***
The banquet was an annual affair that awarded local businesses for charitable work. This was usually a decent event that most of the community leaders attended, including Mayor Porter. McBride was sure the Mayor would be giving a speech and presiding over a table of men looking to hang on his coattails. If he was able to find the time, McBride planned to pull him aside and have a few words. With the Mayor, having a few words alone was often impossible in a crowd, but McBride suspected they had a common interest that would make Porter want to talk to him.
There were the usual speeches, which he and a few hundred other men sat through patiently. Dinner was served and they ate, listened, and ate some more. Everyone was really waiting for the presentations to end so the real business could take place. Many of the better deals took place at functions like this, where alcohol eventually was brought out, and there was a free flow of talk. He continued to listen as the presentations and awards began, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
"Mr. McBride, may I have a word with you?" a young man standing beside him asked.
McBride looked him up and down, and decided this was not worth his time. "Maybe later. I'm really in the middle of this."
The young man did not leave. Instead, he leaned closer. "It's about O'Connor. I need to talk to you about him."
"Larry O'Connor?"
"Yes. He has a message he would like to relay."
McBride had not heard that name in quite some time. He got up from his seat and started towards the back of the assembly hall with the young man following him. At one time, O'Connor was the man who ran things. Times changed, and as far as McBride knew O'Connor had faded into the background—retired, if that was possible from that profession. He was a boss, but an old-time boss who was pushed aside when the climate changed.
McBride and the young man exited the hall and went down to a small alcove off the lobby. "What's the message? And you better not be wasting my time," McBride said.
The young man cleared his throat and said in a quiet voice, "Mr. O'Connor knows about the LaRue job and needs to pass along his view on the subject."
McBride could not believe what the young man had mentioned. "You be real careful what you say. What possible opinion could he have?"
The young man looked to the side a moment, and then cleared his voice again. "Be believes the job was handled poorly. And the consequences."
"Consequences? What consequences?"
"The, uh, matter with the person who saw the shooting."
McBride poked a finger into the young man's chest. "You give him a message. This is my job, and I'll handle it my way. I don't need O'Connor's punk messenger boy telling me what to do."
The young man set his feet. His eyes darted back and forth between McBride and the hallway behind them. "He told me to tell you he has Eddie and knows where he is. He can produce him whenever Harris needs him."
"Where is he?" McBride said.
"I don't know," the young man said.
"Tell me where he is, or I'll have you cut open like a dead pig," McBride said, getting worked up enough to have a small spray of spit land on the young man's jacket.
"I have no idea where he is. I wasn't told that."
"Listen," McBride said, grabbing the sleeve of the young man coat. "This ain't his stinkin' city. It's mine. O'Connor's gone, and he doesn't play this game anymore. Tell him to enjoy his retirement and stay away from me. He used to have the balls to do this job, now he sends a boy to do it for him."
"I'll relay that message."
McBride looked into the young man's eyes. "Do you know who I am? Do you know I can have you disappear so quick you'll barely be a memory?"
"Yes, I understand."
"Tell O'Connor to stay out of the business or he'll be answering to me." He eyed the young man again. "Get the hell out of here and tell him."
The young man slipped out of the alcove and left through a side entryway. McBride went to the restroom to compose himself, and then returned to the presentations. When he was sitting down, the last one was just finishing up.
After a few minutes, McBride went around to greet a few of the other men in the audience, then made his way over to the table where Mayor Porter was seated. As expected, there was a small crowd gathered around as the Mayor told stories and waved a large cigar around. There was a burst of laughter as he approached the table. The laughter was genuine, as the Mayor had a natural gift for charming and entertaining a small audience. This was one of the skills that McBride knew he did not have and would never be able to master. He could talk to people, persuade them, force them to do what he wanted, but he could not entertain them and make them enjoy his company. He had long since stopped trying to tell stories and jokes, as they always fell flat and made him look rather pathetic in the attempt. Porter was a master at it, and McBride would always wish he could do the same.
"Clarence, pull up a chair," Porter said when he turned to see McBride approach, sweeping the cigar across in a welcoming gesture. Porter continued with his story of a meeting he had with a group from the Women's Christian Temperance Union. McBride knew all about the group, and he found their efforts entirely futile, especially in Rhode Island. They were more of a source of entertainment than anything else. The state barely recognized the amendment, and it was well-known that rum came into the bay at a regular rate, as well as whiskey from Canada. McBride was not the only one capitalizing on the movement, but he was one of the most profitable. And with money came recognition and a chance to talk to the Mayor.
McBride waited for the right moment in the story, and then said, "What's this Harris going to do about it?"
A general round of laughter came from the others at the table, and then Porter gave him a sly glance. "Harris is so tied up with that guy running away, he doesn't have time for anything else. My city's falling apart and he let him get away."
There was some conversation about Harris, all negative and sarcastic. After a few minutes, the conversation died down. McBride leaned over and said to Porter, "Do you have a few minutes? We need to talk privately."
The two of them went off to a table in the corner of the room and sat down next to each other. "What's on your mind, Clarence?" Porter asked.
"I needed to talk to you about Harris. From the conversation there, it seems you have the same impression as everyone else," McBride said.
Porter smiled his politician smile and said, "The man has a difficult job to do, and he's having a few problems right now."
"True," McBride said. "But you have to admit, he's having problems that are extremely serious."
Porter waved to a man going by. "I know there's a score between the two of you, and I really need to stay neutral on the subject."
"You've heard what he's saying about me?"
"We've talked."
McBride knew that Porter was playing the role he was elected to, and would be reluctant to move away from that until he heard something that would work to his advantage. Porter would shuffle, diffuse, and bluster, but McBride knew there was a point at which he could be swayed. They had only met a few times before, but McBride knew him well enough to know Porter wanted to be on the correct side of the news. "He seems to be taking a position that could be troublesome and embarrassing."
"Such as?"
"This young man that skipped town could have been brought in easily a few weeks ago. I get the impression that Harris still does not think he had anything to do with the murders," McBride said.
"I understand. It sure looks like he has made a mess of this, but I'm not sure why you should be worried. After all, this Griffin is an ex-con. He did time in New York for armed robbery. Once he's back, he's as good as locked away forever."
"But he still thinks I was involved. The longer this drags out, the more problems this causes me, and the worse it looks for your administration." McBride did not know Eddie had a prior conviction. Now he knew Harris was in
deep trouble and could not come after him. Inwardly he was delighted, and he thought for a brief second of the advice his cousin had given him. What a magnificent stroke of luck, and with enough persuasion, he could get Harris removed from office.
Porter pushed his big belly against the table and took the cigar out of his mouth. "The man's gotta go. There are people getting popped in the head and robbing fish markets and all he's thinking about is this one puke of a man. The only thing I don't know is how you're involved."
McBride said, "I wasn't, but we both know people make things up. I think this Griffin's a small timer, wanting to be big. He read my name in the paper and that's the first thing he came up with. Harris doesn't have a damn thing on me other than what Griffin said to him."
"Either way, he's in over his head. He's dragging my office down with him."
"When's the next election?" McBride asked.
"Next year. He needs to be gone long before then," Porter said.
McBride looked around the room and saw that there was an increase in the conversation level, and he thought the backslapping and schmoozing was getting into full gear. He had done what he had set out to do tonight. "I promised my wife I would be home early, so don't be offended if I leave."
"None taken," Porter said working his girth out of the chair and into a standing position. "My wife knows I'll be out all night. Good evening."
34
Nelson was not a man to have hobbies. They had a day to wait for the next shipment, leaving him with some free time. He had left the house that morning and driven around in the countryside until he came to a small town. He parked the car on the street downtown and first went into a general store, since he really had nothing else so do. Nelson wandered up and down the aisles looking at the various goods, and then picked up a newspaper to buy. His reading skills were minimal, but between the pictures, words, and advertisements, he was able to get the general idea of what they were trying to say. Of course, baseball scores were easy to read, though the stats made no sense. All he wanted to read about was who won. An old man was working at the counter, probably the owner.
Nelson put the paper on the counter. "Gimme a pack of smokes," he said.
"What brand you want? We got most of the popular ones. Got tobacco and papers, too," he said, pointing to a display behind the counter.
Nelson looked over the brands. He sometimes bought the loose leaf and rolled his own, but he did not feel that patient. "Pack of Chesterfields."
The man put the pack on the counter. "Get you anything else?"
"Naw. Go ahead, ring me up." Nelson opened the package and put one of the cigarettes in his mouth, then felt around in his pockets for matches or a lighter. He felt the gun, and for a moment when the clerk opened the cash register, a thought crossed his mind. Instead, he knew that was beneath him. "Hey pops, you got a light?"
The man produced a small box of matches from behind the counter. Nelson lit one on his thumbnail, fired up the cigarette and took a deep drag then diverted the exhale towards the ceiling. He had gotten used to the cheap brands and had forgotten how good a real cigarette tasted. For a minute he stood there enjoying the cigarette, as the clerk rang up his sale. "Say pops, there a good place to get a bite to eat in this little hick town?"
"Darla's got a place just across the street and down on the next block. Makes a good meat loaf," the man said, looking in that direction.
"Good meat loaf, eh?" Nelson said, watching the top of the man's head as he turned away. He turned back and started when he saw Nelson looking at him.
"Well, the best, except for mother's," he said, taking a small step back from the counter. With a quick movement, he adjusted his glasses and stared back at Nelson.
"Mother's is always the best." Nelson pocketed the cigarettes and tucked the paper under his arm. "I'll just have to try Darla's and see for myself," he said, smiling his big, brown, toothy grin.
Nelson left the general store and walked down the street in the direction the clerk had said. As he walked, he glanced in the windows of the other shops, seeing the things of a small town. There was a seamstress, a druggist, a barbershop, a hardware store, a bank, and a few other places that sold various items. Nelson puffed away on the Chesterfield, leaving a trail of blue smoke as he walked. Within a few minutes, he was stepping through the open door of Darla's Diner, where a few other patrons were enjoying a lunch of her home cooked food. Nelson sat down at a booth along the wall and tapped the ashes off the cigarette into a tray at the table. In a few moments, a cute blonde wearing a blue paper hat and white apron was standing next to him.
"Can I get you some coffee or soda while you decide?" she said.
Nelson smiled at her. "I heard Darla makes a good meat loaf, I didn't know she'd be so sweet looking, too," he said, laughing.
She giggled in response. "Darla's my mother. See, that's her right over there," she said, pointing over to the counter. Darla glanced over, but did not return the smile. "My name's Molly."
"Say, Darlin' Molly, you have a special going today?" Nelson said, stretching back, setting the cigarette in the tray.
"We got a thick slice of ham, green beans, and fried potatoes," Molly said.
"Ham," Nelson said rubbing his chin. "Don't know. Think your mommy's got a steak hidden back there she can fry up?"
"Sure thing. Still want the potatoes and beans?"
"You bet, honey. A man's gotta eat, right?" Nelson said, putting the cigarette back in his mouth. Molly made a notation, and then walked away. Nelson watched her behind all the way back to the counter, where he met up with the icy stare of Darla. He smiled and gave a two finger wave. Darla stepped over to Molly and said a few words, to which Molly seemed to reply there was no problem. Nelson grinned, took one last pull on the cigarette, and then stubbed it out in the ashtray. He blew out the last lung full, saying to himself, "Damn, that's a good smoke."
Nelson opened the paper and did his best to read some of the stories. Hoover, as far as he could tell, was President, but Nelson could not quite figure out either party or the difference between them. To him, they were all a bunch of talking fat-asses, and he really did not care much either way. He turned back to the comics, where he was able to have pictures to help explain the text and understand what they were saying. Even the political cartoons were better than reading the reports, leaving him to wonder why they just did not do that with all the news. By the time he was working his way through the baseball results, Molly came back with his meal.
"Here you are," she said, putting the plates in front of him and refilling his coffee.
The fried meat smelled great, and Nelson thought of that place between Molly's legs. "Well, thank you," he said. He could see mother Darla out of the corner of his eye.
"Need anything else, let me know," Molly said.
"I just might, just might," Nelson said. He watched her twitching round hips as she stepped away behind the counter. "Ha, ha," he said, before laying the paper aside.
At first, he began devouring the steak and vegetables. There were many days, especially growing up, when there was no food, and any meal was eaten as if it might be taken away. His parents, such as they were, occasionally fed him and his brother and sister. As far as he knew, they were all gone now. At least, he had no idea where they were. They might still be in Pittsburgh, or they might be lost at sea, as far as he knew. He could not remember leaving the slums and the group of people that were his family—just at some point he was no longer there. Strange, he thought, that he could not very well remember them or where they lived. He was there, then he lived in a few other places, then he kind of wandered off, going from city to city. Eventually he learned his one talent was twisting arms for money. Now he had a profession, and he was eating steak and watching a cute blonde with a nice butt. His chewing slowed, and he lit another Chesterfield. Damn, he said to himself, that really is a good smoke.
Nelson finished
eating, and Molly brought the check over. He paid her on the spot. "Hey, honey, how's ‘bout I stop by later and we could go to a show?" he asked.
Molly blushed slightly. "I'm afraid I'm seeing somebody."
"Well, I'm sure he won't mind if you see a show with me."
"I can't, really," she said, though her eyes showed she was at least interested.
"Maybe some other time, then," Nelson said, noticing the attention from Darla.
"Maybe," Molly said, before leaving the table.
Nelson grabbed the paper and pack of cigarettes and stood up from the table. He might come back. Maybe not. Maybe he would pay for a woman, since he had some money from the last job.
If Nelson had any kind of hobby, it was looking at what others in his "profession" were doing. He left the diner and walked through the small downtown to the post office next to the bank. In there, he walked over to the display along the wall with pictures of wanted posters. The pictures were all fairly legible, as were the descriptions and physical characteristics. Dutch Schultz, wanted for illegal substances, beer, and suspected murder. Dillinger had the same poster that was there a few months ago. Nelson snorted once. What did they have that he didn't? They had a plan, he told himself. They went out and did things. "Shit," Nelson said, just barely loud enough for the people standing in line to hear him.
He could do that, he thought. Go rob a bank, put a few bullets in people. That's all they did. Hell, he could go work for Capone if he wanted. Capone could use help like Nelson. Maybe he would do that—just go up to Chicago, say he could do whatever he wanted. Nelson had heard Capone was a decent man if you did what he said. O'Connor could go screw himself. Then he looked at the pictures again. They were on the wall because they all did it by themselves. Dillinger worked for himself. He had a gang, but they worked for him. To hell with working for O'Connor, or Capone, or the Purple Gang. He had to do this himself. Charles Floyd had a gang out of Kansas City. Nelson moved down the wall, knowing he could be there. All he had to do was go out on his own. He went back to the posters, and the last poster he saw made his jaw drop.
Nelson recognized Eddie as soon as he saw the picture. The crimes were listed, and Nelson was astounded that this man, half his size, could do those things. His mind whirled around the past few days spent with Eddie, and he wondered how Eddie, so out of place, could make it to the wall. And just below Mack "Light Foot" Smith. That was not right. Nelson had done twice as much. He looked at the reward and had half a mind to turn him in, just to collect and get his picture taken down. Nelson dropped the Chesterfield on the floor, stamped it out, and then left the post office.
He stood on the curb for a moment, wondering what he was going to do with this newfound information. There were a few cars driving by, and a smattering of people were going in and out of the shops. Nelson watched them and knew he was better. He knew he was supposed to be on that wall, but instead, Eddie was. Turning to walk down the sidewalk, he looked up to see the bank that was next to the post office. A thought occurred to him. Nelson had never been one to figure things out, but an idea came to him. The idea formed so suddenly, that he stopped in his tracks. He looked back at the bank and played the idea out in his head and knew it might work. Maybe. It would work. The only problem was he had to wait and get the details set, which always seemed to be a difficulty. This would require Nelson to do these hard things, to reason a solution and be patient. The payoff would be good though. It would be huge.
35
One of Mike's faults was that he liked nice things. The fact that he liked these things was not a difficulty. The real problem was that people noticed. They noticed the clothes he wore, the women he was seen with, and the apartment he kept. And as he sat in the interrogation room, it became clear that they noticed the car he drove. The Lincoln was sweet and fast, and there were not that many in the city. In fact, he was sure he had the only burgundy-colored one. This brought attention, both wanted and unwanted. Today, sitting in the interrogation room, he realized this was the attention he did not want.
Mike, well dressed, sitting at the table smoking a cigarette, knew he was being watched through a small opening in the door. He crossed his legs and reached over for the ashtray that was on the other side of the table. "Cops," he thought. "Can't find time to empty an ashtray." He flicked the ashes from the cigarette into the overflowing tray, not wanting to really touch it. The smears and collected grime meant he certainly did not want to set the cigarette on it then put it back in his mouth. So, he re-crossed his legs, put the cigarette back in his mouth, then placed his hand on his knee. And waited.
Half an hour passed before the cops came back into the room. Mike had barely moved in that time. With them was another man that he had not met but knew nonetheless. The prosecutor that everyone hated. No introductions were made.
"Fine," the prosecutor, Harris, said to the officer as they sat down. It had taken a few moments for Mike to remember his name. "Mike Hagan, correct?"
"Yes."
"Let's get to it. About a week ago, we saw your car at a park near the Federal Hill area," Harris said, referring to some hand written notes.
"Federal Hill? Sure, I know where that is," Mike said.
"Can you confirm you were there?"
Mike did not change expressions or move. This was not unusual territory for him, as he had been in interrogation rooms before. He had learned there was practically no evidence they could get out of him, and he was confident there was nothing now. These rooms only worked for bums. His last gun was at the bottom of the bay, so they could not trace that to him. "How do you know it was my car?"
"You have one of three Burgundy Lincoln Coupes in Providence," the cop, Thomas said.
Mike considered this for a second. Damn, there were two more? "What's a Lincoln being in Federal Hill have to do with anything?"
"We talked to the other people. One's a banker, and the other's a city councilman. You're the last one."
"I think you need to be asking these other two more questions."
Thomas tapped his pencil on the table a few times. "What do you do for a living, Mr. Hagan?"
Mike had set up a small business that actually had an office. Occasionally he went down there, to look around and make a few phone calls. "I sell paper goods." He took a card out of his pocket and set it on the table. It was an easy front, as he could just make a few phone calls, have a delivery set up, and collect a small fee. All legit.
"Must be a lucrative business. A Lincoln's a nice car," Harris said.
"I do well. I have some money set aside. A family trust, in a way."
"Mr. Hagan," Thomas said. "This is where I'm having a hard time figurin' this out. There are people that say you ain't no paper salesman."
Mike looked surprised. "People are saying that? Why would they do that?"
"They say you're somehow associated with McBride. We're trying to find Eddie Griffin, wanted for two murders. Got any idea where he is?" Thomas said.
"I don't work for McBride. Anyway, when did he disappear?" Mike asked.
"A couple days ago. Seems to have left his apartment without saying a word to anyone," Harris said.
Mike was well aware that there were people who knew the kinds of things he did, the problems he fixed or the people he took care of. He was called, he produced, and then was paid. That's what he did. However, the authorities had never produced any evidence that could be tied to him. The cops had taken enough of his day with this. "Officer, prosecutor," Mike said, addressing the two men. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but I wasn't involved, and I don't know anything about this. I was at a friend's that evening."
"Can this person corroborate this?"
"I was with a woman," Mike said. He had talked to Eva and told her the cops might be around. She liked the cops even less than he did, so he was not worried about what she might say.
"All evening?
"
"Yes. Don't ask for details, please," Mike said.
"Give us her name and contact information," Thomas said. Mike did so.
"Look, I got a nice car and a reputation that's not true. What do you got on me?" Mike said.
"We know you work for McBride and drive a car much nicer than any paper goods salesman I know of. What would you say if we had a report of seeing your car in that neighborhood yesterday?" Thomas said.
Mike knew he was lying and had no intention of playing into this. "No, I wasn't there. Whatever happened had nothing to do with me. Why am I here?"
"We're asking the questions here," Thomas said, looking Mike in the eye.
Mike knew the rules of the interrogation room but really did not care. He knew there were times when the questioning took a turn and other forces were applied. Maybe not in this room, but he knew the rubber hoses and knuckles came out and confessions were made. That was usually for those dummies who talked, said the wrong things, or could not hire a lawyer. "Ask me a question that makes sense."
"Do you know Eddie Griffin?" Harris said
"I've seen his name in the papers. What of it? What's it got to do with me?" Mike asked.
"We think there's a connection between you, McBride, and Eddie Griffin," Thomas said.
"Hold on. First of all, my car wasn't there. If you are going to start talking like that, I'm calling a lawyer. I was at my girl's that evening. If you saw a Lincoln, it wasn't mine. I hear Lincolns drive themselves around sometimes." Mike said.
"Don't get cute," Thomas said.
"You at your lady friend's all evening?" Harris asked.
"Yes. I'm a grown man, not a choirboy. I do these things."
"We know who you are. I'm done asking nice questions. You're involved with this in some way."
"You got nothing, so what's this got to do with me?" Mike disliked these two, but he knew enough to respect their intelligence and the fact that they knew a bluff when they saw one.
"We got other information. We know you work for other people in town, and if we ask around, we'll find more," Thomas said.
"Can't stop you from doing your job," Mike said, sitting back, lighting another cigarette. He checked his pack. There were only two left, so he should be fine, but would need to buy more when he got out of there.
Thomas wrote a number of things down in his pad, and then looked at Harris. "I'm done with him."
"Me too," Harris said. "There's more here, and we're going to find it, and you'll be back."
Mike shrugged. "Anything else, if you don't mind me asking?"
"No, you can go."
Mike left the room and the building. He drove away in the Lincoln Coupe, burgundy exterior with cream-colored upholstery on the inside. The dashboard was immaculate, and he had just paid a garage to tune it up and polish the chrome. The powerful engine pulled with a quiet authority that cars like that had. It was a great ride and he hated to give it up. Maybe he did not have to, on second thought. He could buy an old Chevrolet for jobs and leave the Lincoln where people would remember it. Mike ran his hands around the steering wheel and thought that maybe the cops had done him a favor. If people noticed his car, let them notice. He would be out driving a different car, getting his work done.
36
Eddie was dreaming of being on a boat with O'Connor and Harris, trying to figure out how to get back to land. Then this knocking started and kept growing louder. They were close enough to see the shore, but this knocking somehow meant they were in trouble and would not make it back. Then he was being shaken awake, and Nelson's ugly face began to come into view.
"Hey, you son of a bitch, wake up," Nelson said, not much above a whisper.
"What? Why?" Eddie said, rubbing his left eye. He must have slept in a funny position, because his shoulder was sore.
"Get dressed and grab your shit. We have to get going." Nelson had a big smile on his face that was not meant to make people feel good.
Eddie sat up on the edge of the bed, dressed only in his underwear. "Where to?" A moment ago he was trying to get a boat back to shore, and now he could see why.
"We have to meet a truck, you and me. Carl will be along later. He's gotta take care of some business. Hurry up." Nelson began to pick up Eddie's clothes and toss them over to him. Eddie started to get dressed. He would have liked to change from what he had been wearing for the past few days, but he only had one pair of pants.
"Where we going again?" Eddie asked, not quite sure what Nelson had said. Nelson repeated almost exactly what he had mentioned before. For the past week, Eddie had almost gotten used to the routine of riding out with the crew to take a delivery, helping load and unload, and then going along for the deliveries. If it was not for the fact that he was being held captive, it was not too bad of a life. Nobody else in the house gave him any trouble, and Carl was exactly what he said he was. Nelson had not gotten out of hand since the first time, and in fact had not accompanied them on too many of the trips.
"Can't travel on an empty stomach, here." Nelson handed him three biscuits that he must have taken from Margie's icebox, and then stood in the door waiting for Eddie to leave the room. When Eddie stepped out, he noticed the large revolver stuck in Nelson's belt and again wondered. Nelson locked the door behind him.
"Where is this again?" Eddie asked. He was still groggy and had not fully comprehended what Nelson had said. He had been awake for about a minute and was now being told they needed to leave right away.
"Never mind," Nelson said. "I'll tell you in the car."
They opened the front door, and it was barely light out. Eddie stopped for a moment, knowing that this did not look right. Nelson was hustling him out in the early morning for a job that was not like the others. Carl would be the one awake and calling the shots, telling the men who was going where and when. He would have at least told them last night what was going to happen. That was what he did and the way he planned a job.
"It's not right," Eddie said, looking over at Nelson. Nelson did not hesitate to bring the gun out of his belt and hold it down at his side.
"What's right ain't for you to say," Nelson said, the silly grin now gone. "If you're with me, you're going to do what I say." He then produced a set of handcuffs, opened the car door, and locked Eddie's left wrist to the handle.
"Where's Carl?" Eddie asked, looking at his locked hand. He knew he would be pushing his luck. He also knew that Nelson was not going to take him for a ride in the country to see the sights. Eddie thought whether he lived or died in the next few minutes was not clear.
Nelson did not move the gun, but he did cock the hammer. "I'll drop you right here if you don't get in the car."
Eddie saw there was no option, so he got into the front seat. Nelson un-cocked the gun and climbed in behind the wheel. He started the car, and they drove off. After they were on the road and through town, Nelson said, "Do everything I say in the next few days, and you'll be fine." Eddie was not sure what that meant, but he realized he had no choice in the matter.
37
Mike bought a 4-year-old Chevrolet touring car the afternoon after the interrogation, and now he was on his first job with it. He hated the car and missed the handling of the Lincoln. Whereas the Lincoln was all power and smoothness, the Chevrolet was made for a family to bounce around in as they went to the store or to church, neither of which he did with any regularity. But Eva was driving the Lincoln around Providence while he made a short trip to find Eddie.
After he had been pulled into the interrogation, he had a short talk with McBride, and they both came to the quick conclusion that Eddie had to go. The cops were onto something, and if they were to gather enough information, Eddie would be their star witness and could sink the entire thing.
He had left Providence without knowing really how to find Eddie. McBride had promised to pay him one way or the other, more if he found Eddie and took him out. Mike agree
d, thinking just driving in the country was not a bad way to spend a few days. Working for McBride was getting to be a problem, and jobs like this always caused him to question the association. It paid, but he worried about missing a true job that might come in while he was out seeing the rural areas.
38
The map Nelson handed him had a number of small towns circled, leading in a path towards rural New York and eventually into Pennsylvania. Eddie knew the path that the liquor came in on; this was going in the wrong direction, so Nelson must have had another idea he was working on. This left very few options, because Eddie guessed Nelson had very few ideas to begin with. Eddie ran through the various possibilities, and judging by the excitement on Nelson's face and in his actions, he surmised they were going on a spree of sorts. He took a guess. "Are we robbing banks?"
Nelson laughed. "Woo-ha!" he said, slapping Eddie on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "Ain't you the smart one this morning!"
Eddie looked back at the map and realized there was a plan of sorts. "You going to hit all these places?"
"Hit 'em? Hell, I'm going to clean 'em out! I'm going to keep going until I have money comin' out my ass! Woo-ha!" Nelson hung his head out the window and let out another yelp.
After he came back in and settled down, Eddie needed to ask what part he played in the plan. "Why do you need me?"
"This is how it'll work. We'll drive into town. What's the first one on the map?"
Eddie ran his finger down the highway they were on until he came to the first circle. "Millbrook."
"We're going to drive into Millbrook and wait for them to open at 9:00. We'll be the first ones in before any customers come in. You'll go in first and I'll walk in a few moments later. You're going to go up to the teller window and announce it's a hold up. If I need to, I'll fire a shot off to get them to hurry up. Get the money, and we're off to the next town. No more than five minutes. Woo-ha!" Nelson said, clearly having been thinking of this for quite some time.
"Then?"
"Then on to the next town. Three a day. Shit, Dillinger ain't even that good." Nelson stuck his head out the window again. "Fuck you, Dillinger!" he yelled. He brought his head back in.
Nelson continued to rattle on about all he was going to do, and all the money he was going to have in a few short days. He said time and again how he should have done this before, and working for someone else was never going to lead to having his name known or his picture in the post office. "The post office? Wanted posters?" Eddie said
"Sure, me and you in there. You got yours in there," Nelson said. "Is there a turn coming up?"
Eddie glanced at the map. "Couple miles. Wait. What did you mean I'm in there?"
Nelson looked over at Eddie and started driving over on the shoulder. He corrected and came back to the road. "You didn't know? You're famous, boy. Right there next to Dutch. Looks impressive, if I say so myself."
Eddie dropped the map on the floor and realized the total meaning of what Nelson had described. There was no need to look at the poster to know what it said, or what sort of action could happen if he were captured. He had to ask anyway. "What was it for?"
"Murder. Two people. Didn't say who. Said you run away from the law. That's one way to do it."
But that wasn't true, he thought. There was no way to convince Nelson of this and no way to explain it to a cop if they were caught. A reward was a reward, and whether he was alive or dead, there would be no difference. Whatever happened in the past few days between Harris and McBride must have gone terribly wrong. Eddie felt around on the floor for the map and placed it back in his lap. If, for some reason, he was not shot when he was apprehended, there was no possible way of being acquitted. His previous life as he knew it was over. Whether he was a fugitive or not, how long he could run and hide was going to be his constant consuming thought. Now, Nelson had cooked up some plan to get him into more trouble. He was purposely going to push Eddie front and center in the robberies for whatever reason—Nelson was not going to say. He looked back at the map and saw the turn was coming up. "Left. Up here," he said. Eddie sank back into the seat, along for another ride.
Nelson lapsed into a smiling calm as quick as he had been jumping around and yelling out the window. Eddie was glad to not have to listen to him any more than he had to. The thought of leaping out of the car was first on his mind, but he was tied down and knew Nelson was only a few seconds away from pulling out the big gun he always carried. He would need to bide his time until the moment was best. They drove through the country and onto a state highway following Eddie's directions. Occasionally Nelson would take the map out of his hands and look at it himself, as if to satisfy himself Eddie was not leading them elsewhere. Eddie thought through the scenario that Nelson had described and knew there would be a moment when Nelson would miscue and he would be able to slip away. Nelson just was not smart enough to carry this out for any length of time, and Eddie knew if he was patient, he could escape.
Millbrook turned out to be a typical small town with a few stores, banks, and a slight bustle of people around early in the morning. "There it is, right there," Nelson said, leaning over the steering wheel as they went down the main street.
Eddie saw the bank, one named Farmers State, and noticed it was still closed. The clock on the front said 8:45. As Nelson described, he drove through the town and parked out of sight on a side street. "Here's what it is," Nelson said, taking the revolver out from beside the seat. "There ain't no one waiting outside. I seen a car 'round the side. Probably one of the tellers."
"How can you be sure?" Eddie asked. He knew Nelson was making most of this up as he went along.
Nelson checked all the chambers on the gun, spun the cylinder around, and clicked it shut. He pointed it at the floor and made a pretend shooting sounding. "Don't make no difference, really, who's in there. You go in, say it's a hold up, and I'm right behind you. They see me, they know it's real."
"Any cops in town?" Eddie asked. The side street they were on was secluded enough so that a person would have to walk by to see them.
"That's the best part," Nelson said, the ugly smile spreading across his face. "This here bank's farthest from the station. I picked this one 'cuz of that."
Eddie shook his head and acted impressed. The downtown was only three blocks long, so the police station had to be close anyway. "Good thinking."
Nelson put his arm on the door window. "I'd say old Nelson's got this all figured out. I think this is what you might say is my, my—" Nelson searched for the word. "What do you say when you're real good at something?"
Eddie took a guess. "Your calling?"
"That's it. My calling."
Nelson began tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to some silent beat that must have been in his head. Eddie knew that Nelson was capable to going in any direction at once. The man sitting next to him had no thought other than what popped into his mind at that moment. Eddie had learned to survive when he was locked up by keeping the conversation going in an agreeable direction. Basically talk about nothing in particular. With a person like this, the mention of the wrong baseball team might set them off on a tear. This gave Eddie another problem, though. Nelson was dangerous and could pull off a few robberies, but he was too stupid to keep at this for any length of time. He had no idea how to control himself to do a job like this, and this meant that Eddie was going to be exposed as soon as they walked into the bank. The only way to survive this would be to keep Nelson out of trouble as much as he could. Nelson was liable to just walk in with guns firing. He would try to direct him as best as possible. There was already a camaraderie of sorts, since Nelson thought he had committed a couple of murders.
Eddie fingered the map for a few moments. "You know, I didn't mean to kill those two," he said.
"That's the way it always starts, ain't it? One second you're mindin' your own business, the next,
bam, you shoot and run. So why'd you do it?" Nelson said, turning slightly in the seat.
"Same reason as always. Money. I knew the first man, Jackson, was worth a load, so one night I tried to get it from him. I didn't intend to shoot him, just scare the money out of him," Eddie said, warming to his lie some. "He was a sucker, anyway. Didn't deserve what he had."
"What about the second one?"
"She was his girl. Had no choice. She knew I did it, so I had to take her out."
Nelson smiled wide. "That's cold. Taking out a woman." He turned back around in his seat. "Happens, though."
Eddie looked around the street, and said, "Say, we have a few minutes, why not drive out of town so's we don't gain attention?"
Nelson started the car. "Not bad," he said, turning around in the street and driving out of the small town into the farm fields.
"You know," Eddie said, taking in the landscape and noticing the tree lines along the fields, "when we get out of the bank, we might want to take that road over there. Looks like it disappears quicker into those trees."
Nelson looked off in the direction Eddie was indicating and shook his head. "Here's what we do. What's the map say? Can you get us to the next town if we go that way?"
Eddie consulted the map again, "It's going to take us the wrong direction, but I think that's the best way out."
"I'll worry about that later. Get us out of here when we need to." Nelson stopped the car and then turned around. "It's time we started cracking this shit town open."
39
They drove back into town and parked the car in front of the bank. Nelson unlocked Eddie's hand. Eddie got out of the car and knew he had no choice but to go in and do what Nelson had planned. Nelson climbed out of the car and walked behind him. Eddie gave a quick wave before he pushed through the doors of the bank. The handle was heavy and felt cool to his hand as he leaned on the door and stepped into the marble-floored building. He looked around to see what or who else might be in there with him. No other customers, he was glad to see, and only a couple of tellers and a manager of some sort at a desk towards the back. The walk-in safe was open in the far corner. One of the female tellers working there smiled at him and went to the station to serve him. Eddie did his best to smile back, but his thoughts were too preoccupied with what was about to happen.
Nelson said he would wait three minutes before he did anything, but Eddie knew this would be much too long for him stand around. Eddie guessed about one minute was all Nelson would be able to stand as he fidgeted with the idea of taking the gun out. There were no other doors coming into the lobby, and if he were to jump over the counter and make a run for it, he was not sure what Nelson would do. More than likely, he would come after him, and Eddie was not sure he could get far enough away.
Eddie stepped up to the counter and realized he was not sure what to say. Was he to simply ask for all their money, tell the nice woman to get on the floor, that this was a hold up? Maybe tell them to put their hands in the air? He was about to tell her that he was there to rob the bank when Nelson moved forward with the gun drawn. Eddie guessed he had waited a total of maybe 10 seconds. He did not turn around as the horror on the woman's face told the entire story of what was happening behind him. "This here's a hold up," Nelson's voice boomed in the empty bank. "I want you to give all your money to that man, now."
None of the three employees moved as they continued to stare at Nelson standing behind Eddie. Eddie, for his part did not move as well, as he was not sure really what to do. One of the most essential parts of robbing a bank was to bring a bag or satchel to carry the money with. The woman stared back at him, and Eddie realized he was not even wearing a coat that he could wad up into a makeshift bag. "May we borrow a bag to put the money in?" he asked the woman. She still did not move.
It was then that a sound similar to a cannon going off shook the interior of the building. "I said now!" Nelson yelled, as the sound of him firing into the ceiling died away. A small chunk of the ceiling fell down and hit Nelson on the head.
The woman pulled a cloth bag from behind the counter and dumped her money drawer into it, as did the woman working in the window next to her. Nelson walked up behind Eddie and took the bag out of his hand. "I want what's in the safe," he said. Nelson gave Eddie a shove towards the counter opening that led him to the office area.
The manager had not moved since Nelson walked in and fired the shot. Eddie approached him, wondering if Nelson was setting him up. Nelson could easily shoot him from where he was or just turn around and run out the door. Either way, Eddie moved toward the man, who appeared to have a splintering grip on the desk he was sitting at.
"Come on," Nelson said. "Let's see what you got in the safe. Bring a bag." The man stood and led Eddie back to the safe.
"You're not going to hurt us, are you?" the manager asked as they walked towards the safe.
Once they were inside, Eddie knew that time was short, and they would need to get out of there as fast as they could. Nelson was going to want to stay until they had every last cent, but Eddie had a feeling that the shot he had fired probably garnered some attention. The manager pulled a drawer open, revealing multiple stacks of neatly lined-up cash. In about ten seconds, they had tossed all the stacks into the bag, and Eddie had sprinted out of the safe and back to the lobby, thinking Nelson would follow him.
"Hey," Nelson said as he ran past and out the door. A few seconds later, they were at the car. "What are you, some sort of rat-ass chickenshit?" Nelson sounded more confused than angry at their sudden exit.
"Go, I got one drawer empty, but he hit a button or something at his desk. Cops will be here any second," Eddie said, making up a lie.
"Wait," Nelson said, trying to put this together. "How much did you get?" he grabbed the bag out of his hand and opened the top. "What the hell is this? This all they had in there? You ran, damn it. You ran with the safe full of money."
Nelson's face began to twist up in anger, and Eddie thought this was the end of it when they both heard the sound of sirens in the distance. "Drive," Eddie said. The anger melted away and, in an odd transformation, turned back into the brown-toothed smile. Nelson started the car and took off as fast as he could. Eddie directed him out of town the way he had described, and they disappeared into the countryside, away from the sirens and frightened bank employees. After a few miles, Nelson slowed down some, and let out a yelp. "Whoa, yeah!" In his jubilation, he punch Eddie so hard on the shoulder, Eddie thought maybe it was dislocated. He rubbed his shoulder and dropped the bag he was holding. Nelson pulled over to the side of road.
"What'd we get?" Like an adolescent, he began pawing through the bag, his eyes glazing over as he pulled out the bound stacks of bills, mostly tens and twenties. Eddie had never seen a man drool when looking at money, but Nelson came about as close has he could imagine. "How much is this?"
It dawned on him, that Nelson could maybe read, certainly could not add, and had no clue how much money was in the bag he was holding. They might be stacks of twenties, but if he were to tell Nelson there were one hundred of them that would mean nothing. "I'll count, you drive."
Nelson put the car back into gear and started driving unsteadily down the road, as he was both trying to watch where he was going and looking at the bag, as Eddie pulled out a few of the stacks. He counted the number of stacks and what denominations they were, and came to about $2,000. "Looks like there's four or five thousand here," he said, wanting to keep Nelson happy and on his side.
Nelson reached out of the car window and started banging he hand on the roof, laughing and screaming at the top of his lungs. "I'm rich. We do this every day, I'll be a millionaire. Say listen, say we knock off a bank a week, how much would that be in a year?"
"Well," Eddie said, pretending to do the addition in his head. "Couple million, I'd say. Roughly."
"Really? That was so easy. So easy. Like paying a hooker
to latch on your dick." He tapped his fist on the wheel a few times. "Two million. That's a hell of a thing. See 'em? Did you see 'em when I walked in? There weren't no way they's going to not give the money. That old man in the back 'bout shit his drawers when I fired off the gun."
Eddie thought about saying something, but he decided to keep quiet and not rain on Nelson's enjoyment of the moment. "Ever done anything like this before?"
"Hell no. Shoulda, though. Shoulda, instead of working for that O'Connor. This was so easy. I'll be a millionaire. I'm rich as hell," he yelled out the window. While doing so, Eddie neatly palmed a $50 bill and slid it up his sleeve. "Almost forgot, give me your hands." Nelson skidded the car to a stop and replaced the handcuffs onto Eddie, before continuing down the road.
40
Eddie was able to get them back on track towards the next town, but as they drove, the day began to warm up, and he started to become uncomfortable. They had not eaten much, and he was beginning to become lightheaded from the excitement. In addition, Nelson was swinging from high spirits, whooping and hollering, to cussing about everyone that had crossed him in his life. The best Eddie could do was to wipe the sweat out of his eyes and tell Nelson where to turn and to keep him going through his rants and raves. The plan was to hit Pleasant Valley and then drive across the river in Poughkeepsie. Nelson had a theory that the river would give a kind of protection, and even more so as he made his way into Pennsylvania. Throughout all the babbling, Eddie was never sure what his part in this was, since it seemed that all he was being asked to do was to walk in a few seconds before the actual robbery.
They drove into Pleasant Valley, and Eddie was immediately uneasy. As sleepy and quiet as Millbrook was, in the ensuing few hours, Pleasant Valley had woken up and was bustling. Nelson parked the car on a side street as they did earlier in Millbrook. Eddie wiped the sweat and road grit from his face, began to scope out the area, and was even more alarmed by what he saw. The bank they were going to go into was in the center of town and had a steady stream of customers going in and out. "How about if we figure out our route?"
"No, not this time, I want to get this going. Didn't you look around when we drove in?" Nelson said.
Eddie squinted through the dirty windshield and looked up the street leading out of town. He had noticed, but there was not much he could put together. Hilly, a lot of trees, and there would probably be good cover. "Nelson, this doesn't feel right."
Nelson was busy checking the chambers in his gun, reloading the one he shot. "What's not right?"
"I don't know. Too many people." He was also incredibly hungry and tired. Nelson must have been feeling the same, but maybe he was running on the excitement.
"Let's make sure of one thing. This is my decision to go in there, you ain't got no say." He clicked the chamber closed on the gun and stuck it into his belt. "Know what I mean? You try anything, you get a shot through the head."
Eddie ran his index finger across his face to take a drop of sweat off. He tossed the map onto the floor, knowing he really had no decision in this. At least not at the moment. Soon, he thought, Nelson was going to lose it, and he figured it would be best to make a break for it and take his chances. He looked around the small town and again wondered if this was going to be the last few moments of his life. There were too many people and too much going on right there for this to go well. This was the same feeling he had when he saw Mr. LaRue get shot. The panic, but this time he had a feeling that running was not going to be an option, at least not with Nelson sitting right next to him. Before, with McBride, there was a measure of control. McBride had a choice in what he was doing and the discipline to consider his options. Eddie reflected on everything to that point and wondered how it all led to him sitting in a car with a gun-carrying madman. Many twists and turns, and if he ever got away, he made a pact to run as far as he could and never look back. "Ready?" Nelson said, unlocking Eddie’s hand and unlocking the flimsy car door.
Nelson smiled as if he had just been handed a good piece of pie. Eddie walked up to the front door with Nelson standing to the side. He went in to find about ten people standing in line and three tellers busy taking care of customers. Woodwork and iron made up the counter where people were going about their business with no idea what was about to transpire. This time he brought a bag, which was tightly balled up in his left hand. Nelson would announce his entrance in a few seconds, so Eddie knew he had nothing to say until he saw an older man approach from the side, a guard he had not seen when he walked in.
Eddie began to open his mouth as the man stepped from behind the counter towards him, but then Nelson came forward. "This here's a robbery," Nelson yelled as he held the gun above his head.
The guard began to reach for a gun he had at his side. "No!" Eddie said. There was not a chance of being quick enough, as Nelson's gun went off a few feet away from him. The guard crumpled down to the floor and the gun he failed to use slid out of his hand and on to the marble.
"Kick it over here," Nelson said. Eddie went over and realized Nelson was keeping his weapon trained on him.
Everyone in the bank had stopped what they were doing and were staring at the two of them. Nelson pointed the gun above his head and said, "Everyone listen. Give all your money to this guy and you won't end up dead like him." Then he pushed Eddie towards the tellers.
Eddie went to each teller, holding out the bag to have them dump in the belongings of their cash boxes. He made it to the third one when he heard the siren. Without thinking, he turned around and started running towards the door. Nelson stepped forward and tripped him. Eddie went sprawling out on the floor, dropping the bag of money. "What the fuck?" Nelson said. "We ain't done. We ain't got the safe yet."
Eddie heard the siren getting closer and then saw the realization on Nelson's face. Nelson picked up the bag and went running out the door, with Eddie close behind. They jumped into the car and took off around the corner, a few seconds before the police car screeched to a halt in front of the bank. They both heard the siren start again about fifteen seconds later. Nelson had the car going as fast as he could, barely staying out of ditches on either side of the road as they rounded corners. "Left," Eddie said as he saw a paved road coming up that led into the woods and went by the town instead of directly away. They drove about a half mile when they heard the siren get fainter as the police missed the road they were on. Nelson was still driving fast enough to be using all the road, and Eddie just prayed that another car or carriage was not coming the other direction. After a few more turns, they came to a straight stretch, and Nelson ran the old car up as fast as it would go. The tired engine screeched and howled as they went along. Nelson went on like this for at least ten minutes, slowing only for bends in the road, until he must have calmed down and thought they had gotten far enough away.
"Count it," Nelson said over the wind and road noise.
Eddie picked the bag up off the floor and began to rummage through what they had. He looked and counted the small quantity of bills a number of times, hoping there was more just to keep Nelson in good spirits. "Three hundred," he said, boosting the number as high as he dared. The number was nothing compared to what had happened, with a dozen or so people seeing them both and a dead grandfather on the floor.
"Three hundred," Nelson repeated, expressionless, staring out the front window. A few cars drove by coming the other direction, as they entered farmland where the trees subsided and open fields began to take over. That half-crazed smile came back across his face. "Put one over on them didn't I? Tried to pull out a gun, but I was too damn fast. See 'em? Did you see ’em?"
Eddie did not dare look at Nelson. He put his hand on the door handle and began to think of his odds of tossing the door open and tumbling out at speed. The man he was riding with was wound up all wrong and was not only interested in the money. Nelson wanted the recognition, the fame, of being a bank robber, and sudden
ly Eddie realized why he was riding along. Eddie was a wanted man, and would bring the attention Nelson craved. The handle would take a good tug to pull open. His hand tightened. The fall would be painful, and if he survived, Nelson would be spraying him with whatever bullets he had on him. "I saw 'em," Eddie finally said, knowing he would have to ride this out a while longer.
"Three hundred ain't good, but it ain't bad. Tore out of there. You got good ears, a few seconds longer, we'd a been fightin' for our lives. I could take 'em." Nelson laughed and yelled out a few more times. "Damn, forgot again." He stopped the car and refastened the handcuffs.
"What now?" Eddie asked.
"Get us to Poughkeepsie and cross the river."
41
News travels fast when it needs to. That evening, Harris was sitting in his office when the phone rang. The corned beef sandwich that had been delivered was forgotten as the description of the crimes was relayed to him. He asked a few questions to confirm if it was Eddie and to get a better idea of the location. After hanging up the phone, he pulled out an old map he had sitting in his desk, looked at the area in southern New York, and knew that the Feds would already be on their way. After locating the area, he slid the map back into the crammed lower drawer on his desk and began to wonder where his perception had gone wrong. For the first time, he actually believed that Eddie had told one big, convincing lie, and had almost gotten away with it. An amazing acting job that Harris was sure he would have been good enough to see. After all the years of training and how perceptive he had always been, this one got through. The news was sure to be in the papers within hours, and his job was even more in jeopardy as the media began to circle, waiting for a feeding frenzy. He took another bite of the sandwich and mindlessly chewed and swallowed, washing it down with root beer. There it was no sense in mulling over what could happen. The best he could do was take the shots and move on. Once they trapped Eddie, he was probably going to be taken out on sight. When this thought crossed his mind, Harris began to vacillate on his opinion. There was a part of him, maybe a flaw, that just felt this was not right. Eddie would not walk into a bank and start firing shots. And who was that he was with? That needed to be determined. There was this conflict between Harris's logical self and a gut reaction to thinking of Eddie being shot, but he could not straighten it out. He did the best he could with the sandwich, then tossed the last few bites into the trash, turning to the other cases to run through that day.
A thought crossed his mind as he started to look through a case of armed robbery that was going to trial in a few days. This one was so simple, and the suspect was so obviously guilty that Harris could only think that Eddie's problem was too complicated. There were too many circumstances that seemed to be almost set up for all this to happen, and much of it led back to McBride. His curiosity was not going to let this go, despite the fact that the case had been taken over by the Federal authorities. After a few minutes of searching, he found Herman Ward's name in a notebook of references he had been keeping. They had interviewed a former tenant house owner who had said Eddie and this Herman had been close friends. Herman worked at the Packard dealership a few blocks away, and Harris thought it would be best to talk to him personally.
It was only a few minutes later that Harris found himself in the polished showroom and was quickly attended to by a salesman. Harris asked for Herman. A few more moments passed before a young man with short blond hair, wearing greasy coveralls, came from around the side and walked up to him.
"Herman Ward?" Harris asked. "I'm Prosecutor Jerry Harris."
"I know who you are. What can I do for you?" Herman said. He had a rag in his hands and was wiping oil from between his fingers.
"I need to talk to you about Eddie. Let's step outside for a moment," Harris said. They went around to the side of the building away from curious eyes and ears. "Eddie and you were close friends. I'll just get to it. Do you believe the news about him?"
"Not a bit of it," Herman said. "That's not Eddie."
"What about his past problems with the law? He's got a record, and most people would take that into account," Harris asked. Harris suspected he might meet with resistance in getting Herman to help him.
"I know he was in the house, hell, and cops think orphans are a waste of time. I know about the car and all that in Buffalo, he was along for the ride and got caught up. Eddie got caught on a bad deal. Same here. He told me what happened that night at the factory," Herman said, stuffing the rag in his back pocket.
Harris eyed him for a moment. "Ever done time yourself?"
"Shit, no. Been hauled in 'cause the cops don't have nothing else to do," Herman said.
"I needed to ask. People form natural affinities," Harris said, wondering if Herman would know what that meant.
"I don't know. I left home at 17, but I got a good job now, if that means anything to you. Eddie was going to school nights, trying to better himself. Doesn't sound like a trigger man to me," Herman said.
"Look," Harris said, his voice getting quieter. "Eddie's in big trouble. I need to know if he contacts you. I don't know if he did the things that were written in the papers."
"Why would I want to help bring him back? He's on the run, and he knows how to hide. Seems to me that's his best chance," Herman said.
"A fair question. A good one. I'm going to tell you something you have to keep between us. I have an excellent chance of clearing Eddie and bringing McBride down too. Eddie's out on a wanted poster across five states. Any cop will take a shot at him and kill him without a second thought. His best chance is if I can bring him in," Harris said.
"You expect me to believe that? Besides, doesn't that put me in danger?" Herman asked.
"I can take care of McBride once and for all. Eddie's key to doing that," Harris said.
"McBride would be good to stop," Herman said, some of the resistance leaving his face.
"The bad news for you is that you're already involved. You're one of the few people he's told what happened that night LaRue was killed." Harris realized Herman probably already knew this, but had not considered the implications. "You might have to testify. If Eddie calls you and you don't tell the authorities, that's aiding and abetting. The Feds aren't lenient on that."
"Goddamn it," Herman said, wiping a line of sweat off his upper lip.
"Listen, it's not as bad as you think. Just contact me if he calls you. Be honest with him. That's all you have to do, and you're off the hook." Harris had not wanted to put the pressure on him, but he had to. "It's really Eddie's choice if he wants to come in."
"What do I say if he calls?" Herman asked, putting his hands on his hips and tilting his head down.
"Find out where he is, how he can be contacted. Then let me know, and I'll take it from there. Here," Harris said, taking a business card out of his pocket. "call me, though stopping by would be best. My office is only a few blocks down the street,"
"Okay," Herman said, looking at the card.
"I'll be stopping by regularly to check in," Harris said before leaving to go back to his office.
Harris returned to his office, wondering where this was all going to lead. He turned back to the case file open on his desk and did his best to put the incident behind him. However, the phone rang, only this time it was the mayor.
"Yes sir?" Harris said, knowing the subject of the call.
"You heard?" Mayor Porter asked. Harris could hear the man breathing into the phone receiver and could only imagine how red his face was.
"I did."
"You have a choice. Either resign with whatever dignity you have left, or I'll drive you out of office and probably out of town. I trust you want to remain in the legal business for some time, so make a wise decision."
Harris had been prepared for this and knew the mayor was capable of doing just what he said. The fight was over, for now, and he had not won. There really was no option. If he fought on
, he would continue to lose. If he left the office now, he could move on, and take up the fight later, which he had all intention of doing. "Yes, sir."