Down the River unto the Sea

33

The hangover returned with consciousness, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. The only aftereffects were jitters in my extremities.

I got out of bed, used the water-closet toilet, and sat in the chair that my old friend and near assassin sat in to sprinkle water on me.

It all started with a letter from the Midwest. My life was in shambles, but sometimes you had to break things down to see what was wrong.

I knew what to do and half the way to do it. It wasn’t so much a plan as it was a suicide mission aimed at the heart of enemy territory. I was now an enlightened terrorist planning to show the all-powerful enemy that I could hurt them, that I could take away their shiny baubles and false judgments.

“Mel?” I said when he answered the phone.

“My liege.”

It was 10:16 a.m. and I was at the coffee emporium again. This time I drank what I bought.

“Am I right that you sit around workin’ on timepieces all day; that and thinking about stickin’ it to the law?”

“Every hour of every day,” he said. “Rain or shine. Sound asleep or wide-awake.”

“I like your plan about that baseball team escaping to Panama. But I need to add a little to it.”

We talked for more than an hour, during the first thirty minutes of which my new best friend was quite leery. But by the end I had brought him around to my way of thinking. Around 11:30 he expressed an excitement that could only mean that something bad was bound to happen.

It was chilly that morning, but I still had my heavy disguise coat so I wandered down until I came to a Times Square street that the previous mayor had blocked off so that touristical pedestrians could stroll freely and sit on benches placed here and there.

He answered the call on the first ring.

“Hello?” His tone was anything but confident.

“Mr. Braun,” I said. “Tom Boll here.”

“Boll?” he whined. “What do you want now?”

“I misled you in the beginning, Mr. Braun. I wasn’t hired to find Johanna Mudd but to prove your case that A Free Man was innocent. My clients had heard that you were backing off and they wanted to keep that engine running.”

“Man?”

“Yeah. I found Johanna too. She’s dead on top of a heap of dead bodies provided by the cops your client killed.”

“I had nothing to do with any of that.”

“You sent men to kill me.”

“Marmot told me he was going to threaten you, that’s all.”

“And you believed him?”

“You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“No, sir, I do understand. You might not like it that I passed the black mark back to you by telling Marmot’s boss that you hired me to indict him — but that doesn’t make me ignorant. All I did was turn the focus on you.”

“Not me, you idiot, my daughter.”

“What about your daughter?”

“The reason I backed off the Man case was because they took my daughter. They have her somewhere and they said unless I do as they instructed that she’d be hurt and then killed.”

“Marmot said this?”

“Yes.”

“And Antrobus?”

“I don’t know that name. But now that you told them you’re looking into Marmot for me, they say they’re going to kill my little girl.”

The bane of police work is innocent bystanders. You try your best, but unseen events, ricochet bullets, and false arrest are a part of the job.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Braun. I mean, all I knew was that you were about to wreck Man’s case and then you set me up to meet two assassins. If I knew about your child I would have done something else.”

He was quiet on the line.

“I have some questions,” I said in a mild tone.

“Why should I answer?”

“Because I’m probably the only hope you have of getting your daughter back.”

He took in and released three breaths, then said, “What do you want to know?”

“How old is your daughter?”

“Seven,” he said, and then he cried some.

“I will get her back for you if you set up a hearing for Man in Manhattan. It’ll have to be sometime next week.”

“How can you get my daughter?”

“How did I get to you?”

“I’ll do as you say if you agree to free my daughter first.”

“No, Mr. Braun. This is the deal — you set up a meeting between a group of people of my choosing and Man. After that we will bring your daughter to you.”

“Who are you working with?”

“Deep talent, Mr. Braun, deep talent.”

“I can get a court date set,” he admitted, “but I’ve been told, by people who know, that it will be impossible to change the verdict unless I prove that he didn’t pull the trigger. And I don’t care how much you investigate, Mr. Boll, you will not prove that. I grieve over Ms. Mudd, but you cannot save her either.”

“I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Braun. If I’m about to partner up with somebody, I expect honor. But don’t worry, sir. All we need is A Free Man in a downtown holding cell. You won’t be required to prove the impossible or raise the dead.”

“I’ll try to set the hearing for Monday. I know a judge who owes me a thing or two.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“All I care about is Chrissie, Mr. Boll.”

“I understand. I have a daughter too. I can’t even imagine how you must feel. But you stay true to me and you two will be eating ice cream sundaes by Wednesday night.”

The outside bench was getting chilly so I walked over to Grand Central just to warm up. I went upstairs there to the steak house and ordered a porterhouse steak, medium well, with thick fries and French beans.

“Hello?” a jaunty voice answered on the other end of my third and final phone call.

“Was that you last night or just a dream?” I asked.

“Was I handsome and witty?”

“I guess.”

“Then that was me. What can I do for you, Joe?”

“What do you know about Augustine Antrobus and William James Marmot?”

“This is that Free Man thing, right?” Gladstone Palmer surmised. “Joe, you cannot exonorate a man who killed two cops. Sherlock Holmes couldn’t do shit like that.”

“I know,” I said. “And I accept it. But you know I stepped on a few toes before you enlightened me, and now I have to do some housekeeping.”

“You’ll stop trying to get Man exonerated?”

“If Convert stays off my ass.”

“I’ll send you what files we have by e-mail. But, Joe.”

“What?”

“I can’t save your ass every time you step out of line.”

The files came before my steak. I couldn’t read them on my cheap phone, but that didn’t matter. I forwarded them to Mel with a note and started on my steak.

They seated me next to the outer wall of the dining area. From there I could look down on the rotunda as thousands of commuters, civilians, cops, and some crooks passed through. There rose a senseless, very human hubbub from below while I ate my red meat and plotted against the state.

“Ferris,” he answered on the third ring.

“Hello, Mr. Ferris. Joe Oliver here.”

“Hello, my boy. How are you?”

“It’s the fifteenth round of an old-time boxing match,” I said. “I’ve lost every minute of every round up till now, but I think I finally see a way to get my hook past his defense.”

“It’s hard to find the torque to hurt a man that late in the fight,” the world-wise multibillionaire opined.

“Don’t I know it.”

“What can I do for you, son?”

“Is there some music event going on tonight that you’d like to see with my grandmother?”

“There’s an invitation I have to hear three of Mozart’s four-handed sonatas in the upstairs chamber at Carnegie Hall.”

“If you want I’d be happy to go with you and bring my grandmother along.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“Then it’s done,” I said.

“And what can I do for you?”

“A huge favor for me,” I said. “I hope not so much for you.”

We discussed an impossible task for all of four minutes, at the end of which Roger Ferris said, “I’ve been a crook all my life, Joe. It’s nice to know I could use that talent to do something right.”

“Can I come casual to the event?” I asked. “I have a chore or two before the performance and I might not be able to make it back to Brooklyn in time to change.” While I was saying this I heard three tiny beeps in the receiver.

“Do what you can.”

After disconnecting I saw that the beeping was a text from Mel.

Set!

“I suppose this means that he’s doin’ somethin’ for you?” my onetime sharecropper grandmother said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You know if I go to this thing I got to get my hair done.”

“And I know how much you love sittin’ in Lulu’s chair.”

“Roger called over to her after he talked to you, and she’s comin’ here.”

“I guess he really wants this date.”

She harrumphed and then said, “I guess. Are you bein’ careful, Joey?”

“Better than that, Grandma... I’m doing what’s right.”