Part 31 (2/2)

Trasker tried to focus.

”Shove all your baseb.a.l.l.s up your a.s.s with your G.o.dd.a.m.ned Babe Ruth bat for a battering ram,” Trasker managed. ”I'll be happy to help you find the hole.”

There was hope for Trasker. I checked the clock. It was a little before ten. Snickers was back with a gla.s.s of water.

Trasker downed the pills with the water and coughed.

”Watch him,” I told Snickers, and ran up the stairs to the room where Trasker had been held.

I found neatly pressed dark slacks, a slightly starched white s.h.i.+rt, and a pair of Bally woven leather loafers on the floor. In the drawer of the dresser I found dark socks and underwear. There was also a wallet and a ring of keys. I put the wallet in the pants pocket along with the keys and hurried them down to the trophy room, where Hoffmann was still looking at his Bobby Shantz ball. I helped Trasker out of his robe and slippers. He looked as if he had spent a couple of years in a Turkish prison. Dressing him was hard. He tried to help.

”Ready,” I said.

”What about him?” Ames asked, nodding at Hoffmann.

”Leave him,” said Trasker. ”Let him blow his G.o.dd.a.m.n brains out or wait for me to tell the police what happened. Either way I don't give a s.h.i.+t.”

The eyes of the two men met. I'd say that they were about even in awareness of the world about now, but that wasn't saying much.

There was a phone on the desk behind Hoffmann. I picked it up and dialed 911. Then I handed the phone to Hoffmann.

”It's the police,” I said.

”There's been an accident,” Hoffmann said. ”No, not an accident. I just shot an employee of mine who was about to kill me. My name? I've got so many. Let me...Hoffmann, Kevin Hoffmann.”

He handed the phone back to me and I hung it up.

We went out through the front door. Snickers and I held Trasker's arms to help him walk. Ames backed away behind us, shotgun back in his hands, aimed at the door in case Hoffmann changed his mind and opted for a.s.sisted suicide.

We made it through the gate, leaving it open, and got Trasker into the front seat of my car. Snickers and Ames sat in back. Snickers had a handful of candy bars and was munching one furiously.

”If he talks his way out of this, I think I'm gonna have the son of a b.i.t.c.h killed,” said Trasker.

”Hey, I know a guy...” Snickers began.

”Forget it,” I said. ”No hits. No runs. No errors.”

Trasker needed a shave. There was no time.

”How are you doing?” I asked him.

”You mean can I make it through the meeting?” said Trasker. ”I can make it through the meeting and more, but not a h.e.l.l of a lot more. I'm dying.”

”I know. We all are.”

”I'm just doing it a lot faster than you,” Trasker said, with a touch of bite in his words that made me think Obermeyer's pills were kicking in.

There was silence as we drove except for Snickers munching. About a block from the town hall, I let Snickers and Ames out. We got the scooter from the trunk.

”You get him in on your own?” Ames asked.

”I can walk in on my own,” Trasker said, standing next to the car. The scooter started without trouble and Ames and Snickers got on.

”I still got money coming,” Snickers said.

”You do,” I agreed and went for my wallet.

”Hold it,” said Trasker.

He reached into his back pocket and came out with his wallet. He opened it with shaking fingers and pulled out a handful of bills. He gave them to me. I counted eight hundred and twenty dollars, eight hundreds and one twenty.

”He earned it,” said Trasker.

I handed the bills to Snickers who tucked them into his s.h.i.+rt pocket and tilted his hat back on his head.

”I'll call you tomorrow,” I said to Ames.

Ames nodded and he and Snickers wheeled off into the night, Snickers clinging to the waist of the tall old man.

When I got into the hearing room, where almost all the faces in the audience were black and many of them vaguely familiar from the funeral service at Fernando Wilken's church, it was nearly midnight. Reverend Wilkens saw me and came to meet me at the back of the hall while a well-dressed young black man addressed the bored commission members on the need for a library in Newtown.

One of the few white faces in the crowd belonged to John Rubin of the Herald-Tribune. He looked at me, at his watch, and back at me, a question in his eyes.

”You found him?” whispered Wilkens.

Heads were turned toward us.

I said, ”He's in the hall.”

”Bring him through that door in three minutes. Three minutes exactly,” Wilkens said, checking his watch. I checked mine.

Three minutes later, still in need of a shave but wearing the white s.h.i.+rt and slacks and walking on his own, William Trasker shuffled down the carpeted center aisle and into his seat at the table.

The room went silent as they watched Trasker, many, I was sure, wondering if he would drop dead from the effort.

”I think we need an ambulance,” said Mayor Beatrice McElveny.

The speaker rose and returned to his seat. I stood at the rear of the room with Wilkens and Trasker. A uniformed officer with arms folded stood next to us.

”You haul me off in an ambulance, Bea, and I sue your sorry a.s.s,” said Trasker. ”Let's vote.”

A commissioner named Wrightman said, ”I propose we hold off the Midnight Pa.s.s vote till our next meeting. It's getting late and-”

”I'll be dead by the next meeting,” Trasker rattled.

”Do I have a motion to conclude this meeting?” the mayor said.

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