Every Man a King

13

I arrived by taxi at the front gates of Silbrig Haus at 7:17 the next morning. There was no one at the front, no button to push — but, like the world in general, there was always somebody watching.

“State your business,” a discorporate woman’s voice commanded.

“Joe Oliver,” I said. “I’m here to see Ferris, but you can ask Forthright to let me in.”

There’s almost always a moment of silence when you mention a worker’s boss. Most laborers want to avoid notice by their superiors. All of us do something wrong; that’s the nature of the workaday world.

The gates began to part maybe four minutes after I mentioned the number two on the list.

Halfway to the gate I saw my grandmother coming around from the far side of the house.

“Hi, baby,” she called, the grin all over her words.

We smiled and kissed, laced hands and walked toward the fanciful front doors of the manor.

“This mighty early for you, ain’t it, Joe?”

“Make hay while the sun shines. Isn’t that what they told your grandmother on the old-time plantation?”

“Not only that; they used to tell all us sharecroppers that hard work brought us closer to God,” she added. “That’s why so many of us went the other way.”

The front doors opened before we got there.

“Two of my favorite people,” Roger Ferris hailed.

“Hell with that,” Grandma Naples growled. “Why you got my favorite grandson up in here when he should be safe in his bed?”

“Come on now, honey, I only have Joe gathering information. Isn’t that right, Joe?”

“Yeah,” I said, knowing that my grandmother could read even between the letters of a single word.

“Don’t fuck with my blood, Roger,” Brenda warned.

I think he heard her.

“So you’re saying that he’s sticking to the story that he was kidnapped?” Roger asked. We were in his stripped-down serious business office cube.

“And that the man he killed was trying to poison his buttermilk.”

“Sounds just stupid enough to be true.”

“I believe him. Here.” I placed the multimillion-dollar coin down on the desk. “He also said that he has a gigantic blackmail file and that the Ferris name is on it.”

“That may be,” my temporary employer conceded, “but it’s not about me.”

He held my gaze for a moment or so.

“You have that hundred and fifty thousand I need?” I asked.

“You staying for breakfast?” was a reply of sorts. “Your ex-wife and daughter will probably want to talk to you.”

Brenda and Roger didn’t make the breakfast part of our meal. It was only Aja and her mom.

“How was he?” were the first words Monica said to me.

“Fine,” I said as the breakfast platters were being deposited on the long table.

“Fine? How can he be fine when he’s locked up with all kinds of criminals?”

“You don’t have to shout, Mom,” Aja said.

“I’m not talking to you,” Monica replied.

“We’re all gonna be civil at this table or breakfast is over,” I said, the toothless tyrannical father of old.

“What did he say?” Monica asked.

“He’s nervous. I mean, he has the feds threatening him with a long prison term, and then there’s the people he’s been working with, who might be even worse.”

“What do you mean worse?”

“All that money he’s been making?” I said. “I hope you don’t think he’s brought it in because he’s such a genius.”

Aja made a sound that would have been an amen in church.

“He’s mixed up with a mob, probably Russian. They’ve been breaking federal tax laws and raking in millions, maybe even billions. The choice the feds have given him is to turn witness or spend twenty years in prison.”

“No,” Monica said. It was an absolute denial. These problems weren’t happening and, even if they were, Coleman was not involved.

“Yes.”

“How can I help him?” she begged.

“Help him?” Aja snarled. “Better let him go and get on with it.”

“You’re an awful child,” mother told daughter.

“You’re already doing the best you can, Monica. If you stay here Coleman’s business partners can’t get to you. And because you got me on it I found a lawyer that has lowered the amount he has to put up for bail. He’ll represent Coleman.”

“I want him here with me.”

“No way.”

“Why? Because I chose him over you?”

Monica was a good-looking woman and she knew it. She was a good person too but still saw herself as a kind of... prize.

“No, Mon, no. Your husband has two kinds of targets on his back and I will not bring that added danger on the house where my grandmother lives. If I manage to get him out of the hoosegow, you two will have to have a telephonic connection until the big problems are solved.”

“You never liked Coleman,” my ex charged.

“I hate him.” It felt quite refreshing to say those words. Truth is so often deemed unsavory. “But I’m doing my best. And you staying here will make my job a lot easier.”

“Why would I want to make things easier for you?” she sneered.

“That’s simple,” I said evenly. “If the Russians grab you and give me the choice of handing over your man, I will give him to them without a qualm and he will have died because of your love.”

Monica had never looked at me like that before. It was as if I were a grand priest bathed in light who had just proven the existence of God. Not some beneficent old white man with a long beard but a pulsating eye that might wipe all humanity away without a second blink.

Monica turned her eyes to her plate and ate slowly, with small bites.

I knew I had gone too far because Aja reached out and laid a hand on her mother’s shoulder.

“Hey, Joe,” Roger Ferris said from the entryway.

He was wearing a black-and-cream-colored exercise suit made for fast walking. My grandmother was at his side. She’d changed into a gray calico dress that was printed with abstract red forms. I remembered back twenty years when she bought sixteen of the exact same dresses at a clearance sale in Brooklyn.

When he reached the dining table Roger said, “I transferred the money to Tomey and he’s made you the executor.”

“Thanks, Roger,” I said. “I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can.”

Monica wasn’t paying attention. That was probably for the best.

Brenda was giving my ex a scornful look. The great thing about old-time country relatives was that their love was fully armed and dangerous.

I stood up from the table, shook Roger’s hand, kissed my grandmother, and said, “I got to be going.”

“Can I come with you?” Aja asked.

“Not where I’m going right now, but I’ll pick you up when things are a little less dicey.”

“Okay.”

Art Tomey was waiting for me at the entrance to the Metropolitan Correctional Center. The federal lawyer was short with a big belly showing in spite of his impeccably tailored dark blue suit. His skin had a gray pallor but did not seem unhealthy. His eyes were quartz blue, deeply faceted, and seemingly omniscient.

“Mr. Oliver,” he hailed. “It’s a great pleasure to see you.”

“Art. How’s the family?”

“Nita’s a sophomore at the University of Texas and my wife left me.”

“Sorry to hear that, about your wife, I mean.”

“Don’t be,” he assured me. “She was unhappy and there’s nothing worse for the marital bed than unhappiness. When she left, with her yoga instructor, I gave her twenty-five percent and the promise of friendship.”

Tomey liked me because I saved his daughter’s life and her future by leading the police to a dead body and not mentioning her name. That kind of intimacy makes honesty more free-flowing.

“What about Mr. Tesserat?” I asked.

“He’s in a holding cell. All we have to do is go to the warden and set him free.”

“Bail paid?”

“All ten percent.”

“And what about Raoul Davies?”

“The FBI has backed off for the time being. I’ve promised them full cooperation after having a chance to debrief my client.”

“How does one debrief a fool?” I asked no one in particular.

Teresa Valdon, a Black woman, probably not born in the U.S., was the acting warden of the MCC. I didn’t know if that meant temporary or not but she had an impressive presence. She was six-two at least and maybe two hundred pounds, and her face would have been lovely if she wasn’t so serious. Her hands wanted to curl into fists when we met and I found myself hoping they didn’t have to.

“Hello, Mr. Tomey,” she said to the man who had brought me. Then she turned her head in my direction. “Mr. Oliver, you have quite a presence in the files of the federal prison system. That’s unusual for a man who was never an employee, an inmate, or a lawyer.”

“My father once told me that if they’re talking about you then you must be doing something right.”

“I see,” Warden Valdon said. “So the right thing is to take Tesserat out of here?”

“On bail,” I added.

“Under my responsibility,” Art Tomey put in.

“The FBI has asked us to take his passport,” the warden said as a counter.

“That sounds about right,” I said.

The warden didn’t like me and for some reason I was tickled by the attention.

“I can’t say that Coleman wouldn’t hurt a fly,” I went on, “but if he got into a fight with one, it’s a toss-up who’d win.”

Valdon’s smile invigorated me. That was the old dog in my heart, maybe my soul. I wanted to get this woman who didn’t like me to change her mind.

“From what I understand about this case he’d be better in a cell,” she said.

“From what I understand about organized crime he’s about as safe here as he would be in Afghanistan.”

That made Valdon’s shoulders rise. Her eyes changed shape to accent the anger.

“Are you saying—” she began.

“He didn’t mean anything, Teresa,” Art said, cutting her off. “Joe was once arrested on false charges. Prisons worry him.”

“You were a con?” she asked on a smile.

“I was, and I am, an innocent man.” I’d had no intention of using words with such gravitas. But no matter how much I don’t want to believe it, the content of one’s heart is not make-believe.

The warden’s demeanor softened. She smiled ever so slightly and said, “Your man will be at the outer door by the time you get there.”

He was waiting for us where people moved freely. Two uniformed guards stood close by, in case he had to be suddenly rearrested, I thought.

Art Tomey walked up to the guards, shook their hands, and greeted them by name, then turned to Coleman. Tesserat was wearing a nicely cut but rumpled gray suit, and, for some reason, he still had on paper shoes. He looked haggard and a little stunned.

“Mr. Tesserat,” Art said.

“Yeah?”

“I’m Art Tomey. You already know Mr. Oliver, I believe.”

Coleman looked at me warily.

“Yeah. I know him.”

“We’re going to go down the street to a coffee shop, have a little something, and then lay down the plans for your safety and defense,” Art told his client.

Coleman either nodded or shuddered, I couldn’t tell which.

At Babylon Diner the three of us sat at a window table. I had coffee; Art only wanted water. Coleman ordered scrambled eggs with ham, bacon, sausage, a water bagel, a triple latte, and a tumbler full of orange juice.

“They have all your records,” Art said after the food arrived. “Unassailable proof that you defrauded everyone from the oil company to the federal government, from the bank to the investors who you had buy stock in the made-up corporation. There’s no way we can claim innocence or even ignorance. The only thing we can do is make a deal.”

“I need some real shoes,” Coleman said through a mouthful of bagel.

“To wear to your funeral?” These were the first words I’d said.

Coleman’s eyes flashed fear.

“The only thing you can do is make a deal,” Art said, then added, “Do you know who Tava Burkel is?”

“The first time I ever heard that name was when they arrested me.”

“That’s who the feds want.”

“I never met the man; never heard of him.” Whining comes easily when you’re helpless.

“I’ve asked around,” Art told the bailee. “People say that you’d need to get protection from the Kremlin to be safe from him.”

“So you’re telling me I can’t turn against the people I’ve worked with?”

“It seems like that,” Art agreed. I was surprised that he did so. “But the type of information the FBI wants doesn’t have an expiration date. Burkel knows that you can turn state’s evidence at any time. Do you think he’d let you live in prison?”

Either Coleman had never considered this potential outcome or it was so frightening to him that his mind couldn’t home in on it. He pushed the rest of the food away, knocking over Art’s water glass.

I was fast with my napkin while Art pushed his chair back from the table. As I sopped up the water Coleman just shook his head.

When the mishap was righted Coleman asked, “What can I do?”

“Joe?” Art said.

“We have to believe that this boogeyman of yours will know that you’re out and the threat you pose. They’ll be looking for you,” I said to Coleman. “So we need to put you someplace where you will be protected and whoever’s after you can be identified.”

“You wanna use me like bait?”

“You heard what Mr. Tomey said, brother. You are bait whether I use it or not.”

That was the standoff. Neither my ex nor Coleman wanted to look directly at the diagnosis. It’s hard to accept that your power in a situation is nil, that your only chance is to put your life in the hands of someone you hate and who hates you back.

“What do you want from me?” he asked at last.

“There’s a man in a blue Mustang parked across the street,” Art said. “Get in that car with him and go where he takes you.”

“Think about what you know,” I added, “about how you want to play this. I’ll be in touch to work out the angles.”

The hardest jobs a PI has rarely have to do with law enforcement. It’s settling beefs between criminals that’s the trickiest thing.

“Can I trust you?” Coleman asked me.

“I’m gonna do my best.”

“But you don’t like me.”

“True. But, luckily for you, that doesn’t matter. I’m going to try and save you for Aja.”

“She doesn’t like me either.”

“But she loves her mother, and keeping you in one piece is what Monica needs.”