel!
 
Get well soon!
 
A can of beans, a bottle of castor oil, and his latest chapbook peered out from beneath the foam seat.

Leave it to Conrad.
 
Practical but with just the right touch of propaganda.
 
He must've already sent in impassioned letters to the
Village Voice
and
Greenwich Downturn Weekly
about the state of crime in New York.
 
Poor old man can't even take a walk down a city street at three in the morning anymore.
 
The hell's the world coming to.

Buying ad space to promote the act.
 
Making sure his web site was listed.
 
The slick little hustler was masterful in the way he worked his action.
  

Isaac's swollen lips and bruised cheek somehow made him appear younger, even a bit more healthy than usual.
 
He had a thick square bandage taped to the back of his head, with a spot of blood leaking through.

Isaac smiled at Chase and said, "Don't look so worried."

So, his face was giving him away again.
 
It took Chase a moment to find his voice.
 
"How are you feeling?"

"Oh, I'm all right.
 
It's ridiculous they're making me stay here.
 
They just want to tap my insurance company."

Shake said, "Anybody else, they'd be happy to have a rest in accommodations like this.
 
Firing up the neighborhood, everyone dropping by with chocolates and DVDs and
babaganoush
.
 
This one, all he does is complain."

"I don't care for
babaganoush
."

"Then I'll eat it."

"You don't like it either, you said."

"I'll still eat it, with a few pita bread slices.
 
And I'll take the four-disc set of
Pride and Prejudice
too."

"You will not.
 
I quite enjoyed that film version."

"Then why not lie back and I'll put it in?
 
Seriously, the nurses said you were supposed to rest."
 
Shake patted the back of the old man's hand, acting the Jewish mother, even quarreling like a biddy.
 

Chase said, "What happened?"

The cloying aroma from the irises filled the small room.
 
Isaac seemed hesitant to talk.
 
"After the mugger cracked my tooth my dentist put me on Percocet.
 
It didn't go well with my after-dinner glass of wine.
 
I must have passed out on my way to the bath.
 
If it wasn't for Jasper Cox, I might have lain there wedged under the toilet all night."

Chase couldn't help himself.
 
He looked over at the
porta
-potty.
 
Was Conrad busting a joke there too?