Chapter 20. Tom
WOW! HALF AN hour after Barney Fife Van Buren leaves with his little orange notebook in hand, Wingo sounds the alarm again. More company.
When I look through the front-door window, all I see is torso, which means it’s Clarence, and that’s not good news either.
Clarence, who drives a cab in town and does some college scouting, has been a close friend since he steered me to St. John’s fifteen years ago. Because there’s as much downtime for a Hampton cabbie as for a Montauk lawyer, he comes by my office two or three times a week. The six-foot-six Clarence is also Dante’s cousin, and I know from his worried expression that’s why he’s here. This cannot be good.
“I just got a call from him,” says Clarence. “Boy is scared out of his mind. Thinks they’re going to kill him.”
“Who? Who’s going to kill him?”
“He’s not sure.”
I pull two beers out of the fridge and Clarence takes one.
“Where the hell is he? Van Buren just left here. He says Dante and Walker bolted. It looks bad.”
“I know it does, Tom.”
With the sun on the way down, we sit at the counter in the kitchen.
“Van Buren also implied that Dante and Walker were at the murder scene that night.”
“They got a witness?” asks Clarence.
“I can’t tell. He was being cute about it. Why the hell would Dante and Walker be going back there after what happened?”
“Dante says he can explain everything. But right now we got to get him to turn himself in. That’s why I’m here. He respects you, Tom. You talk to him, he’ll listen.”
Clarence stares at me. “Tom, please? I’ve never once asked you for a favor.”
“He tell you where they are?”
Clarence shook his head and looked hurt. “Wouldn’t even give me a number.”
I spread my hands wide. “What do you want to do, Clarence? Wait here and hope he calls again?”
“He says we should talk to his grandma. Dante says if Marie says it’s cool, he’ll give us a call.”
Chapter 21. Tom
I CAN FEEL right then and there that this is going real bad in a big hurry, and I should not be involved. But I go with Clarence anyway.
We climb into his big yellow Buick station wagon and head west through Amagansett and East Hampton, and just before the start of Bridgehampton’s two-block downtown, we turn right at the monument and go north on 114.
Stay on it long enough, the road leads to Sag Harbor, but along the way is the one enduring pocket of poverty left in the Hamptons. It’s called Kings Highway but is often referred to as Black Hampton. One minute you’re passing multimillion-dollar estates, the next minute shotgun shacks and trailer homes, old rotting cars on blocks like in the Ozarks or Appalachia.
Dante and his grandmother live off the dirt road leading to the town dump, and when we pull up to her trailer, the woman who comes to the door has Dante’s cheekbones and lively brown eyes but none of his height. In fact, she’s as compact and round as Dante is long and lean.
“Don’t stand out there in the cold,” says Marie.
The sitting room in the trailer is dark and a little grim. The only light comes from a single low-watt table lamp, and the desperation in the close air is a palpable thing. It’s hard to imagine that both she and Dante can live in here together.
“We’re here to help,” says Clarence, “and the first step is getting Dante to turn himself in.”
“You’re here to help? How is that? Dante and Michael had nothing to do with these crimes,” says Marie. “NOTHING! Dante is very aware of the chance he has been given, and earned, and what that could mean.”
“I know that,” says Clarence, heartbreak in his voice too. “But the police don’t. The longer he stays out, the worse it looks for him.”
“My grandson could have entered the NBA draft,” says Marie as if she hasn’t heard a word Clarence said. “This home was filled with vultures waving cars and money under his nose, and Dante turned them all down. Dante told me that when he does go pro, he wants to buy me a new house and a new car. I asked him, What’s wrong with this house? What’s wrong with my car? I don’t need those things.”
Marie fixes us with a hard stare. Her tiny place is immaculate, and you can see the defiant effort to create a semblance of middle-class stability. Barely visible on the wall directly behind Marie is a formal photograph of Dante, his older brother, and his parents all dressed up outside the Baptist Memorial Church in Riverhead. In the picture, Dante looks about ten, and I know from Clarence that soon after that picture was taken, Dante’s father was stabbed to death on the street and his mother went to jail for the first time. I also know that his brother, who many thought was almost as good a pro prospect as Dante, is serving a two-year sentence in a corrections center upstate.
“Marie,” says Clarence, “you got to get Dante to give Tom a call. Tom used to be a heck of a ballplayer. Now he’s a heck of a lawyer. But he can’t help Dante if Dante won’t let him.”
Marie stares at me, her face not revealing a thing. “This neighborhood is full of folks who used to be great ballplayers,” she says.
Chapter 22. Loco
ON A SLEEPY midweek afternoon in the teeming metropolis that is downtown Montauk, Hugo Lindgren sits at the counter of John’s Pancake House, killing time like only a cop can, turning a free cup of coffee into a two-hour paid vacation.
Since Lindgren’s all alone at the counter-the only “customer” in the whole place, in fact-I do the sociable thing and take the stool beside him. Now, how many other drug dealers would make a gesture like that?
“Loco,” he mutters.
As I sit, luminously green-eyed Erin Case comes over bearing a nearly empty pot of coffee.
“Good afternoon, darlin’,” says Erin in her still-strong Ulster brogue. “What can I get you?”
“I’d love a double-vanilla latte decaf, if it’s not any trouble.”
“No trouble at all, darlin’. Got it right here,” says Erin, filling my mug with the dregs of the pot in her right hand. “You said double-vanilla latte decaf, right?”
“Must be my lucky day.”
“Every day’s your lucky day, darlin’!”
Pancake John is getting ready to close up shop and flip the sign, so when Erin excuses herself to wipe the maple syrup off the red Naugahyde booths, me and Lindgren shyly return to our so-called coffee. And when Erin stoops under a table to pick up a fallen menu, I slide him my Newsday.
“John Paul Newport’s column on Hillary,” I say. “It’s hilarious. Kind of thing your lieutenant might get a hoot out of too.”
“Thanks, pal,” says Lindgren.
He cracks the editorial section just enough to see two fat envelopes, then slides over his New York Post.
“Crossword’s a bear today,” he says, “but maybe you’ll have better luck with it than I did.”
“Coffee’s on me, Hugo,” I say, dropping five dollars on the counter as I head to the door.
I don’t open my Post until I’m safely back in the Big Black Beast stationed in the middle of the empty parking lot.
Then I read the note from Lindgren.
Apparently some sharp-eyed civilian called in a tip to the cops this morning about a wanted fugitive looking a lot like Michael Walker. The suspect was leaving a Brooklyn gym last night, and the name of the establishment now fills the twenty-two letters set aside for nine across. And when I glance at the backseat, I see Hugo has also left me a little party favor-a brand-new, bright-red Miami Heat basketball cap.
I may have been underestimating Lindgren all these years. I know it’s only the Post and not the London Times, but who would have thought that a corrupt, degenerate excuse for a police officer had the balls or vocabulary to do the crossword in ink?