Billy Povich: Loot The Moon Part 9

Nelida gestured to Martin. "Jerod, this is Mr. Smothers," she said brightly. "He was close to Gil."

The two men seemed more in tune to the awkwardness of the moment. Martin glanced to the dryer to see his boxer shorts tumble past the porthole. He nodded h.e.l.lo to Jerod. Nelidas son was obviously an athlete who had worked hard honing a V-shaped torso. The hair above his ears was shaved to swathes of stubble, leaving a patch of black curls atop his head. He wore a long green New York Jets football jersey with the number 28, and big round eyegla.s.ses in wire frames, looking similar to the fake gla.s.ses Martin often provided for his clients, to make felonious people look studious in front of a jury.

"Are you packed?" Nelida asked her son.

"When I get back."

"Leave yourself time because we have a long drive."

"Mm-hm," he promised as he left.

Martin waited until the apartment door banged shut to ask, "Are you traveling?"

"To Providence," she said. "For Gils memorial. Youll be there too, Id a.s.sume."

The funeral had been for family only. The bar a.s.sociation had organized a public tribute for the legal and political communities to pay respect to Judge Harmony.

"Gils clerk is organizing the speaking program at the memorial," Martin said. "She asked me to say a few words."

And June Harmony, too.

Nelida read his mind. "There were reasons to stay hidden when Gil was alive," she said. "Not anymore. I wont dishonor our relations.h.i.+p by being ashamed of it. You can help. You can tell them that I am coming and Im bringing the son Gil treated like his own."

The dryer buzzed and Martins clothes collapsed, as if from exhaustion, to the bottom of the drum. Nelida stepped toward the dryer but Martin raised an index finger and froze her in place. "Why did Gil think something might happen to him?"

She retreated a few steps and grabbed the counter, for strength, perhaps. "He had a threat."

"Judges get threats all the time," Martin replied. "Convicted men being led away in chains yell all sort of crazy stuff." My own G.o.dd.a.m.n clients.

"This one was from the mobster, Glanz."

"Rhubarb Glanz?"

"Gil sent his son to prison. I suppose you did not represent him, Mr. Smothers?"

"My clients are not so rich."

"Glanz swore he would have revenge."

"I dont remember hearing of any threat," Martin said, challenging her, to measure how she reacted.

"The threat was in a restaurant on Federal Hill, a few weeks after the sentencing. Gil and his clerk were having lunch and talking about some cases when Glanz and two big goons walked in. They told Gil he should reduce the sentence he had imposed on Glanzs son. When Gil refused, they told him he would regret his decision, and that he would pay. Not in so many words, but Gil got the message."

"There must have been witnesses to this threat."

"Just his clerk."

"Well, that would have been enough evidence to get the police involved. Maybe not enough to file charges, but certainly enough to have some protection a.s.signed to the judge."

She looked away. "Gil didnt report the incident," she said. "He didnt want protection. He told me not to worry, and that he probably would not need it."

"He what-?"

Oh. Of course. Gil Harmony could not have undercover cops following him to Mets games with his secret second family. Martin looked down to his bare feet and the curling yellow toenails that suddenly embarra.s.sed him. He needed his clothes. He needed to get out of there. He needed to find a phone, to reach Povich and turn him on to Rhubarb Glanz.

twelve.

"Bo, dont make funny faces at the blind guy," Billy ordered. "Grandpas doing it," the kid replied in self-defense.

"n.o.body likes a tattletale," the old man said.

Stu Tracy laughed in a happy gurgle. He said, "I wont be blind when they take these bandages off. And then Ill see what those faces look like."

"Do I have to dial nine to get an outside line?" Billy asked, the room phone in his hand.

No answer.

"You talking to me?" Stu said.

"Yeah, what am I thinking? Sorry."

"I can hear somebody making faces at me," Stu said. "And dial nine, Billy."

Bo giggled. "Oh Stu-oooh," the kid called playfully. "Mr. Einstein is making faces at you."

Stu laughed. He said, "Then I guess Mr. Einstein aint as smart as everybody says."

Stu Tracys hospital room seemed less morbid since Billy had persuaded Stu to add the Povich family-the kid, the old man, and Mr. Einstein-to his visiting list. After the old mans blood treatment, they visited with Stu.

Bo sat on a folding chair at the head of the bed, next to the old man, in his wheelchair.

Stu seemed less loopy on this visit. He had said the doctors had eased back on his pain medication, to find the right compromise between agony and alertness.

Billy had arranged the visits as much for his old mans benefit as for Stu Tracy. The old man liked spilling his stories to a captive audience, and Stu wasnt going anywhere on shattered legs.

And Stu wanted to live. He was desperate to live. Maybe, Billy hoped, a little of that desperation would rub off on his father.

The old man had been badgering Billy to take him to the park, alone, without Bo, so they could talk, man to man. William Povich Sr. wanted to talk about stopping his treatments. These visits with Stu had helped Billy put off the conversation.

"What was so special about the New York Worlds Fair of nineteen thirty-nine was that all the exhibits were mechanical," the old man lectured to Stu.

"Mmm," said Stu.

"Not like today where computers can do whatever magic you tell them to do. This was before the intelligent circuit breaker. Take the Ford exhibit, for example ..."

Of course, after a few more hours of this, Billy thought, Stu may lose his will to live, too.

Billy took the phone across the room and sat on the windowsill, six stories above the highway. Cars whizzed south down Route 95; those coming north into the city crawled three abreast in a blaze of brake lights. He found a dial tone and tapped the cellular telephone number of a loan shark he had used from time to time to cover tardy payments to impatient bookmakers.

Bo grabbed the dangling plastic IV tube running into Stus right arm and gently shook it.

"Bo!" Billy scolded. "Stus eating dinner through that tube right now."

"Dont play with his food," the old man added.

After three rings, a gruff voice said into Billys ear, "Senor Pizza, may I help you?"

Billy knew to ignore the greeting, which was a front. Sometimes the loan shark answered as a tire store, sometimes as a pet depot. One time, he answered as a gynecologist.

"Garafino?" Billy said. "Its Povich."

A pause. "Well, Billy, this is a pleasure. No hard feelings on your end, I see." He chuckled.

Billy scratched his nose where Garafinos thugs had once broken it. "That was a misunderstanding," Billy said.

The shark chuckled again. "Did you misunderstand that I wanted to get paid? What did I say that made you think I preferred you stiff me on the loan? Hmm? Just so we dont have any more misunderstandings."

Billy pictured the loan shark: narrow, squirrelly face; a big schnoz with black hair curling inside the nostrils; one gold canine tooth; eyes so dark they seemed all pupil; bushy muttonchop sideburns that tapered to a short Vand.y.k.e, carefully trimmed into a demonic triangle; skintight black T-s.h.i.+rt tucked into silk trousers held up by a big square silver belt buckle with a dollar sign on it; annoying chuckle at the misfortunes of others.

Billy switched the phone to his other ear and turned away from his family. "I dont need money," he said. "I need information."

Garafino chuckled again in Billys ear. "So what I hear is true, eh? Youre looking to get to Rhubarb Glanz."

Billy jumped to his feet. "You heard this?"

"News travels."

In the day since Martin had returned from New York City with the news of Judge Harmonys secret life-and of the threat on Harmonys life made by Rhubarb Glanz-Billy had made at least twenty calls to former cop sources, bookies, and retired legbreakers, looking for information on Glanz. He was alarmed that his hunt for news had raced ahead of his calls.

"I need to know where I can find Glanz-outside of his nightclub, his limo with the dark windows, or that fortress he calls home in Newport."

"You think you can whack him?" The shark chuckled.

Whack him?

"Who the f.u.c.k do you think I am?" Billy demanded in a low voice. He heard the chuckle again and realized Garafino was taunting him. Billy needled back, "Do you think Im you?"

The shark laughed. "In your best dreams."

"I want to talk to Glanz. Five minutes-with no cops, notebooks, tape recorders, or any of his goons."

Garafino paused. The howl of a fire engine pa.s.sed on the sharks end of the phone. Billy heard him slurp a sip of something. Sounding grave, Garafino said, "So you wanna talk to Glanz, eh? Do you puff dynamite like a big red cigar?"

"I wont tell him I talked to you."

"Who knows what you say when they hang you head-first into the cheetah cage at the zoo, eh? Will you light a stick of dynamite in my lips, too?" He slurped something again, and then announced, "Might not be in my best interest to help you. I have to think about it, Billy."

Click.

Billy called into the dead phone, "h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo?" He slammed it down. "That slimy son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

He turned to see June Harmony in the doorway, and Brock a step behind her in the hall.

"Oh, Jesus, Im sorry," Billy stammered.

"Slimy son of a b.i.t.c.h!" Bo echoed with glee.

The old man shushed the boy. Billy wanted to shrivel up and skitter under Stu Tracys bed.

Bo had shouted the curse in Stu Tracys ear. Stu grinned and listened to the room. He heard the footsteps stop at the door, a thick-heeled shoe. A womans shoe, he guessed. He heard Billy apologize again, and then step into the hall. Stus head turned automatically to look at the door, though his face was still bandaged. The grayness he saw seemed three-dimensional, as if it started at his eyes and extended for a long distance. Maybe for infinity. His mind converted the sound of footsteps into jagged blue bursts on the insides of his eyelids, like electric mites das.h.i.+ng across his pupils. He banged his left fist on the bed in frustration. Distracted by the visit from the Povich family, he had briefly forgotten he still could not see.

"Whats that?" he whispered. "Whos there?"

"Theyre hiding from us!" Bo shrieked. "Einstein and I should go under the bed."

"You wont like what you find under there," said Mr. Povich, Billys hoa.r.s.e and long-winded father, who was forever moaning quietly about the humiliations of old age, and spinning stories about the New York Worlds Fair of 1939. Stus chemically warped mind had imagined the fair as some kind of Jazz Age Burning Man festival, populated by merry naked people in fedoras.

Mr. Povich leaned close to Stu. "I think that was June Harmony."

"The judges wife?"

"I recognize her from the paper. Mm-mm, a fox."

"Mmmm, a fox!" Bo repeated.

"Stow that kind of talk, boy," Mr. Povich ordered. "Till youre twenty-one."

"What is she doing here?" Stu begged in a stage whisper.

"She heard that I was here, and shes looking for some all-night manly action," said Mr. Povich, in his dust-dry delivery that broke Stu into painful chuckles.

The door latch clicked. Stu heard the door push lazy air out of the way as it opened. He heard footsteps, a lot of them. Mr. Povich wiggled in the wheelchair. Even Bo seemed to sense the solemnity of the moment; the boy was still.

Billy made the introduction: "Stu? This is June Harmony, the judges ... wife. And her son, Brock. Um ... its okay, Brock."

"He made you drive the car," Stu said, imagining the frightened face in his memories.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

Theyre looking at me. Measuring my freakishness against their expectations. Whistling quietly past the cemetery. There but for the grace of G.o.d ... They are afraid of me; I smell it. I am the greasy thumbprint of Death, so close it puts a catch in your throat.

A womans voice, strong, maternal: "Thank you for having us, Stu. I thought it was important ... that is, Brock and I thought it important that we see how you are, what you need ... if there is anything we may do for you."