Absent Friends

“Okay, thought.” Making my point, said Phil to himself, to Kevin, silently. “Even more reason to keep my mouth shut. Kev, I followed his career all these years. He saved a lot of lives. He was a hero. Except, if I was right, this one time. One time. And the money? Wherever it came from, he was using it to help people I loved.”

Kevin flinched at the word. Phil wondered, Can this really be the first time I've said it to him?

“So who the hell was I to screw that up?” He leaned toward Kevin. “For what? To prove how smart I was? What good would it have done?”

“What about justice? You didn't care?”

Phil opened his hands. Empty. “I think about that every day. About Markie and every client since. I don't know what it means.”

“You don't know? For Christ's sake, Uncle Phil! You're a lawyer!”

The universe of innocence in that outburst would have made Phil laugh with delight, if things were different. Instead, he leaned toward Kevin again and tried to explain.

“The other side—the prosecution—they talk about justice all the time. Paying your debts. Justice for the victims. But I see guys like Markie. Guys with family, friends, guys who had something going. Then one fuckup, their lives are over. Who's the justice for, Kevin? What does it look like?”

Kevin gave no answer. How could he? There was no answer.

But he had another question.

“Eddie Spano?”

Phil nodded. “You mean, if the money was his?”

“Because you can't be telling me Uncle Jimmy was . . . I don't know what the fuck, Spano's hit man or something? And we—and that was the payoff? You can't—”

“No, no. But there was a turf thing, the Molloys and the Spanos. I think either Jimmy or your dad was a go-between.”

“Spano was there, too? That night?”

“No. I thought about that, but no. I don't think Jimmy or Markie would have protected him. I think something was going on, some arrangement Eddie Spano and Jack Molloy were working out, through somebody, Jimmy or Markie. And Molloy got drunk, started shooting, got shot, just like Markie said. But I don't think Markie shot him. I think it was Jimmy.”

“Then why would Spano—”

“Maybe that's where the gun came from, from Spano, and Jimmy had that on him. So Jimmy squeezed a little out of him every month. Not a lot, not so much Spano would rather do something else about it. Just enough to keep Jimmy quiet and help you guys out.”

Through narrowed eyes Kevin watched him. Shit, Phil thought. He suddenly knew what his clients must feel when they saw the end coming, when they realized Phil's magic wasn't going to work.

Slowly, Kevin said, “When I was thirteen, the money doubled. You said it was a cost-of-living thing, the state was adjusting it. What was that? Uncle Jimmy squeezing Spano harder? After ten years?”

Phil shook his head. One more. One more and it's over. “That was me.”

Kevin stared.

“Your mother wanted to send you to St. Ann's.”

“You paid for that?”

“I make money. What the hell was I going to do with it?”

“Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.” Kevin shook his head, looking as though he were standing on Mars staring at the scenery. “That was always a big deal to her. Your money. That she wasn't taking your fucking money.”

“I know.”

“It was important. She always said. You and her, she said, that was a special thing. But what kept us going was her working, and Dad's money from the State. Her and Dad. It was important.”

“I know.”

“How much of this did you tell that reporter?” Kevin's voice was tight. If he wasn't hurt, he'd have started it already, Phil thought. Lurched across the table, grabbed my shirt, thrown me. I'm bigger, he's younger. How would it come out?

“None of it. It was none of his goddamn business. Everything he put in the paper was on the public record, just that no one ever looked for it before. As soon as he found it, I knew it was big trouble.”

“Why did someone kill him?”

“Maybe they didn't. Maybe he jumped. Kevin?”

“What?”

“If someone did kill him, it wasn't me.”

The silence began again, and stretched on and on, until Phil started to wonder if anyone, anything, in this room would ever move anymore.

Then Kevin slid to the end of the booth. He pushed to his feet and leaned for his crutches. He set them where he needed them and gripped them, Phil thought, tighter than he had to: his knuckles were white. Without another word or a look at Phil he swung away, through the room. As he shouldered the door, a flare of bright light filled the opening, as though something had exploded the very moment Kevin left.

Well, sure, thought Phil.

It had.

MARIAN'S STORY

Chapter 12

Turtles in the Pond

October 31, 2001

Marian walked with Tom along the streets of Pleasant Hills. He wasn't telling her something, and she didn't know what it was. That was almost funny, not funny but almost, considering what he had told her, and how much she had not wanted to hear it.