Rough Justice

* * *

'What are you wearing?' Steere said into the flip phone. He was kidding, but there was a stiffening between his legs just the same. He'd been in jail almost a year.

'I'm in a meeting,' she said in her professional voice, loud enough for the people around her to hear. She was a star and she knew it. Steere imagined her in the meeting, every inch the career woman, at least on the outside.

'You still have that bra, the black one with the lace?'

'I can't talk now, really. The gang's all here. Movers and shakers, even a city editor. Right, Marc?' she called out. 'Call me back when you have your schedule. Gotta go.' In the background Steere heard hearty masculine laughter.

'Wait. I need you to do something. Get to the file and destroy it.'

'What? Why?'

'Richter knows.'

'That's interesting,' she said, her tone even. Steere knew she wouldn't get rattled, whether an editor or a row of priests sat in front of her. She was the only woman he knew who kept her wits about her, and that was why Steere wanted her. Well, one of the reasons.

'Richter knows I killed him intentionally, nothing else. Drop everything. Get the file. Today.'

'In a blizzard?' she asked lightly. 'I'd rethink that. Maybe next week. You choose the restaurant. My secretary will make the reservations.'

'Not next week. Now. I'm not taking any chances.'

'But we may need that information.'

'Don't fuck me. Do it.' Steere punched the END button, edgy and still hard.

* * *

Next Steere punched in the number of a man he introduced as his driver, Bobby Bogosian. The title was left over from the days Bobby drove Steere around in a dented brown Eldorado with the cash that would launch an empire stuffed in his pocket. Steere would go from rowhouse to rowhouse in the city's poorest sections, offering the elderly $30,000— cash money, on the spot, no strings— for their homes. He could rent the houses for many times that and he made money if only 10 percent of the pensioners took the deal. Plenty more did.

Steere would tell them he was solving a problem for them as he sat in their cramped living rooms with the curtains drawn. Their couches were worn and saggy, with thick roped fringe at the bottom, and Steere sat on more springs than he could count. Still, he felt neither contempt nor affection for these couples, no matter how toothless, poorly dressed, or just plain stupid they were. They reminded him of his foster parents, and instead of running away from them, he played the role of their perfect son.

In house after house, Steere smiled and showed the face of a bright, earnest young man trying to make his way in the world. He leaned forward on his knees as he spoke, dressed in a department-store suit and tie, and honeyed his voice. They'd call him a 'go-getter,' a 'self-starter.' Steere would remind them of the kind of young man they thought didn't exist anymore and who really didn't, except in an imagination spun with nostalgia, as substantial as cotton candy.

As Steere spoke, the old couples would relax in their ratty armchairs and confide in him, their eyes glassy with fear. In these city neighborhoods, whites were afraid of blacks and blacks were afraid of whites. Blacks and whites were afraid of Hispanics, Jamaicans, and Vietnamese. Everybody was afraid of drugs and gangs, and whatever their fear, Steere played on it. Because he understood their problems, they believed he could solve them. On the spot, here's the cash, no strings. Bobby Bogosian would stand silently behind the couch until the homeowner took Steere's ballpoint in a bony hand and affixed a shaky signature to the dotted line.

'Yo.' Bogosian answered the beep quick as a Doberman at heel. 'What up?'

'Where are you?'

'Center City.'

'My lawyer, Marta Richter, just left the courthouse. Keep an eye on her,' Steere said, without further explanation. He never told Bogosian more than he needed to know and didn't want to know more about Bogosian than he had to. Steere didn't even know where Bogosian lived and heard only through the grapevine that Bobby's probation officer had taken off his ankle cuff.

'Got it,' Bobby said.

'She's gonna be busy until the jury gets back. Make sure she doesn't do anything or go anywhere.'

'Anything else?'

'Nothing major. I need her until the trial's over.'

'What about after?'

'Then I don't need her anymore. Understood?'

'Sure.'

Steere pressed the END button with satisfaction. He felt back in control. He had unleashed Bogosian, and the man would do the job. The best thing about Bogosian was that he didn't think. Steere pushed his button and the man took off like a missile sensing heat. Locking on target, exploding like a natural force.

Steere tucked the flip phone into his pocket, closed his eyes, and sat still on the hard bench. He'd learned the stillness as a kid when he got whacked for moving, and it stood him in good stead. Steere imagined himself as he always did, like a pole at the top of the world, the pivot for the globe whirling dizzy beneath. He remained motionless as the walls of his cell spun off and flew into the ether. Around him it grew dark, cool, soundless. He listened in the silence, waiting for the rhythm of his breathing. The beat of his heart, the bubbling of his blood. Then Steere slipped inside his own mind.