Clean Slate

Chapter 12

"So how you been?" Mac asked, sitting behind his desk.

"Okay, I guess," Eddie answered, standing aimlessly near the door. Though nowhere near observant enough to notice it consciously, Eddie sensed Mac's displeasure. Usually, when offenders in Mac's good books showed up for appointments, the PPO sat beside them in the other guest chair. No file, no notes, just a chat. With offenders in arrears, Mac made a point of sitting behind his desk, file open, pen in hand. "Been a long time, Mr. McGladrey," Eddie asked, forcing a smile. "How've you been?"

"Some things better than others," Mac replied, and gestured with his pen. "Go ahead, sit down."

Eddie kind of side-slipped gingerly onto one of the guest chairs, as if afraid he might break it, which, Mac believed, could not have happened even if the chair had been made of cardboard. Eddie was indeed gaunt, more than ever, wasted. His dark twill pants flapped as if draped on toothpicks, his grayish white teeshirt could have been a child's size, and even so was plenty roomy. His head was oversized, with dark, short, unhealthy looking hair, and his eyes seemed to look out from the bottoms of wells. Eddie blinked a lot, and worked his lips even when at rest. These were not signs of nervousness, Mac had learned; they were just his normal affect. He was smiling, now, a genuine smile. What set Eddie apart from many other offenders, Mac remembered, was that he was capable of being genuine.

"How's the hand?" Mac asked.

Eddie held it up. It was pale and spindly, the nails dark and bitten down. There were but three fingers. The flip-off finger, mangled beyond repair in the scrap yard shear, had been surgically removed. The docs repositioned the index and ring fingers closer together, to give Eddie maximum use of what was left of the hand. Beneath the pale skin of Eddie's palm Mac could see the tips of the hardware – bolts secured to chrome rods – that held Eddie's hand together. The offender flexed his fingers; they bent further than Mac would have expected. "I get by," Eddie said.

"Good for you." Mac leaned back in his chair, watching Eddie, who seemed at once braced and resigned. "So what's happening?"

"Well, you know," Eddie said, offhand. "You got the file there."

"I'm lazy," Mac said lazily. "I don't like to read. I'd rather you tell me."

Eddie's brow furrowed. "Well. . .still paying the asshole tax," he ventured, smiling sheepishly.

"I'll say."

"Fucking crack."

"Gave yourself a promotion," Mac observed. "Back before, it was booze. Mad Dog, as I recall."

"That," Eddie agreed, "and Purple Jesus. And you know, I actually, pretty much, got past that shit. Or thought I did."

"Moved on to some other shit. More potent shit." Going into his desk drawer, Mac came out and, with a casual gesture, tossed Eddie's Bronze Star onto the desk. The probationer gaped at it, gingerly picked it up. "Lose something?" Mac asked.

Eddie looked at him. "Where'd you find it?" he asked.

"My barn."

Eddie blinked, genuinely surprised. "Oh yeah!" Then he looked quickly, guiltily, at Mac. "I had some problems over the winter. I, uh. . .knew you were away. Camped out there."

"I noticed." From the desk drawer Mac reached the parchment citation and the half pack of Kool cigarettes and slid them across. "You left these, too."

"Thanks, Mr. McGladrey." Eddie picked up the articles, stuffed them into a pocket. "So," he ventured, "you pissed off at me?"

"Not as much as I'd have been," Mac replied, "if I'd found matches or a lighter."

"Oh no," Eddie said, shaking his head violently, "I wouldn't --"

"If I'd thought you'd of been smoking within 50 feet of my barn," Mac went on, "I'd make it my business to violate your ass right now. No seven day, no nothing. Back to the Stockade: do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars."

"I know! I know! But I know about barns. I was careful."

"Looks that way."

"I'm sorry," Eddie said plaintively. "I know it was trespassing."

"Well," Mac said, "no harm done."

Mac saw relief wash over Eddie's face. That was another thing about Eddie that made him different from the average clown. He saw value in doing right, even if he was not always capable of it.

Getting down to business, Mac reviewed Eddie's conditions with him. He'd made all his probation appointments, was current on work program, had all his Narcotics Anonymous meeting slips for Mac's inspection, and had passed with flying colors the whiz quiz his prior PPO had ordered two months ago. "Says here," Mac said, squinting at the computer screen, "you're a month behind paying your costs."

"I know," Eddie admitted. "Things been tight."

"You working?"

"Was burning eye-beams for Zimmern's. Work dried up couple-three weeks ago."

"So," Mac asked patiently, "are you working? Now?"

"No. Not right now."

"Your order requires a full time job."

"I'm trying."

Mac thought. "Where are you living?"

"Well," Eddie said, "to tell you the truth, I'm living in my cab."

"Your cab?"

"I bought an old junker cab this spring," Eddie said. "Made gypsy runs out of the bus station."

"You don't have a CDL," Mac pointed out. "Technically, you're --"

"Don't matter now anyhow. She threw a rod. Buddy of mine dragged her out to Dogtown, right where the train tracks cross the Pike. Been sleeping in it."

Hard-luck Eddie, Mac thought. It never seemed to end. "How do you get around?"

"Bus stops at the Pike right by the Axle plant. Take that to the Square, take the Metrotrain from there."

"Where you going to sleep when winter comes?"

"Oh, I'll figure something out. Maybe my girlfriend will let me back." Eddie grinned. "If not, I know a pretty good barn."

"No, no," Mac said. "We'll work something else out before then." He made some notes. "Thing is, in most ways you're doing so well. You're clean, you're making your meetings, you're current with us and with the work program. But this cost thing, this has got to get handled." Mac thought, but did not say so, that he might go see Judge Dobozy about having Eddie's costs waived. Certainly Eddie was a repeater, but he was also, for all practical purposes, disabled, and barely able to support himself. Mac knew he could swing it.

"I've got a line on an income opportunity," Eddie said quietly, shifting in his chair. Interest piqued, Mac watched him as the older man's eyes went distant. "Think it'll turn in the next day or two. I can catch up then."

"That would be excellent, Eddie."

"How underwater am I?"

"Hundred."

"Okay," Eddie said confidently. "Just give me a few days."

Uneasy, without fully understanding why, Mac said, "Well, okay. But meantime, I got to tighten the leash a notch."

Eddie sighed. "I figured."

"So: see you Friday."

"Aw!"

"Same time, same place."

Eddie's grimace was more mournful than resentful. "That's just two days from now. Can't I --"

"Eddie," Mac said, drawing out the syllables. "I've been away, but I'm no fonder of being pushed now than I was back then."

The offender's head bobbed, "Okay. I'm sorry. I'll see you Friday. Get caught up then."

"All right. Anything else?"

Like every offender in response to that question, Eddie quickly said no, got to his feet. "Thanks, Mr. McGladrey."

"Go ahead, take off."

Eddie went to the door, stopped short, turned back. "Is that door locked out there?"

"From this side it opens without the badge," Mac answered. "Supposedly."

"If not," Eddie said, smiling, "I'll be back."

"See you," Mac said. Turning to the computer, he keyed in some notes. Reviewed the paper file one more time to be sure everything was complete. As he closed out the file, his office phone rang. "McGladrey, good morning," he answered.

"Please hold for Judge Summers," came a female voice. Judge Summers, Mac thought. Name meant nothing to him. Presently another woman's voice said, "Mr. McGladrey? Hello."

"Morning, your Honor."

"Carol Summers from the 33rd District Court, returning your call."

Now Mac remembered. It was spelled Somers, not Summers. Carole, not Carol. She was calling from Michigan, someplace near Detroit. "Oh yeah, hi. I got your name from a business card I had, from a seminar you gave --"

"Women's Safety and the Law," Somers said. Her voice was at once businesslike and warm. "I remember. You attended the one I gave in Sheffield."

"Yup. Quite a while back."

"Two, three years. You sat right in the front row."

"Always was the class suck-up, Judge."

She laughed. "How can I help you?"

"Well, Judge. . .this is unofficial. Okay?"

"Very well."

"I need a detective. Private detective. Do you know anybody like that up there?"

A pause. "As it happens, I do," she said. "He doesn't operate that far away, though."

"I don't need him for down here, I need him for there. Detroit. That's near you?"

"Near enough. Can you tell me what this involves?"

"It's kind of sensitive, your Honor. I'd rather just bounce it off him, if you'd be kind enough to hook us up." He hesitated. "I take it he's pretty solid citizen?"

Somers snorted. "No convictions, if that's what you're asking. He's a bull-headed smart alec, and somewhat less than governable. But there's also a lot of stick-to-it in him. He takes care of business. To that I can personally attest."

"Sounds good. What's next?"

"Tell you what I'll do, she said briskly. "I'll give him your name and number, and if he's interested, I'm sure he'll call you."

"I hope he is," Mac said. "This is pretty important."

"Oh," she said airily, "knowing him, knowing his cash flow – make that trickle – my guess is you'll be hearing back very shortly."

"Thanks, Judge. I really appreciate it."

"Not at all."

---

"So," Judge Wildern said from the back seat, "that small matter of the ‘hooker papers' – that's been handled, am I right?"

"They are history, Judge," Earl answered, guiding the Caddy expertly down the entrance ramp to Thomas Jefferson Way. "I personally saw them make the trip up the chimney. Most satisfactory."

"And their prior owner?"

"Time will tell."

"Think she'll leave?"

"She has every reason to."

"What about the reporter?"

"Lewis? What about her?"

"Still squawking in the papers."

"Let her squawk," Earl suggested. "Tonight or tomorrow, somebody'll hit somebody else in the head with an ax, and the Blade will be off this and on that."

"You think so?"

"If it bleeds, it leads."

"One hopes," the Judge sighed, evidently not aware he was echoing Earl. In the silence, the superintendent checked the Judge's reflection in the rear-view mirror. Beefy though he was, the jurist looked small in the expansive back seat. To Earl, the Judge's hair looked thinner, his complexion pastier, his overall presence, expensive business suit notwithstanding, overlooked, ashen, unimportant. Earl swung the Caddy down the exit ramp to Wilton Manor Parkway, with thoughts that had been growing in him lately, most likely since the first time he had sex with Ruth. You're so out of it, Judge. You don't know I'm doing Ruth. You don't know she knows you were doing Brody. You think you were the engineer of the papers disposal, when in fact you weren't the engineer, you were one of the enginees.

Earl wheeled the big car under the marble arches of the country club entrance, his thoughts trailing into unfamiliar climes, a disquieting experience. What else is the Judge missing? While he's got his hands in his pants, and paying attention to nothing else, what – or who – is coming at us? This affair with Brody – notorious public slut – isn't that a sign the Judge is slipping? Your wagon, Earl Bucaro, has been hitched to his star these many years – what if --

"Hey," the Judge broke in sharply. "I'm talking to you!"

"Sorry, your Honor," Earl said, guiding the car to the massive white columns of the country club entrance.

The Judge swatted Earl's shoulder with a fat manila envelope. "Before you quit, drop these off at my house," he said, as his door was opened by a country club servant. "If I take 'em inside here I'll forget 'em."

"As you say, Judge."

"Tell Ruthie I'll get dinner here."

"Very well."

Wildern clambered out, puffing, then leaned back in. "She doesn't like you, you know that?" he remarked. "Who knows why. I've told her you're a good man. But she just plain doesn't like you."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Judge. Good night."

Making no response, the Judge strutted up the steps into the country club. The Caddy door slammed and Earl pulled the car away. In the driving mirror he caught a glimpse of the Judge, grown tiny by now, disappearing into the country club.

Asshole.

---

The side door opened before Earl reached it, and Ruth Wildern looked out at him with her small, formal smile. "Superintendent! Good evening."

Earl waved the manila envelope. "Judge asked me to drop this by."

"Bring it in."