Personal injuries

CHAPTER 24

The next thursday, April 30, Evon found herself sitting alone in the Mercedes on the top floor of the Temple parking garage. The car was within sight of the glass vestibule housing the ruined elevator, and she'd watched as the doors wobbled open and Robbie had joined Walter Wunsch. After a few words of hearty greeting, they passed completely out of range of the infrared while the elevator groaned and rattled as it made its descent. She sat there, unknowing, isolated, hoping like hell it didn't go to fudge, and feeling an unexpected irritation in her bladder.

Following a few days of confused debate, the best tactical option seemed to be to proceed with another payment to Walter in gratitude for the favorable ruling in Drydech. It would put to the test Sennett's theory that Wunsch was somehow on alert. No matter how loyal he was to Malatesta, Walter was not going to buy more time in the pen by accepting a second envelope.

Even before the elevator had arrived back on five, Evon knew something was wrong. The sea rush of static in her earpiece began to yield to voices. Instead of having hightailed it on the first floor, Walter was still with Robbie. They were talking about a woman, with the usual unpleasant undercurrent. Feaver was laughing, in his humoring fashion, and Wunsch was growling in a low way that made his words difficult to discern.

The elevator doors, engraved with rusty gang signs and markered graffiti, slowly parted. Unharmed, Feaver stepped forth smiling, still in the company of Wunsch. In spite of a heavy topcoat in the mild spring weather, Walter's narrow shoulders were hunched, almost up to his ears.

"Not possible," she heard Robbie say. He tossed a wave at Wunsch and pushed off from the vestibule. Walter stood his ground. He stared through the smeared plate glass toward Evon in the car, his complexion like a bowl of oatmeal, his look ugly as it loitered on her. Unexpectedly, she heard Feaver speaking to her over the infrared as he advanced on the Mercedes.

"Okay, now when I get into the car I'm going to say something to you, blah, blab, blab, and I want you to laugh out loud. Hysterical laugh. Okay? I just told you something that's a living, fucking riot."

Feaver bounced into the driver's seat and, as he'd said, mouthed several sentences, making no sound whatsoever, a pantomime intended for Walter. "Laugh!" he then exclaimed through his teeth. She did it, while he continued offering stage direction. His hand was lifted to obscure the movement of his lips, as he told her to shake her head, laugh so hard she was coughing. Eventually, Robbie turned to the windshield and mushed up his face. He shrugged at Walter, and Walter shrugged in response. The elevator car had opened behind Wunsch, and he turned for it.

She waited for a hand sign, something, but Feaver gave no explanation. Instead he rammed the car into gear and peeled from the garage. Several blocks down, he veered into an alley, bucketing along until he'd pulled into the graveled parking lot behind a small store. Its back doors were protected by a rusted security grate. Robbie pointed emphatically to his belt line and mouthed, "Off."

She did not have the remote today. They were only a few blocks from the LeSueur and she had figured to deactivate the FoxBIte at McManis's.

"Shit," said Feaver out loud. "Frisk," he told her. She asked what was going on.

"Goddamn it, frisk," he answered. He sat through it stiffly, looking off through the window. He told her to state her findings and the time, and then, without another word, plucked the microphone bud out of his shirt and tore it from the lead. "Show time's over," Robbie said.

"He didn't take the money?"

"Ate every bite. Same as always." At Klecker's advice, Feaver had bought custom-made boots as a safer and more comfortable spot to hide the FoxBIte, and he jacked up his calf now to wrestle one off. He had considerable difficulty in the cramped confines of the car. She asked repeatedly what was wrong, but he refused to answer. Finally, he tore the FoxBIte from the ankle harness and slapped it down on her purse.

"For God's sake, what's the problem?"

"The problem is," he said, "as Walter and I are about to go our separate ways, he tells me a story. It's half a joke to him, half maybe not. Apparently, when we were in Malatesta's courtroom last week, you plowed into some guy? Well, he's a copper. Old chum of Walter's from when they were both around felony court. This guy's got a lawsuit going, administrative appeal from a ruling of the Fire and Police Board. He caught thirty days for something. Name is Martin Carmody." Feaver stared, waiting for a response. "Wanna buy a vowel?"

"I've seen him around. I thought I had."

"Yeah, well." She followed Robbie's eyes as he looked out the window again toward the unfaced brick at the rear of the low building. A little tendril of something green twisted around the rusted rainpipe. "He says about five, six years ago-this is what he tells Walter-he was sent to Quantico for a couple weeks of advanced firearms instruction. Out there he gets to know his instructor, female FBI agent, DeDe Something. Real well he got to know her one night. Biblical `know.' And he could swear, so he tells Walter, that this chick he plowed into, meaning you-that's her. DeDe. Dyed her hair. Lost the glasses. A little less country-looking, but, Christ, that's hard to forget. The only reason he's asking Walter is because Missus Carmody is attending the hearing every day and he'd rather not have any howdy-dos."

Evon had her eyes closed by now.

"So I did the big ho-ho," Robbie said. "FBI? Ridiculous. Let's go ask her. Walter, thank God, is too much of a prude to actually stick his nose in the car and inquire of a lady about who she might have been bopping, and of course, his act is what-me-worry-about-the-FBI, but he was still curious enough to come up and watch."

"Fuck," she said, when she could talk. She had never used that word in front of him, she realized. Her Mormon routine.

"So, DeDe, baby, you better tell me what we're going to do now."

"Goddamn." Her mind was like a ship stuck in ice. The engine revved but the prow couldn't break through. If Walter had taken the money, she hadn't been made. But there was no way to be sure. Her whole torso was rattling. And as always, she felt her heart being carved on by shame. It was worse, somehow, that it had been broadcast to the surveillance van. Everybody knew. By now, Sennett was spinning like a weather vane in a tornado. They were all going to be nuts.

"So do I understand?" she asked. "He was just being cautious? Carmody? He wasn't really sure? I mean, we were drunk, Robbie. Knee-walking drunk." She drummed her forgers. "He's not sure. That's why he asked Walter."

"Probably. But Wally's still a little spooked. It looked like he was cooled out by the time he left. But the question is out there."

She talked mostly to herself I couldn't place him. I really couldn't place him. I walked right past him." It had to have been around 1986, because they were still building Hogan's Alley, a little town where crimes were staged for training purposes. It was the first time she'd been invited back to Quantico to teach firearms. Ancient history. Another life. A tiny inappropriate burp of laughter jumped up to her throat. Naturally, she remembered him as so much betterlooking.

"Yeah," he said. "A one-nighter. Just a stray dick at closing time. I've been there." When she caught Robbie's look, she understood the rest. The emotions tumbled through his dark face. He was gripping the walnut wheel with both hands and the deep eyes flicked up at her the same way they had the first day when she told him they'd already caught a bad guy.

"Robbie," she said, then stopped.

He gunned the car, backing into the alley.

"Great cover," he told her.