“Oh, Charles is all right,” he said. “He’s smart as hell, but peculiar, too. Very loyal to the councilman, very loyal to his friends, devoted to his mother. But if you catch him wrong he can be difficult to take.”
“I must have caught him wrong.”
“Then you’re in pretty good company.”
“Why wasn’t he indicted with you and Jimmy?” I asked. That was the question I was really interested in. Chuckie said it was luck that kept him out of it, but federal prisons are full of guys who thought luck would keep them out of it.
“They didn’t have any direct evidence about him at the time.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, you see, he never met with Ruffing or talked to him on the phone. It turned out Charles had only one meeting.”
“And let me guess,” I said. “That meeting was with Bissonette.”
“That’s right. And with Bissonette unable to testify they didn’t have anything about Charles they could put before the grand jury.”
“Quite the convenient little coma for Chuckie,” I said.
“You could say that,” said Chester, slowly, like an idea was starting to form. He looked at me for a moment. “Don’t get into any trouble, Victor.”
I shrugged.
Then he called out to Veronica, “Look, Ronnie, we have to go. He wants us there first.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Carl,” said Veronica as she turned to follow Chet.
“Nice meeting you too,” said Beth to her back.
I watched them go, well, actually watched her go, watched the way she shifted inside her shift, and then turned back to the Duchamp painting. I studied its lines and angles ever more closely, and found them suddenly very sensual.
“That’s a sweet little girl,” said Beth.
“The councilman’s mistress,” I said.
“Aaah,” she said. “And dangerous to boot. When’s that trial of yours scheduled?”
“A week from Monday.”
“What are you doing to prepare?”
“I have some documents to look at, but other than that, nothing, which is exactly what my client wants me to do.”
“But that would leave the whole trial to Prescott.”
“Do you think she looks like this?” I asked, still looking at the canvas, feeling an erection stir. “I’m beginning to see the resemblance.”
“Have you ever thought, Victor,” said Beth with an audible sigh, “that the reason Prescott gave you the hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar settlement in Saltz was so that you would take this case and then stay out of his way as he screwed your client? Did you ever consider that?”
That brought me away from the painting. “You’re saying he bought me off?”
“I was just bringing up a possibility. I mean, of all the lawyers in all the firms in this overlawyered city, why did he pick you to step in to represent Concannon?”
“He hired me because he thinks I’m a good lawyer and a smart enough guy to stay out of his way and he’s right. They gave me a fifteen-thousand-dollar retainer, they’re paying me two-fifty an hour, and there has been the promise of more good things to come. Whatever he wants me to do, I’m going to do.”
“You just don’t get it, do you, Victor,” said Beth. “They’re never going to let you join their little club.”
I didn’t get a chance to respond because just then a flash of red shot through the window onto the wall, and then blue and then red again. There was a police car now outside in the front courtyard, and then two more, their lights all spinning. Five cops and a man in a tan raincoat stepped out of the cars and headed up the stairs to the entrance of the museum.
10
BY THE TIME I GOT to the Great Hall, the five uniformed officers and the man in the tan raincoat were already there, surrounded by a mob of tuxedos and gowns. The man in the raincoat was an African-American. He wore thick round glasses, a navy suit, a red tie, and his shoes were black and clunky. I recognized the uniform, if not the man. He stepped right through the crowd until he reached Jimmy Moore at its center.
“What is the meaning of this?” bellowed Moore.
Two officers immediately moved to either side of Jimmy. The man in the raincoat waved a document and said in a weary but precise voice, “James Douglas Moore and Chester Concannon, I am here on behalf of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania with warrants for your arrests.”
That brought a shocked little babble from the crowd.
One of the officers, a broad-shouldered woman, said to Moore, “Put your hands behind your back, sir.” She had the voice of a gym teacher urging her girls up the hanging ropes.
“This is a travesty,” shouted Moore. “I am being persecuted.”
“Hands behind your back, sir,” said the woman.
Concannon, who was standing at the rear of the crowd with Veronica, tried to back away but a young blond officer grabbed his arm and another officer, older, with a serious face, put a hand on Chet’s shoulder. “Hands behind your back, please, Mr. Concannon,” said the older officer. His serious face squeezed itself in embarrassment as he brought out his handcuffs. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to cuff you. I have orders.”
“I’m Mr. Concannon’s lawyer,” I said after I had made my way to my client through the crowd. “By whose orders is he being cuffed?”
The officer nodded at the African-American man in the raincoat. “Assistant District Attorney K. Lawrence Slocum.”
Prescott cut through the crowd and took hold of Slocum’s arm. “What is this about, Larry?” he said, his voice sharpened to a fine edge.
Slocum looked down at his arm until Prescott let go. “We’re making an arrest.”
“I’m acting as Councilman Moore’s attorney. You tell me what is happening, immediately, or I’ll slap a civil suit against the state and city before you leave the Parkway.”
“Stay out of our way, Bill,” said Slocum calmly, “until the suspects are taken into custody.”
“Hands behind your back,” said the woman officer as she took hold of Moore’s arm, turned him to the side, and leaned him forward.
“James Moore and Chester Concannon,” said Slocum as soon as the men were cuffed. “You are both under arrest for the murder of Zachariah Bissonette.”
I looked at Concannon, whose head was down and whose arms were pinned behind his back. His eyes darted to and fro like minnows as the young blond officer frisked him.
“Bissonette?” I said to Concannon. “I thought he was in a coma.”
“Not anymore, sir,” said the officer with the embarrassed, serious face. “He died at eight-o-two this evening at Pennsylvania Hospital. Too bad, too. He seemed like a nice enough guy.”
“But a butcher in the field,” said the young officer.
“I didn’t do anything,” said an angry Concannon. “I didn’t do a damn thing.”
“Shut up, Chester,” I said sharply. “Don’t say a word to anyone. Give your name, your address, your Social Security number, and nothing else. We will get you out of jail and we will take it from there, but you keep your mouth shut.”
His lips twitched, but he managed to calm himself. “What are you going to do?”
“Do you understand what I told you?”
“Yes.”
“You just hang on,” I said. “We’ll get you out.”
Flashes popped as the society photographers clicked away, thrilled at something more exciting than a spilled glass of Pinot Chardonnay to photograph on their beat. “Look this way Councilman,” one shouted as Moore and Concannon were led to the museum doors, “and be sure to give us a smile.” Old habits, I guess, die hard.
“Enjoy yourselves,” shouted Moore to the throng of gawking swells. “Continue the festivities. My lawyer will clear up this little misunderstanding.” He started to say something else, but before he could get it out he and Concannon were whisked out the doors and down the front steps to the waiting police cars. They were barely out the door when the band started up and the whirl of conversation turned gay again. No reason to let a silly little thing like a murder arrest get in the way of a party.