Bressio Read online

  Bressio listened to the secretary’s last complaint about her job and could not tell her how lucky she was that no one wanted to own her.

  Who steals my name …

  Forty-seven Clover Lane was a modest little bungalow of a house with a white picket fence, mowed grass and green flower boxes in the window, the kind of house Bressio once thought all Americans outside of New York City lived in until his father took him to Troy, New York, a gray slum of a Hudson River town. Bressio found out later in his teens that Troy was the layoff center for the East, and his father was not taking him on a summer vacation but using him as a gesture to show the people in the area he was not there on business. The morning after they left, a tavern owner was found with four bullets in his head on the floor of his car parked on River Street. Bressio’s father had been fond of extolling the use of the commonplace.

  Bressio knocked on the door, expecting a breath of fresh rusticity. What he got was Greenwich Village. A thin man in his mid-thirties with an Indian headband around his long brown stringy hair blinked into the sunlight. Brightly colored love beads bobbed to the oversized buckle on his faded and patched blue jeans. He wore sandals and his feet needed washing.

  “Peace,” he said.

  “William Winstead?” asked Bressio.

  “All of me.”

  “I’m a representative of a lawyer involved in the Calvin Loring case,” said Bressio, which was technically correct, since Fleish and Loring were both on the same charge of conspiracy.

  “Case?”

  “Loring has been arrested in New York.”

  “Bad,” said Professor Winstead. He nodded Bressio inside.

  The living room was a flowery-old-lady sort of dwelling with rosebud covers over the sofa and chairs and knitted antimacassars set like a desperate defense over those portions of furniture that would encounter hair or arms.

  “Becky, Cal’s been busted in the Big Apple,” yelled Winstead.

  “Oh, no. Just a minute. Damn.” The voice was young and fresh and hostile. Becky Hawkins appeared in the kitchen doorway and demanded to know, pointing at Bressio, “Who’s he?”

  She was barely plump with last baby fat, a rather attractive young woman with fresh red cheeks, clear blue eyes and long sandy hair. A thin, faded blue T-shirt enticingly covered her rather large young breasts and her blue jeans bulged with a fresh hello.

  “He’s a representative of Calvin’s New York lawyer.”

  “Let’s see your identification,” said Becky.

  “I have a card,” said Bressio, giving her one of the cards he had given the secretary in Physics.

  “You a lawyer?”

  “No.”

  “You represent Calvin Loring?”

  “No. I represent the lawyer who represents a party charged with Calvin in a marijuana situation.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Conspiracy.”

  “So they’re not exactly on the same side,” said Miss Becky Hawkins. “Will, go upstairs and turn on or something.”

  “But Becky, honey.”

  “Get out of here, Will.”

  “You can be a mean down bitch, Becky,” said Professor Winstead.

  “Move it.”

  Becky Hawkins plopped into a sofa and motioned Bressio to the overstuffed cushion next to her. Bressio sat a good arm’s length away from her.

  “Was Loring caught with anything?”

  “Fifty-five pounds of Acapulco gold,” said Bressio, watching her eyes closely.

  “Does he have a lawyer?”

  “I believe a public defender. I’m not sure.”

  “And you represent Fleish, Fleish is his name?”

  “L. Marvin Fleish.”

  “Uh-huh. And you’re out here to do what?”

  “You know what I’m here for, Miss Hawkins.”

  “For dirt on Loring, right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And you want me to hand him up, right?”

  “And you will,” said Bressio.

  “Oh, really now. I’m going to hand up a boyfriend just because you come to Pruscott with that tough Mafia face to tell me so. Really.”

  “No. You’re going to hand up Loring before he hands you up as the engineer of the deal.”

  “You have something?” asked Miss Hawkins with contemptful curiosity.

  “The U.S. Attorney’s office will if it doesn’t already. People feel pretty lonely without good counsel. Or maybe Loring tried to reach you and couldn’t. Or maybe many things. But little old Calvin Loring got busted all alone in the big city, and he didn’t reach the person behind it. Why? And do you think the U.S. Attorney’s office is going to stop with a little messenger like Loring? Think about all these things, Miss Hawkins.”

  “You’re fishing in the dark.”

  “Not at all. You deal on campus. I know that. You know Loring. And you were very concerned with what he was caught with, as though you had a big investment. You didn’t seem all that bothered with his plight. I wish you could have seen your eyes when I said fifty-five pounds of Acapulco gold. They were something, Miss Hawkins. And you yourself told me you didn’t know whether he had a lawyer, which means, as you know, Calvin is feeling very much alone right now.”

  “And you know and I know, ugly face, you can’t prove it.”

  “I’m not the one who’s a danger to you, Miss Hawkins. But let’s say I get a deposition from you and you come to New York City to testify that Mr. Loring was a heavy drug user, dealt in all sorts of drugs, big, and then he turns around and names you, there isn’t much of a case against you.”

  Becky Hawkins wiggled a scrubbed forefinger signaling she wanted to hear more.

  “Of your own volition. Why, any good lawyer could show any Loring accusation was just his attempt to discredit your testimony, that is, if your deposition gets in first, and is followed by your testimony in court. Wowee. You’re clean.”

  “What if Loring’s lawyers move against me? Send someone like you out here to find out things about me?”

  “He has a public defender, Miss Hawkins.”

  “Are they like they are here?”

  “It makes you want to vomit to watch them work.”

  “Hmmmm. Who’s the prosecutor?”

  “U.S. Attorney’s office. They’re good.”

  “They’re good enough to have the FBI or someone check me out real heavy here.”

  “It would be the FBNC, but I might add, Miss Hawkins, they don’t have any special love for Loring or hate for Fleish. I don’t think there would be all that much reason to. But consider this: If someone kind enough to testify for his client got into trouble with the law because of it”—Bressio paused to give a stage of silence before the magic words—“Murray Blay Dawson would defend her.”

  “Spit and damnation. Murray Blay Dawson? The guy in the magazines? The guy who wrote the book? The lawyer who appears on these night shows? That one?”

  “That one,” said Bressio.

  “Fleish must be a rich sonuvabitch, huh?”

  Bressio smiled. After all, why tell a lie now?

  “Dawson was married three times; wasn’t he?”

  “Five.”

  “He’s a sexy-looking stud. Does he look that way in real life?”

  “Better,” said Bressio, with the mental reservation that Dawson in person didn’t look as phony as he did on television.

  “The Big Apple. I wonder if I could afford the airfare?”

  Bressio assured her that would be taken care of. Another good point was that if the inconceivable happened, a first offender as Becky was, with Dawson behind her, would only get a suspended.

  “And I’m nineteen, too,” said Becky. “They don’t put you into the slammer if you’re white, nineteen on a first offense. I wouldn’t even need someone like Murray Blay Dawson for something like that. What sort of a house does he live in?”

  “Houses,” said Bressio, checking his watch to see how much time he had to while away until hi
s evening flight to New York City. He had made three reservations just in case he would find two like Becky Hawkins. He didn’t need another.

  XIV

  When Murray Blay Dawson saw the blossoming young girl in the print dress, he crossed his legs and focused intently on Bressio. He brought in famous cases to explain the Fleish situation. Bressio tried to catch Dawson’s attention while Dawson was staring at him, but to no avail. Bressio glanced at the girl, looked directly into Dawson’s eyes and shook his head, signifying “no, no.”

  Dawson, oblivious, continued on his tack. Yes, this reminded him of a similar problem they had with Dr. Dorsted and the killing of his wife, and the killing of those people in San Diego. The problem of which trial to attempt first. There was a difference in the Dorsted case. The first acquittal couldn’t help but influence the second trial because of all the national publicity. You just couldn’t escape the cameras sometimes. They seemed to pop out of the walls. But Dawson was boring Miss Hawkins with all this talk, wasn’t he?

  “Not at all. Not at all,” said Becky.

  “You’re boring me, Murray. Can we talk alone?”

  “Certainly. I just didn’t want Miss Hawkins to think there was anything mysterious about some Park Avenue law firm.”

  With gracious courtliness Dawson explained to Becky Hawkins that Al Bressio was not only someone he hired, but a friend, too. The more famous a person gets the more he realizes how valuable real friendship is.

  “That’s so true,” said Becky Hawkins.

  “C’mon. C’mon,” said Bressio impatiently. When Becky’s fresh bouncy duff was on the other side of the door, Bressio gently grabbed Dawson’s ears like a schoolboy. “Hey, Murray. Stop the nonsense.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Dawson, appearing surprised.

  “Becky Hawkins. You don’t want to mess with her.”

  “Me, with a kid I’m going to use as a witness, and Bobo on a jealousy kick again and Bobo the only woman I’ve ever been able to live with? What do you take me for, Al?”

  “I know you, Murray. I’m running over half the country for one of your peculiarities. So don’t use illogical as a defense, especially when it comes to broads.”

  “I’m a middle-aged man, Al. She’s just a kid.”

  “At least don’t marry her.”

  “Al, I can look after myself. What’s with Fleish?”

  “We got a year suspended possession simple, and best of all, no trial date.”

  The Dawson mind began to churn. A little smile formed. “If we get the New York charge into trial right away with a guaranteed year suspended at the other end, I am thinking that you are a very beautiful person, Alphonse Bressio.”

  “And Becky Hawkins has got a tale of woe to tell you how Loring is the big pusher on campus, perhaps even the boy who started poor little her. She’s gonna dump on Andy Hardy so heavy he’ll never surface. Our little pre-med, by the way, has a C+ average.”

  Dawson examined his nails. “Al, if you get out of this end of the law, it’s a crime against genius. You know what we have? A client we made into a first offender after pleading guilty on what could have been—should have been—two felony charges. It’s like striking out in baseball and working the averages so it doesn’t show as a time at bat. Al, I don’t know what to say. We might get him off with three, maybe four months, when he should be doing five to fifteen years. You know, we might, if the U.S. Attorney’s office gets just a little bit lazy—”

  “Stop dreaming, Murray. They’re not getting lazy with you as counsel.”

  “Yeah. I suppose so, but there’s a little play here. Wowee. I feel young again. Bring on that little broad.”

  “The curse of L. Marvin is upon you. I am clean, over, and moving on.”

  “By all means, Al. And thanks. Thanks, really. I appreciate what you’ve done. By the way, there’s a mob war on since you left.”

  “Who says?”

  “The papers.”

  “Oh. Hey, I’m dealing expenses through Cutler now, but we’re holding you to keeping L. Marvin away from Mary Beth. That’s the price.”

  “You don’t seem very impressed by mob wars.”

  “I am. I’m not impressed by newspaper accounts.”

  “Another distant relative got it, a Bugellerio.”

  “Oh, really, which one?”

  “Salvatore.”

  “That’s too bad. Don’t forget the deal, okay?”

  “And a guy named Tomalino.”

  “Might be some sort of thing. Watch your step with Hawkins. She is not nice.”

  “And a Rugerrio Posolimo, alias Willie Knuckles.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ Almighty,” said Bressio slapping his forehead. “Holy Mary, Mother of God.”

  “What’s the matter, Al?”

  Dawson had known Bressio was supposed to be fast, but he was shocked at the speed with which the incredible chunk of a man fled his office. Who was Posolimo to him? Well, no matter. Dawson would never fully understand Bressio, his confusion of loyalties and principles that ran searingly deep.

  But he was right, very right about playing around with a young girl who might possibly be the witness who could show Marvin Fleish was an innocent bystander, practically, dragged into this affair by the cunning of that master pusher, Calvin Loring. That was still a guilty plea. There had to be a not guilty in there somewhere, but every time Dawson’s mind began reeling out possibilities it always ran into the snag of L. Marvin Fleish, his confession and his actions of the night of his second arrest.

  During one of these reeling out of possibilities, Dawson fleetingly saw his hands on the young plump breasts of Miss Rebecca Hawkins and remembered she was waiting outside. He would have to talk to this witness and explore ways in which to juggle this Fleish thing. Perhaps fondle it from a different angle.

  Al Bressio was slapping his forehead in the back seat of a taxi whose driver didn’t quite understand the instructions.

  “A block this side of Pren Street. Two eighty-five. You know where 285 is?”

  “On the corner of Demster, I think.”

  “Right. Well, a block before that block on the corner stop.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Look, I forget the name of the block before it. Wait. Turn right at Houston on Pren and I’ll tell you when to stop. Don’t stop suddenly, just a normal slow casual stop. Very easy.”

  “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is I’ve been very stupid. Now listen to me and you’ll get a good tip. Just slow down and stop when I tell you too. Stupid. Not you, me. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Gavone.” And Bressio slapped his forehead again with the heel of his hand.

  And the cabdriver was very nervous.

  On Pren Street, Bressio could feel what he already knew would be there. You could tell it by what was not visible. People did not lean out of their windows in the hot summer afternoon. Children did not play stickball on the street. Men did not lounge in undershirts on the stoops. It was quiet. Dead quiet and still on a sunny Thursday afternoon. Bressio tipped the cabdriver five dollars.

  He walked very slowly to 285, not pretending to be casual because no one who mattered would believe that now. He did not look up to windows or scrutinize draperies for movement. They were there. And who knew what a direct glance at some frightened young gunman would set off.

  At ground level, curtains moved in the warehouse opposite 285 Pren Street. Bressio couldn’t help but notice, but he did not look. A car drove slowly up the street from behind him, and when it passed, he saw two men in the back seat and one up front driving.

  He felt an itch under his left armpit near the holster, but he dared not touch it. Perspiration soaked his shirt and came into his eyebrows. With an exaggerated slow far-out reach, he wiped the perspiration from his eyes with his left hand and then returned the hand to his side in the same circular motion as though taking down a very slow salute.

  His lips tasted salty and he felt there was
not enough air in the air. He breathed deeply once, then entered the unlocked door of 285 Pren. The hallway lights were still not working. The door shut behind him, sealing him in darkness. He waited, listening, his eyes made useless by the bright street. He took two sure steps into the blackness and waited. There was rustling down to the right, probably in the basement stairwell.

  He could taste the garbage stench of the hallway. His shirt was soaked now. He moved two more steps and waited. He was at the stairs. By two steps and wait, he made it to the top of the first flight. His eyes adjusted and he realized no one could see. He wiped his right hand dry on his jacket and slipped the .38 police special from the holster, releasing the safety as he did so. With the thumb of his gun hand, he carefully scratched the itch.

  He felt along the wall with his left hand. It was oily wet and he cut a finger by going through a paint chip too rapidly. His fingers stayed on the wall until he felt the doorframe. They hurdled it and made it across the door to the knob which, as Bressio suspected, felt cleanly polished, glaringly free of grime, a perfect receptacle for picking up fingerprints. He waited. No sound. He turned the doorknob. It was locked.

  With his cut left hand, he fished his American Express card from his wallet without removing the wallet from his jacket. He waited. Nothing.

  He pushed the card edge vertical until its side was flat against the inside of the doorframe. He wheedled the card between frame and door, and felt the card pressured flat toward the door. The frame overlapped the door. No good. He eased the card out, and with his left thumbnail felt the wood of the frame. The nail dug in. The frame was old and rotted. With the pads of his fingertips he gently felt horizontally across the frame until he reached an indentation. He checked the indentation with the thumbnail to make sure it was not just part of the design of the molding. The thumbnail penetrated. He ran it up and down. It was the right spot. He slid the card into the crevice and worked it down until he felt the tongue of the lock. He angled the card so the forehead of the card became the pressure point, and then, increasing the pressure, he pushed down. The door clicked open and Bressio simultaneously moved out of the way of the glaring light that sent a thin, vertical, door-tall beam of white light against the far wall he had felt along. He waited, listening. Nothing.