"Flies are just for decoration. Like your medals."
"I'm trying to help you out, Jakie. Don't fight me."
"Help me out! That's a hoot. You framed me for the Rodriguez murder."
He studied me. "I can get you out of it. I'm willing to compromise my position to help you."
"What are you talking about?"
Just then the distinctive aroma of rotgut breath invaded our space. "Scuse me, gentlemen, could you spare a shrimp?"
"The fuck out of here!" Fox ordered, and my wino friend shrank away.
"You killed Rod," Fox said, "and I'm ready to cut a deal with you."
"No. You killed him, and I'm going to nail you."
"You are so fucking stupid, Lassiter. Why would I kill Rodriguez? He was my friend."
"So was Evan Ferguson."
He took a step toward me, thought better of it, and looked around.
"What's the matter, Nick, too many voters here?"
"Okay, asshole, you got something to say, say it."
I took a deep breath and loaded my ammo. I only had one round. "I know all about you and the Medellin cartel. I know about the prosecutions you tanked and the information you passed to Bogota. I know about the bank accounts in the Caymans and Panama and just about everything else that could put you away. And in case you're thinking about using that howitzer under your coat, everything gets delivered to the Journal in case I miss my breakfast meeting tomorrow."
Nick Fox didn't call me an asshole and he didn't pull his gun. His bluster was just for effect. I had tried enough cases to know that. Now it was all business, Fox trying to figure if I had the proof to back up the allegations. What cards does the guy with the fishing rod hold?
A minute passed. He still hadn't said a word. A second minute that seemed like a year. The bridge rattled under our feet as the cars thundered past. Three hundred yards away in the channel, a fully rigged custom Swan, maybe fifty feet, tooted its horn three times. The bridge tender pushed a button, the yellow lights flashed, and a moment later the traffic gates lowered and the bridge began its slow ascent.
Finally Nick Fox said, "Rodriguez told you all this."
"Yep."
"Just words, and hearsay at that. Just a dead man's words."
Already he had considered the evidence and decided I had nothing admissible. So I bluffed. "Plus photocopies, microfilm, and a bunch of bank records he delivered to me for the paper."
That stopped him, but only for a second. "Bullshit. He never had access to the accounts."
Confirmation. Instead of denying it, just letting me know I couldn't prove anything.
"Never? You never sent him to pick up cash, make a deposit. While he's there, maybe a friendly banker gives him what he wants in exchange for a tip."
He chewed it over. It must have made sense. "That shithead Rodriguez! That simpleminded fuck."
And this is how he talks about his friends, I thought.
"Once Prissy was killed, Rodriguez cracked," Fox said. "He loved her, always loved her. When we broke up, I gave him the go-ahead. But she wasn't interested in him except as a friend. He was still hoping and groping until she was killed. I should have figured he'd do something like this. He never wanted a piece of the action. Wanted to live a simple life as a cop. I was gonna make him head of a statewide crime commission. Supervisory powers over all capital cases. The best investigators, the latest equipment. I needed to get elected, that's all, and I needed a middleman for the financing."
"To tote your bags, to haul your drug money. To aid and abet you in selling out your office. Maybe he got tired of it."
"Drugs are bullshit, Jakie. Read the papers. Federal judges, congressmen, your egghead professors are all calling for legalization. We can't stop the flow. We close down Colombia, they move to Peru and Ecuador. Christ, they're manufacturing in Europe now. We seal off the Bahamas for transit, they move to Mexico. We put on the heat in Miami as a port of entry, they come in through Texas and North Carolina. Forget drugs. It's like booze. You can't stop it if the people want it."
"You can rationalize anything, can't you, Nick? Killing your best friend, selling out your office, framing me."
There was a tug on my line, then a leap, and a silver fish with a black streak from gills to tail took off. The wrong way. It headed under the bridge. Snook. Maybe twelve pounds. I yanked on the rod and tried to drive it out. Too late. It had fouled the line on a piling. I jerked the rod this way and that and then the line broke free.
"Damn shame, guv'nor," said rotgut breath from a few feet away.
Fox was thinking. I didn't know what, but I was hoping. He didn't disappoint me. "Okay, let's assume you have what you say you have. All the more reason we work this out. You have something I want. Two somethings, as it turns out. I hold your keys to the jailhouse. You give me the Vietnam log plus whatever documents Rodriguez gave you, and you've got a free pass."
The Swan had putted through, its mast towering above us. Inside the shack, the tender pulled a huge lever and the bridge lowered again.
"I've already got a free pass. I didn't do it. You did. You had me under surveillance at Cindy's apartment. When I limped home, you took the gun. Then you killed Rodriguez and planted it."
He gripped the handrail and stared toward the flickering lights downtown. "Jake, think about it. I didn't know the asshole talked to you. I never suspected. It was suicidal for him. He'd have to do time. Look, I've been straight with you. I told you I killed Evan Ferguson. I ran dope out of 'Nam, and I skimmed shipments here when I was a cop. As a prosecutor, I dumped some cases, and I took major-league bread from some very bad actors because I had other priorities. But I never killed Rodriguez…"
Over the rise of the drawbridge appeared a figure shimmering in the artificial light. Pamela Maxson.
Oh shit. Early. Just when I was getting ready to lower the boom. I couldn't deal with both of them at once.
Fox saw her, too. "Hey, Jakie, isn't that your English squeeze?"
She wore a beige linen suit and matching shoes and pursed her lips walking across the steel grating of the catwalk. She called to me: "Jake, my cab is at the end of the bridge. Double-parked. I must say, this is a most unconventional meeting place. And I must catch-"
"A lady in our midst," proclaimed the old wino, bending from the waist and extending an arm.
"Dr. Maxson," Nick acknowledged, nodding. "Perhaps I shouldn't say this, but you have the greatest legs I've ever seen, and I've seen them from here to Hong Kong."
Pam nodded politely but kept her eyes on me. "Well, Jake, you seem to have drawn us together in this hellhole. What is the purpose of it?"
"I wanted to tell you a story. Nick, you might as well listen, too."
Pam cocked a hip and pouted. "Jake, really. It's stifling and smelly"-she looked toward old fishbait nearby-"and I have to catch-"
"A short story about a beautiful woman. She grew up in the English countryside, a picture-postcard place. But she was unable to resolve what they call the positive Oedipal complex. She couldn't transfer her love for her father onto other men. At the same time she hated her mother's promiscuity, which had driven Father off. She once told me, 'Never underestimate the damage a mother can do.' So she had a horrible dilemma. She was attracted to other girls, yet hated them for it, especially their heterosexual promiscuity, which reminded her of Mother. She began experimenting with homosexuality while a teen, and when she learned that her lovers, also country girls, had taken up with boys, too…"
"You're no good at this, Jake," she said, an edge to her voice. "You're just as wrong about me as you were about Bobbie."
"We'll get to her in a minute. Let's cut to the chase. The heroine of our story killed two of the Cotswolds girls, strangled them in their barns or pastures or wherever they met to entangle limbs. The experience fascinated and repelled her at the same time."