“Please don’t kill us,” one of the men said, desperation tightening his voice. “It wasn’t personal. We were paid to do a job. We coulda killed you but we didn’t.”
I suddenly recognized him as the one who did all the talking in the garage.
“It’s them,” I said, pointing down. “He did the talking and he did the punching. Who are they?”
Cisco nodded as though the confirmation was only a formality.
“They’re brothers. The talker is Joey Mack. The puncher is, get this, Angel Mack.”
“Listen, we don’t even know what it was about,” the Talker yelled out. “Please! We made a mistake. We-”
“You’re fucking-A right you made a mistake!” Cisco yelled, his voice coming down on both of them like the wrath of God. “And now you pay. Who wants to go first?”
The Puncher started to whimper. Cisco walked over to a card table where there was a spread of tools and weapons, plus the roll of tape. He chose a pipe wrench and a set of pliers and turned back. I thought and hoped it was all an act. But if it was, Cisco was turning in an Oscar-caliber performance. I put my hand on his shoulder and held him from approaching the two men. I didn’t have to say anything but the message was clear. Let me have a shot at them.
I took the wrench from Cisco and squatted like a baseball catcher in front of the captives. I hefted the heavy tool in my hand for a few seconds, getting a good feel for its weight, before speaking.
“Who hired you to hurt me?”
The Talker answered immediately. He wasn’t interested in protecting anybody but himself and his brother.
“A guy named Dahl. He told us to hit you hard but not kill you. You can’t do this, man.”
“I think we can do whatever we want. How do you know Dahl?”
“We don’t. But we had a mutual connection.”
“And who was that?”
No answer. I didn’t have to wait long before Bam Bam lived up to his moniker and leaned down and hit them both with pistonlike punches to the jaw. The Talker was spitting blood when he gave me the name.
“Jerry Castille.”
“And who’s Jerry Castille?”
“Look, you can’t tell anybody this.”
“You’re not in a position to tell me what I can or can’t do. Who’s Jerry Castille?”
“He’s the west coast representative.”
I waited but that was it.
“I don’t have all night, man. West coast representative of what?”
The bloodied man nodded like he knew there was only one way to go here.
“Of a certain east-coast organization. You get it?”
I looked at Cisco. Herb Dahl had ties to east-coast organized crime? It seemed far-fetched.
“No, you don’t get it,” I said. “I’m a lawyer. I want a direct answer. Which organization? You have exactly five seconds until-”
“He works for Joey Giordano outta Brooklyn, okay? Now you’ve sealed the deal on us anyway. So go fuck yourself.”
He reared back and spit blood at me. I had left my suit coat and tie at the office. I looked down at my white shirt and saw a bloodstain just outside the area that would be covered by a tie.
“This is a monogrammed shirt, you shit head.”
Tommy Guns suddenly moved between us and I heard the brutal impact of fist on face but didn’t see it because of Tommy’s massive size. He then stepped back and I could see the Talker was now spitting out teeth.
“Monogrammed shirt, man,” Tommy Guns said, as if offering an explanation for his vicious action.
I stood up.
“Okay, cut them loose,” I said.
Cisco and the two Saints turned to look at me.
“Cut ’em loose,” I said again.
“You sure?” Cisco said. “They’ll probably go running back to this fucker Castille and tell him we know.”
I looked down at the two men on the floor and shook my head.
“No, they won’t. They tell him that they talked and they’ll probably end up dead. So cut them loose and it’s like this never happened. They’ll drop out of sight until the bruises go away. And that will be the end of it.”
I bent down to get close to the two captives.
“I have that right, right?”
“Yeah,” said the Talker, a bulge the size of a marble forming on his upper lip.
I looked at his brother.
“Is that right? I want to hear it from both of you.”
“Yeah, yeah, right,” the Puncher said.
I looked at Cisco. We were finished here. He gave the order.
“Okay, Guns, listen up. You wait till dark. You leave them in here and wait till dark. Then you bag ’em and take ’em back to wherever they want to go. You drop them off but you leave ’em alone. You got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
Poor Tommy Guns. He truly looked disappointed.
I took one last look at the bloodied men on the floor. And they looked up at me. The feeling of holding their lives in my hands sent an electric jolt through me. Cisco tapped me on the back and I followed him from the room, closing the door behind me. We started down the hall but I put my hand on my investigator’s arm and stopped him.
“You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have brought me here.”
“Are you kidding? I had to bring you here.”
“What are you talking about? Why?”
“Because they did something to you. Inside. You lost something, Mick, and if you don’t get it back you aren’t going to be much good to yourself or anybody else.”
I stared at him for a long moment and then nodded.
“I got it back.”
“Good. Now we never have to talk about this again. Can you take me back to the office so I can pick up my bike?”
“Yeah. I can do that.”
Thirty-one
Driving by myself after dropping Cisco in the garage, I thought about the law of the land and the law of the streets and the differences between them. I stood in courtrooms and insisted that the law of the land be applied fairly and appropriately. There was nothing that had been fair and appropriate about what I had just been party to in the black room.
Still, it didn’t bother me. Cisco had been right. I needed to gain the upper hand inside my own soul before I could gain it in court or anywhere else. I felt renewed as I drove. I opened all the Lincoln’s windows and let the evening air course through the car as I came down Laurel Canyon toward home.
This time Maggie had used her key. She was already inside when I got there, an unexpected but pleasant surprise. The refrigerator door was open and she was leaning down and looking in.
“I really came because you always used to stock up before a trial. Your refrigerator was like going down the cold aisle at Gelson’s. But what happened? There’s nothing here.”
I dropped my keys on the table. She had been to her own home from work first and had changed. She wore faded denim jeans, a peasant shirt and sandals with thick cork heels. She knew I liked that outfit.
“I guess I didn’t get around to it this time.”
“Well, I wish I’d known. Might’ve considered going somewhere else on my one night this week with a sitter.”
She smiled slyly. I couldn’t figure out why we weren’t still living together.
“How about we go down to Dan’s?”
“Dan Tana’s? I thought you went there only when you won a case. You already counting your chickens, Haller?”
I smiled and shook my head.
“No, no way. But if I went there only when I won then I’d hardly ever get to eat there.”
She pointed a finger at me and smiled. It was a dance and we were both well used to it. She closed the fridge and walked through the kitchen door and then right past me without so much as a kiss.
“Dan Tana’s is open late,” she said.
I watched her walk down the hallway toward the master bedroom. She pulled the peasant blouse up over her head just as she disappeared into the room.