Long Lost - James Scott Bell Page 0,15

his name in the paper it was as a disciplinary statistic and his career was hanging by the neck from a tree.

On the opinion page there was a column about a couple of horrific gang slayings. It wasn’t just drive-bys this time. Two black gang members had been ritually skinned. Their inner works, so to speak, were spread around and their outer casings nailed to a wall.

Steve held in his breakfast. Just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse in this world, bad old reality comes along and gives you a fresh kick in the teeth. Nice place, the world. That’s what cocaine was for, after all. You could forget you lived here for a while.

Steve went to the editorial cartoon, this one of the US Supreme Court, and was admiring the rendering of Scalia when he sensed someone at his side. He tried to ignore the figure, but when a guy sat down in the chair beside his, Steve gave a quick look.

The guy was looking right at Steve. He wore a black shirt buttoned to the top, but Steve could see the tentacles of a tattoo above the collar. His hair was blond, cut close to the pate. He had the prison look. Steve had seen enough of that in his career to sense it. Like a bad smell before you see the actual Dumpster.

“Mr. Conroy.” Not a question.

“Who are you?”

“I was watching you in there. Not a bad job.”

“You a reporter?”

“In a way,” the guy said. “I’ve got a report for you.”

Steve waited as the guy pulled a fat, white envelope from his back pocket and laid in on top of the newspaper. As he did, Steve saw some letters tattooed on his left hand, on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

“Johnny says go buy yourself a couple of new suits,” the guy said. “He wants you to. As a gift.”

“Johnny LaSalle?”

“Right.”

“Oh sure. My dead brother.”

The guy nodded.

“What’s in here?” Steve asked.

“Five large,” the guy said. “Another five when Johnny comes home and you come work for him.”

Steve’s instinct to push the envelope away was overcome by a neon thought blinking Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars.

Five thousand of which, if the guy was telling the truth, was under Steve’s slightly trembling hand. Ten grand could keep more than a few wolves from the door. And a new suit sounded so right just about now. The one Steve was wearing, his best, had elbows you could almost see through.

But he picked up the envelope and tossed it in front of the guy. With a dry throat Steve said, “Not interested.”

“No, no,” the guy said. “That’s yours. Like I said, a gift.”

“I don’t want any gift from Johnny LaSalle. You can tell him that. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Steve, there is no obligation. Johnny wants to give you a blessing. After all these years.”

“And you both can stop calling me Steve. You can tell LaSalle I don’t want to hear from him again. Tell him he’s a sick man.”

Aware that the librarian, a bespectacled man at the front desk, was looking at them with disapproval, Steve lowered his voice. “Is that clear?”

“Please, Steve, this is your brother—”

“Listen.” Steve spun in his seat to face him. “There are cops and deputy sheriffs all up and down this building. If you don’t leave now I’m going to walk outside and get one of them to explain the law to you.”

“So you don’t believe Johnny?”

“Take your money and get out,” he said.

“Johnny told me you might react this way. He really is a good judge of character. He’s a man of God.”

“That’s why he’s doing time, I guess.”

The uninvited guest pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He unfolded it. It was notebook paper, three holes and lines. He put it in front of Steve.

“Johnny wanted you to see this,” he said.

Steve looked at it.

Brother, I know I blew you away. I couldn’t tell you everything at once. I want to tell you face-to-face. When I get out. But you don’t believe me and I guess I wouldn’t either if I was you. Something bad happened back then, but not what you think. I didn’t die. I’m alive. My real name is Robert Conroy. And just to show you, I tried to think of something that only you and I would know about. That’s was kind of hard. We’re talking twenty-five years, bro. I don’t know how much you remember from that far back, but I thought