Dan Haley was a US attorney from the District of Columbia. His suit, too large as always, flapped in the wind and rustled his curly hair. He was a skinny guy with glasses — the type people think they can push around only to find out too late how wrong they were.
“Why are you following me, Haley? I’m on your side, remember?”
“I don’t hear from you. You don’t answer my calls. You’re supposed to check in. Are you going soft on me?”
“Just tell me when you’re ready to go to trial and I’ll be there. Just like I told you I would be.”
He didn’t answer.
I said, “But you’re not here because you’re worried I’m backing out. It’s something else.” I knew what else it was, but I wanted him to say it.
“There’s been a leak. We think there’s been a leak. We think they might know your name. Know you’re my witness. It won’t be long before they find you.”
“Who’s he?” I nodded toward the burly bald man Haley had left at the other end of the pier.
“US marshal.”
“And now you’re going to tell me to come with the two of you and you’ll put me somewhere safe...”
“It’s all arranged.”
“And when that leaks? I didn’t want to rely on you to keep me safe to start, and I certainly don’t now that you’ve proven how secure your office is. I told you how to contact me. Get me the court dates and I’ll show up.”
“I have no case without you, Petersen.”
“Then stay away from me, Haley.”
He was a control freak and I could see the struggle inside him. He knew I was right, but trusting me was another matter. The case was against SteelShield, supplier of private soldiers and most everything else that can be sold in a war zone, and six of their contractors in Iraq. They were charged with raping teenage girls, imprisoning them, and eventually, and inevitably, torturing them. I saw it, spent about a minute considering who to report it to — even considered going to the owner and founder, Ian Finch — but decided I wanted to live, so I waited the two months until I got out of Iraq and then went to the US attorney when I returned home. I played a game with Haley from the start, meeting in cars, then in an apartment in Baltimore, all designed to show him that I was serious about keeping my identity secret. But I knew I would give in despite my doubts about Haley and his office. The vision of that makeshift prison nagged me with vicious, pinpoint insinuations that I could not escape. I doubted justice or peace would result from the prosecution of those six thugs or the company, but vengeance holds some satisfaction no matter what the philosophers claim.
Haley tried again to get me to come with him. I brushed past him. “They’ll be following you, Haley. Don’t bring them to me.”
I had come to New Haven to work as a research assistant for a professor whose specialty was post — WWII mercenaries. He had plenty of theories about the supply and flow of fighters for hire, and I was one of two assistants charged with tracking down evidence that tended to support his theories. As soon as Haley was out of sight, I called the professor and told him I wouldn’t be available for a few days. He didn’t seem to mind.
That night and the next day at Sports Haven, I kept an eye on the door and told myself it was out of fear rather than hope. No one came in who didn’t look like he belonged. A few of the regulars tried to bring up “the fight,” but I refused to answer them and their curiosity was muted by races going off every few minutes.
Marsha was counting the cash, wearing her waitress uniform and her don’t-mess-with-me smile, when the door at Cody’s Diner opened. It wasn’t supposed to. She was six feet and close to 250 pounds, but her hands were quick and the gun within reach under the counter.
“We’re closed. Get out.”
Addie stopped. She showed her hands and pointed toward the back of the long, narrow room to the last orange booth where I sat. Marsha looked at me and I nodded.
Addie slid onto the bench across from me. “Holyshirt won. Paid 22–1. And you said there were no sure things.”
“Maybe see it this way: the other six horses were sure things. Yours was a happy accident.”
“Jerry told me I’d find you here.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You look alarmed.”
“You would too if Jerry knew where to find you.”
She pointed to the book I had been reading. “What’s that?”
“The Assassination of Lumumba,” I said. I told her about my research job. Her left cheek showed just a faint redness. Her eyes had lost their humor. Uncertainty ruled. Marsha set a cup of coffee in front of Addie and a piece of pumpkin pie in the middle of the table. She walked away before we could react.
“That means she likes you... unless it’s poisoned. Sometimes I misread people.”
Addie sipped her coffee. “I didn’t go to Sports Haven just to cash the ticket... That pie for you or me?”
“Whoever’s first to it.”
She pulled it toward her and took a bite. “You seem like the type of guy who doesn’t want an apology.”
“Only when there’s something to apologize for.”
“I’d feel better if you let me explain.”
I said I wanted her to feel better. She started by telling who she was and I didn’t let on that I already knew. She had come to New Haven because her movie career was in the dumps — her last picture had flopped, even in Argentina — and she thought she could change the industry’s perception of her by going onstage. Tommy — that was the guy — got her an audition at the Long Wharf.
“He produced my first two movies. We used to be together. I ended it last year. I should have known... how he is. I knew what I was doing. Thing is—”
“Tommy thinks he got a second chance and has no intention of losing out again.”
She nodded.
“And you want to give me a second chance too. Where is he? Tommy.”
She wasn’t sure. She had ditched him to get here. Last night he tried to break into her house.
“Is he armed?”
She shrugged.
“I am. We can go back there if you want.”
“I thought maybe we could hang out for a while.”
Had anyone ever said no? I don’t know how to measure cruelty, but it seemed best to limit her humiliation. I said, “It was the slaps that gave you away. Yours was okay, but you leaned in to take his.”
Her eyes squinted as if a sharp pain hit behind them.
“I like the script, though. Audition at the Long Wharf? Was that meant to make you seem within reach?”
She looked around. I thought she might run. She should have run. She seemed like a young kid caught after curfew.
“Is it Finch himself? Did he put you up to this?” I said. “What’d he promise you? Something better than an audition in New Haven, I hope.”
Her mouth opened but the words wouldn’t form. At last she said, “They just want to talk to you. That’s all.” She mustered all the conviction of a drunk sipping her second glass of water.
I laughed. “These guys? They don’t want to talk to anyone. They want to fuck you and kill me — and if that means talking a little first, they’ll play along. They won’t want witnesses, no matter what they told you. Finch could make any promise because he knows you won’t be around to call him on it. They sent you into Sports Haven so people could see us together. When you’re found dead in my bed, it’ll make sense.”
“To who?”
“To anyone who knows me or anyone who knows you.”
She sighed and pushed the pie away and looked down long enough to make a decision. “It’s down to which horse to bet on again, isn’t it? You want something so much, you talk yourself into believing people. Lying off the lies. Finch said he was going to finance a new movie and I wanted to believe it. Funny thing is, if he told me the sky was blue I’d look up to check. Well, I’ve been taking improv classes. Here I go off script: don’t go back to your apartment. I’m supposed to take you there, leave the door unlocked. The rest is probably more like you said than what they said. I’m sorry.”