"Yes."
"Is she hiding?"
"Yes."
"Good. They're so damned stupid they make threats
against her. They don't know it's against the law to do this. These are really sick people."
The three of us are unanimous in our opinion that the Rikers are quite ignorant and very dangerous.
"Morgan doesn't want to prosecute," Vance continues. Morgan nods her head.
"It's very simple, Mr. Vance," I say. "You can take it to the grand jury, and you might get lucky and get an indictment. But if you take it to trial, you'll lose. I'll wave that damned aluminum bat in front of the jury, and I'll bring in a dozen experts on domestic abuse. I'll make her a symbol, and you guys will look terrible trying to convict her. You won't get one vote out of twelve from the jury."
I continue. "I don't care what his family does. But if they bully you into prosecuting this case, you'll be sorry. They'll hate you even more when the jury slam-dunks it and we walk."
"He's right, Al," Morgan says. "There's no way to get a conviction."
Al was ready to throw in the towel before we walked in here, but he needed to hear it from both of us. He agrees to dismiss all charges. Morgan promises to fax me a letter to this effect by late morning.
I thank them and leave quickly. The moods are shifting rapidly. I'm alone in the elevator, and I can't help but grin at myself in the polished brass above the numbered buttons. All charges will be dismissed! Forever!
I practically run through the parking lot to my car.
THE BULLET was fired from the street, pierced the window in the front office, left a neat hole no more than half an inch wide, left another hole in the Sheetrock, and ended its journey deep in the wall. Deck happened to be in the front office when he heard the shot. The bullet missed him by no more than ten feet, but this was close
enough. He did not run to the window immediately. He dove under the table, and waited for a few minutes.
Then he locked the door, and waited for someone to check on him. No one did. It happened around ten-thirty, while I was meeting with Al Vance. Apparently, no one saw the gunman. If the shot was heard by anyone else, we'll never know it. The sounds of random bullets are not uncommon in this part of town.
The first call Deck made was to Butch, who was asleep. Twenty minutes later, Butch was in the office, heavily armed and working to calm Deck.
They're examining the hole in the window when I arrive, and Deck tells me what happened. I'm sure Deck shakes and twitches when he's sound asleep, and he's really trembling now. He tells us he's fine, but his voice is squeaky. Butch says he'll wait just below the window and catch them if they come back. In his car he has two shotguns and an AK-47 assault rifle. God help the Rikers if they plan another drive-by shooting.
I can't get Booker on the phone. He's out of town taking depositions with Marvin Shankle, so I write him a brief letter in which I promise to call later.
DECK AND I decide on a private lunch, away from admiring throngs, out of the range of stray bullets. We buy deli sandwiches and eat in Miss Birdie's kitchen. Butch is parked in the drive behind my Volvo. If he doesn't get to shoot the AK-47 today, he'll be devastated.
The weekly cleaning service was in yesterday, so the house is fresh and temporarily without the smell of mildew. It's ready for Miss Birdie.
The deal we cut is painless and simple. Deck gets the files he wants, and I get two thousand dollars, to be paid within ninety days. He'll associate other lawyers if he has to. He'll also farm out any of my active files he doesn't want. The Ruffins' collection cases will be sent back to Booker. He won't like it, but he'll get over it.
Sorting through the files is easy. It's sad how few cases and clients we've generated in six months.
The firm has thirty-four hundred dollars in the bank, and a few outstanding bills.
We agree on the details as we eat, and the business aspect of the separation is easy. The personal untangling is not. Deck has no future. He cannot pass the bar. exam, and there's no place for him to go. He'll spend a few weeks cleaning up my files, but he can't operate without a Bruiser or a Rudy to front for him. We both know this, but it's left unsaid.
He confides in me that he's broke. "Gambling?" I ask.
"Yeah. It's the casinos. I can't stay away from them." He's relaxed now, almost sedate. He takes a large bite from a dill-pickle and crunches loudly.
When we started our firm last summer, we had just been handed an equal split in the Van Landel settlement. We had fifty-five hundred dollars each, and we both put up two thousand. I was forced to dip into my savings a few times, but I have twenty-eight hundred in the bank, money I've saved by living frugally and burying it when I could. Deck doesn't spend it either. He just blows it at the blackjack tables.
"I talked to Bruiser last night," he says, and I'm not surprised.
"Where is he?"
"Bahamas."
"Is Prince with him?"
'Tep."
This is good news, and I'm relieved to hear it. I'm sure Deck has known it for some time.
"So they made it," I say, looking out the window, trying
to imagine those two with straw hats and sunglasses. They both lived in such darkness here.
"Yeah. I don't know how. Some things you don't ask." Deck has a blank look on his face. He's deep in thought. "The money's still here, you know."
"How much?"
"Four million, cash. It's what they skimmed from the -clubs."
"Four million?"
"Yep. In one spot. Locked in the basement of a warehouse. Right here in Memphis."
"And how much are they offering you?"
"Ten percent. If I can get it to Miami, Bruiser says he can do the rest."
"Don't do it, Deck."
"It's safe."
"You'll get caught and sent to jail."
"I doubt it. The feds aren't watching anymore. They don't have a clue about the money. Everybody assumes Bruiser took enough with him and he doesn't need anymore."
"Does he need it?"
"I don't know. But he sure as hell wants it."
"Don't do it, Deck."
"It's a piece of cake. The money will fit in a small U-Haul truck. Bruiser says it'll take two hours max to load it. Drive the U-Haul to Miami, and wait for instructions. It'll take two days, and it'll make me rich."
His voice has a faraway tone to it. There's no doubt in my mind that Deck will try this. He and Bruiser have been planning it. I've said enough. He's not listening.
We leave Miss Birdie's house and walk to my apartment. Deck helps me haul a few clothes to my car. I load the trunk and half the backseat. I'm not going back to the office, so we say our good-byes by the garage.
"I don't blame you for leaving," he says.
"Be careful, Deck."
We embrace for an awkward second or two, and I almost choke up.
"You made history, Rudy, do you know that?"
"We did it together."
"Yeah, and what do we have to show for it?"
"We can always brag."
We shake hands, and Deck's eyes are wet. I watch him shuffle and jerk down the drive, and get in the car with Butch. They drive away.
I write a long letter to Miss Birdie, and promise to call later. I leave it on the kitchen table because I'm sure she'll be home soon. I check the house once again, and say good-bye to my apartment.
I drive to a branch bank and close my savings account. A stack of twenty-eight one-hundred-dollar bills has a nice feel to it. I hide it under the floor mat.