“We can do that, if you want to.”
“You bet I want to.”
“Won’t it come out that…about my not being with you that night?”
“I don’t care, Jenny. That’s only perjury. I’m in here for life for a murder I didn’t commit.”
And what about me? she wanted to ask, but she couldn’t. If she had to be punished in order for Larry to get out, she would be getting what she deserved. If she hadn’t betrayed David, he would never have collapsed the way he had. Larry was in prison because she had destroyed David with her lies.
David. How she loved him. More so now that he was lost to her forever. She remembered the night they had first met. It had taken all her control to refrain from calling him. And why hadn’t she? Guilt. It was always the same answer. Guilt had prevented her from asking Larry for a divorce long before Darlene Hersch was murdered. Guilt prevented her from telling David the truth. And guilt was keeping her shackled to a man who would probably spend the rest of his life in prison.
THE UPTURNED COLLARof Thomas Gault’s jacket blocked the icy wind and sent it skittering through the drunken sailors and carousing longshoremen who crowded the sidewalk. Gault pushed open the door of The Dutchman, a noisy workingmen’s bar that took its trade from the docks. A gust of wind chilled two men who were sitting at the bar, and they looked Gault’s way when he entered. The bar lined the wall to Gault’s right, and a row of booths occupied the wall on the left. Most of the room was filled with Formica-topped tables. Two pool tables stood in a cleared space near the gents’ room.
“Shut the door,” one of the men at the bar commanded. Gault smiled to himself. He didn’t come to the docks for the atmosphere. He came for the action. And it looked as if tonight the action might start sooner than he’d expected. He had planned on shutting the door, but now he let it stay open.
“Shut it yourself, asshole,” he said, and walked down the bar without another glance in the man’s direction. He heard an angry murmur behind him, and a few seconds later the door slammed shut.
Gault positioned himself with his back to the wall at an unoccupied table by the jukebox where he could view the room. A waitress brought him a beer and he took a sip, watching the man he had insulted over the rim of the glass. He was a little over six feet. A thick roll of fat slopped over his belt at the waistline, and his shirt was partially out of his pants, exposing a sweat-stained undershirt. His movements were slow and jerky. It was obvious that he had been drinking for some time.
The fat man’s companion was Gault’s size. His figure was trim and he seemed sober. The fat man seemed to have forgotten about the incident at the door and was back in his cups. Too bad, Gault thought. He let his eyes drift over the rest of the room. A sailor and a heavyset woman with teased blond hair were shooting pool against two boys in work shirts and jeans. The woman sank her shot. One of the boys swore. The sailor laughed and smacked the woman’s ass.
Three men a few tables from Gault were arguing about an upcoming heavyweight fight. When Gault’s eyes moved back to the bar, they met the fat man’s by accident and stayed there. The staring match was no contest. The fat man folded in less than a minute and gave Gault the finger to save face. Gault blew the fat man a kiss. The man got off his stool and started up the bar. His friend grabbed his elbow in an attempt to restrain him, but he lurched free, stumbling against the bar as he broke the shorter man’s grip. He staggered in Gault’s direction, and his friend followed after a moment’s hesitation.
“Were you lookin’ at me, dog turd?” the fat man demanded when he reached Gault’s table.
“Leave it be, Harvey,” the shorter man said.
“He blew a kiss at me, Al,” Harvey said without taking his eyes off Gault. “You seen that. Fags kiss boys. You a fag, skinhead?”
“You’re so cute, I’d let you find out,” Gault lisped effeminately.
“I think you’d better split, buddy,” Harvey’s friend said, suddenly angry at Gault.
“I thought you had more sense than your friend,” Gault said sharply, pushing his chair back and slowly getting to his feet.
“I don’t like a smart-mouth any better than Harv, so why don’t you leave while you still can.”
“Can’t I finish my drink?” Gault asked in a mocking tone. Harvey stared at Gault for a second, then swept the beer off the table. The glass shattered on the floor and the noise in the bar stopped. Gault felt a rush of adrenaline. His whole body seemed in movement.
“It’s finished-” Harvey started, his wind suddenly cut off by the foot that Gault snapped into his groin. Gault’s left foot connected with the fat man’s temple. Harvey’s head snapped to one side and he sat down hard.
Gault pivoted, blocking Al’s first wild punch with his forearm. He aimed a side kick at his opponent’s kneecap. It was off, striking with only enough force to jostle him off balance. The follow-up left only grazed Al’s eye.
The advantage of surprise was lost and Al had good reflexes. He charged into Gault, wrestling him backward into the wall. Gault grunted from the impact, momentarily stunned.
Harvey was on one knee, struggling to get up. Gault brought his forehead down fast. Al’s nose cracked. Blood spattered across Gault’s shirt. He boosted his knee and felt it make hard contact with Al’s groin. There was a gasp and the grip on his arm relaxed. Gault drove a right to the solar plexus and shot his fingers into the man’s eyes. Al screamed and sagged. Gault snapped the side of his hand against the man’s neck, and he sank to the floor, his face covered with blood.
Glass shattered and Gault set himself as Harvey moved toward him, a broken bottle held tightly in his hand. Gault circled warily, keeping distance between them. Harvey feinted and Gault moved back. He felt the edge of the bar cut into his back. There was a flash of movement behind him and he shifted slightly, but not enough to avoid being hit across the back of the head by the sawed-off pool cue the bartender kept for just such occasions.
THE PHONE WASringing. David opened his eyes slowly and struggled to bring his other senses into focus. He became aware of a sour, phlegmy taste in his mouth and a dull ache behind his eyes. The phone rang again and he flinched. It was still dark outside. According to the digital clock, it was two in the morning.
David picked up the receiver to stop the ringing.
“Dave,” a voice at the other end called out.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Tom. Tom Gault. I’m in jail, old buddy, and you gotta come down here and bail me out.”
“Who?” David asked. The words had not registered.
“Tom Gault. Bring your checkbook. I’ll pay you back when I get home.”
David sat up and tried to concentrate. “What did you do?”
“I was in a fight. These clowns have chargedme with assault. I’ll explain it all to you once I’m out.”
David didn’t want to go to the jail at two in the morning. He didn’t have any great urge to see Thomas Gault, either. But he was too tired to refuse Gault’s request.
“I’ll be down as soon as I can get dressed,” he said, turning on the lamp on his night table.
“I knew I could count on you,” Gault said. After a few more words, they hung up.
David’s head was ringing. He’d had too much to drink, but that was becoming routine. He took a deep breath and made his way to the bathroom. The glare from the lightbulbs hurt his eyes, and his image in the mirror caused a different type of pain. His complexion was pale and his flesh doughy. The features were beginning to run together. When he removed his pajamas, he saw the erosion of clear lines on the other parts of his body.
David had not exercised, or done much else that humans do, since Larry Stafford’s conviction three months before. The day after the trial he had backpacked into the wilderness to try to sort out the events of the preceding days, but the silence of the shadowy woods had trapped him alone with thoughts he did not want to encounter. He had scurried home.
Jenny had phoned while he was away, but he did not return the calls. He tried to work but could not concentrate. Once, in the solitude of his office, he broke into tears. In the course of representing Larry Stafford, he had betrayed the trust of the court, sold out his principles, and given up on himself. In the ruins of the case he saw the wreckage of his career and the destruction of the carefully constructed fictions concerning truth and justice he had erected to hide from view the emptiness of the profession he had so zealously followed. Life was intolerable. He moved through the days like an automaton, eating little and drinking a great deal.
Gregory Banks had sensed his friend’s despair and had ordered him to spend two weeks away. The bright Hawaiian sun and the gaiety of the tourists at the small resort hotel where he had stayed only heightened David’s
