double take. He paused and looked across at me with a new, wary appreciation. “I'm an attorney,” he finally said. “I don't clean offices, I don't empty dumpsters, and I don't shovel dirt, Peter. If I may I call you that?”
“That would be fine, Ralph. I haven't figured out all the “why's” yet, but I've got most of the “how's.” Eventually I will, and when I do, lawyer or not, you're going to the slammer. You, Greene, Varner, Dannmeyer, all of you.”
With a heavy sigh, tired and exasperated, Tinkerton leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. “All right, who sent you? Who are you working for?”
“My wife sent me, Ralph,” I glared at him, feeling the anger building up inside. “Remember the Blues Brothers? Elwood and his brother Joliet Jake? Well, I'm not on a “mission from God,” I'm on a mission from Terri, and my wife doesn't think much of you stealing her name for one of your two-bit scams. Neither do I. Those memories are all I have left of her. They have to last me a long, long time and I'm not going to let you put your greasy paws all over them. You got that?”
My anger was white hot now, rolling across the room at him in waves. I could see he felt them, as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “For the longest time this morning, I couldn't figure it out. Why? I kept asking myself “why?” A retired carpenter, an auto mechanic, an auto-worker, a warehouse supervisor, and now a bean counter?”
“What in
“I'm talking about the Skeppingtons and the Brownsteins, the Pryors from Phoenix, Edward J. Kasmarek from Chicago, and whoever the hell it was you buried under my name up in Oak Hill yesterday.”
I didn't have to say anymore. His mouth dropped open and I could tell those names were the knockout punch. To finish the big lawyer off, I pulled the copies of the obituaries from my shirt pocket and held them up for him to see.
“See, it's all right here, Ralph, if you know what you're looking for, and I happen to be the World Champion on obituaries.”
Tinkerton's eyes went wide and his face turned beet red. Big-time lawyers are supposed to stand up and shout things like, “Objection!” whenever something happened they didn't like or didn't understand. However, there was no Judge Ito or even Judge Judy in this courtroom. No juries hanging on his every word. No reporters. Not even a TV camera. Only the eminent Ralph McKinley Tinkerton, Esq. and me.
“At first, I figured this was the normal fun and games — you know, greed, theft, lust, maybe drugs and embezzlement, maybe a little kiddie porn. That was the kind of stuff any good California boy can understand. The bodies? Was it kidnapping, murder for hire, or selling used body parts? I don't know and I really don't care.”
“You should care, Peter.”
“Nah, I figure you're just a bunch of crooks burying people under somebody else's name, people you want to permanently disappear. But the cops can sort all that out later.”
“The cops? You need to get a grip, my young friend.”
“Yeah, well, that was my first reaction too, until I got a good look at you, at the building, the office, and that little shrine you've got over there in the corner. Now, I see I had it all wrong.”
“How's that?” he asked as he slowly rose to his feet and walked out from behind the desk, his hard eyes never leaving me. “Exactly what is it you think you've got all wrong?”
“Sit down, Ralph,” I said as I held up the other white bag, the one with the bottle of Doctor Brown's Creme Soda. “I didn't walk in here stupid and I have nothing to lose anymore. Touch me and I'll make a really big mess out of you and this end of the fourteenth floor, and Edna won't like that very much.”
He looked at me and at the second white paper bag and stopped dead in his tracks. Ever so slowly, he turned and went back around the desk and sat in his chair.
I motioned to the photos on the wall. “I read your resume in Martindale-Hubbell, very impressive.”
“Martindale-Hubbell? My, my, you have been busy.”
“Not as busy as you. The FBI? The U. S. Attorney's Office? Special Counsel? Even Marine Corps Special Ops? Where did it all go wrong, Ralph?”
“Go wrong?” he flared. “How dare you?”
“That's real easy. But this isn't some petty little scam, is it? Oh, no. This isn't about money, or drugs, or even politics, is it? It's a lot bigger than that kind of stuff, because you, Ralph McKinley Tinkerton, have the smell of a True Believer.”
Tinkerton stopped and, chose his words carefully. “I owe you an apology, Peter. Like you said, you didn't come in here stupid and it would be a mistake to treat you as if you had.” He turned his head and looked at his shrine with an embarrassed smile, his voice turning softer and friendlier. “My “shrine” as you call it may indeed be a bit “over the top,” but I'm sure you recognize the faces, the names and positions. Those are people I worked for over the years, people I respect, people who could speak to the type of work I did for the government over the past twenty years, if you were to ask.”
“I'm sure it makes for a nice resume, Ralph, but why should I care?”
“Why? Because you did
“I'm shocked, Ralph. Shocked.” My mouth dropped open in feigned disbelief. “National Security? Who'd ‘a thunk it?”
“I know,” he conceded with an embarrassed smile and a wave of his hand. “You're an intelligent man and you're absolutely justified in being skeptical. That tired old excuse of National Security had gray hair on it back in Iran-Contra and even earlier when Gordon Liddy botched that Watergate burglary job.”
“Got him his own slot on talk radio though, didn't it?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Ollie North, too. Got him a new backyard fence and a run for the U. S. Senate. Boy, oh boy, Ralph, you sure can't beat that old “National Security” excuse, can you?”
“Dead on, again, but I am being serious. Let us say for the sake of argument that no one sent you here, that you really are working on your own, and that you ferreted out these various tidbits all by yourself.” He leaned forward and spoke straight at me in his softest, most sincere lawyer voice. “This really is a matter of extreme National Security and the authorization comes from the highest level, which is government-speak for the White House or something damned close to it. That means Top Secret and we expect you'll help us keep it that way. I need your help, Peter. A little cooperation. Will you give it to me?”
I looked across at him. “Ralph, there's only two things that grow in the dark on a steady diet of bullshit: good mushrooms and bad government. Whatever you cooked up here, it's wrong and it's in dire need of some fresh air and sunshine.”
“Fresh air? Sunshine?” He shook his head sadly. “I take it you aren't a big city boy, are you, Peter? Never spent much time in New York, Fifth Avenue, maybe?”
“New York? No, but I spent a lot of time in L. A.”
“Well, they have street hustle they play in the Big Apple called three-card monte, the shell game. I know they play it in Chicago. Maybe they play it in L. A. too. Three cards on a cardboard box on the sidewalk. Try to guess which card is the Queen of Spades. It's all slight of hand, a fast shuffle, a little deception. Maybe you lose twenty bucks, but nobody gets hurt. That's all we're doing here. No harm, no foul.”
“No harm? No foul? I don't think so, Ralph. This thing smells.”
“Smells?” he sighed. “Well, I guess we aren't going to be friends after all, are we?” But it doesn't matter. You turned over the wrong card. You have nothing.”
“I have a lot more than that.”
“No you don't. It's like those three cards on the box. The flashing fingers and the distractions have you confused. You're seeing stuff that isn't there.”
“Fingers? Funny thing about fingers. They leave prints. When the cops go up to Oak Hill and dig up
