Pleading Guilty

I felt mostly cold in the wake of my panic. I might have belched or sung a song. I felt a little like I could fly. Gino had said, distinctly, that there was nothing in the refrigerator, and so far as I could see, he was having too much fun intimidating me to bother to lie. Who had moved the body and why were questions for later.

Satisfied he had nailed me, Pigeyes stumbled back through the divide between the front seats and sat to have a chuckle; he laughed so hard he held on to his hat. He'd had a great time. His buddies here, Dewey and the black guy, they were smiling right along. Nobody was feeling sorry for Malloy.

Pigeyes finally wiped his eyes. 'Let's be straight guys, okay? I don't give a flying foreign fuck what you're up to, Malloy. Robert Kamin? I don't care if he diddled the senior partner's wife — or the senior partner, for that matter. All I want is this guy Kam Roberts, whoever he is. You gimme that, he gimmes that — Go have your fucking little life. Sincerely.' Gino touched his chest. I thought he was wearing the same shirt he had on the other day.

'You gonna tell me why you need him?'

'You gonna tell where I find him?'

'Gino, I don't know.' He weighed that, the doubt hinged in his eyes. 'I never met the guy in my life. The card gets billed at Kamin's place. Don't ask me why. That's all I know.' That, and Infomode, one or two little things. But they were my business. Besides, who knew better than Pigeyes that sometimes I lie? 'That's it. Okay? You did a great job breaking my balls.'

Pigeyes motioned to Dewey. 'Show him.'

Dewey went for the briefcase. They had a sketch. It was on mat board, done with pencil and stored in a little plastic sleeve. Surveillance van. Police artist. Pigeyes had a lot of support. Dewey handed the drawing to me.

A black guy, late twenties, nice-looking, receding hair.

'Ever see him?' Dewey asked.

And this was the strangest goddamn part. I had.

'I'm not sure,' I said.

'Maybe?'

Where? I would never remember. Not now anyway. If it was coming, it would hit me when I was half asleep, or scratching my fanny, or trying to recollect some clever gambit I had meant to include in a losing brief. Maybe he was the guy at the cleaner or a fella on my bus. But I had seen him.

I kept shaking my head. 'This is him? Kam?' Pigeyes rolled his tongue over his teeth. 'Who is he?' he asked.

'Gino, I swear to God, it beats me. I see him on the street, I'll make a citizen's arrest. You're the first guys I call.'

'Would Robert Kamin know?'

'I'll have to ask Robert Kamin next time I see him.'

'When would that be?'

'No telling. He seems to be somewhat indisposed.'

'Yeah, he seems to be.' He shared looks, a smile, with the two other coppers. Finding Bert, I suspected, had recently occupied a lot of their time. 'What about Koechell?'

'Honest to God, I never met him.' I raised a hand.

'Honest. And I have no idea where he is now.' That was true too. Pigeyes contemplated all of this.

'Which one's the homo, by the way?' I asked. 'Koechell?'

Pigeyes put his hands on his knees again, so he could get up in my face.

'Why ain't I surprised that's of interest to you?'

'If you're trying to disparage me, Pigeyes, I'm going to have to call the Human Rights Commission.' We were heading back to where we had been. Fun and games. Gino's bladder had run dry on the hot piss of vengeance for only a moment. The reservoir was filling and he was ready again to lower his fly. It came back to him as the lodestar of his universe: he really did not like me.

'Suppose I tell you,' he said, 'that you could fit a Saturn rocket up Archie Koechell's hind end, you gonna tell me how come you're so curious?'

'I'm just looking for clues to Bert's social life. That's all. Guy's out of pocket. You know that. My partners are worried and asked me to find him.' I gave an innocent little shrug.

'You find him, I wanna know. He talks to me about Kam, he can go home. But you screw around, Malloy, it's the whole load: break and enter, credit card fraud, false personation. I'll fuck you up bad, big guy. And don't think I won't enjoy it.'

I knew better than that. Dewey opened the van door from inside and I stepped down to the street, enjoying the daylight and the cold, the greatness of all outdoors. Twice now, I thought, two miracles. I spoke words of thanks to Elaine. Pigeyes had let me go.

XV

BRUSHY TELLS ME WHAT SHE WANTS AND I GET WHAT I DESERVE

A. Brushy Tells Me What' s on the Menu

For our luncheon on Friday, Brushy had chosen The Matchbook, a quiet old-line place that tried to preserve some atmosphere of leisured sanctuary for the business class. You walked down from street level into a feeling of soft enclosure. The ceiling was low; the lack of windows had been obscured by little puddles of light projected onto the faux marble wallpaper from the top of the plaster columns dividing the room. The waiters in black waistcoats and bow ties did not tell you their first names or get so chummy that you started hoping the meal might be on them.

Following my adventure with Pigeyes, I'd had an uneventful morning, ruminating periodically about the body vanished from Bert's fridge. I wanted to believe that its disappearance had nothing to do with my visit to the apartment, but I was having a hard time convincing myself.

Eventually I tracked down Lena in the library. She had her feet up on her oak carrel and was absorbed in one of the heavy gold-bound federal reporters as if it were a novel, giving off the fetching aloof air of all brainy women. I asked if she had a passport and a free weekend and still wanted to work on that gambling case, the one where she'd cracked the bookmaking code on Infomode. She was enthusiastic. I did the usual law firm delegating, shit always rolling downhill, and told her to call TN's executive travel service, pull strings if need be to get us on a plane to Pico Luan Sunday and a decent hotel, the beach if they could. She took notes.

'So,' I said, when Brush and I were seated side by side in a booth at the back. The maitre d’ had greeted Brushy by name and took us to a rear corner on a raised terrace of the room, with a column and a plant buying a little more privacy. The table was adorned with big linen napkins and a splendid anthurium, looking like a priapic valentine, and a huge cloth, stiff and white as a priest's collar, that ran to the floor. I looked about and marveled. For Center City, The Matchbook was a great place. A few years ago I would have pleasantly surrendered to temptation and had a drink at lunchtime, which would have been the end of my day. I asked Brushy when she was here last.

'Yesterday,' she said. 'With Pagnucci.'

I'd forgotten. 'How was that?'

'Strange,' she said.

'What did he want? Groundhog stuff?' 'Just a little. Basically I think he was trying to figure out why I keep having lunch with Krzysinski.' 'Jeez, I hope you slapped his face.'

She squeezed my knee with a grip strong enough to cause pain.

'He wasn't being like that. It was business.'

'Pagnucci? What a surprise. What did he want to know?'

'Well, he said it's a turbulent period for the firm. He wondered how I viewed things, my practice. He made it sound like a management review.'

'Sort of checking you out for a mid-life crisis?'

'Sort of. I thought he was trying to set a context. You know, for Groundhog Day. Points. But the way he