Bury the Lead

27



KEVIN IS EVEN LESS pleased than I am when we arrive at the location Marcus has given us. It’s on Bergen Street near the river, an old abandoned junkyard that the faded sign indicates was once aptly called “Paterson Waste Material.” Two rats scurry away as we open the door; they’re probably ashamed to be caught living here.

“This place is awful,” understates Kevin.

Through the darkness I see a faint light coming from under a door, so I point it out to Kevin, and we walk toward it. I call out, “Marcus?”

“Yunh,” is the return grunt that I get, and since it seems to be coming from behind the same door, I open it.

The room is surprisingly bright, causing me to adjust my eyes so that I can see. Once I’m able to see, I regret making the adjustment.

Except for some strewn garbage, some of which seems to be smoldering in the far corner, the only objects in the room are a wooden table and chair. On the otherwise empty tabletop is a knife, about the size you would expect Crocodile Dundee to carry. Its point is sticking into the table, and the handle of the knife is pointing straight upward.

Marcus stands near the table, and another man, whom I don’t recognize, sits in the chair. The man is maybe forty-five years old, five ten, a hundred sixty pounds, balding slightly, and naked.

“He’s naked,” says Kevin.

“You don’t miss a thing,” I say. The situation is surreal, and made more so by my realization that Marcus was demonstrating a prudish streak by telling Laurie not to come down here. He didn’t want to embarrass her or himself by having her see this naked guy. The naked guy, for his part, doesn’t seem embarrassed at all. His dominant facial expression is fear, with perhaps a little anger thrown in.

“Uhhh . . . Marcus. Who is this guy and why is he naked?”

“Jimmy,” Marcus says, then points to the corner. “I burned his clothes.”

The mystery of the smoldering garbage has been solved; now we’re getting somewhere. “Why exactly are we here to meet Jimmy?” I ask.

Marcus doesn’t answer me directly, instead issuing instructions to Jimmy. “Tell him.”

“Come on, man,” moans Jimmy. “I told you what can happen if I . . .”

Marcus just looks at him, then looks at the knife. Jimmy looks at Marcus, then at the knife. Kevin and I look at each other, then at the floor. I’m sure I’ve had more uncomfortable moments, but it would take a while to think of one.

“I was in the prison when they killed your friend,” Jimmy says, no doubt referring to Randy Clemens and completely getting my attention. “I was one of the guys arguing in the hall, to get the guards looking at us. But I didn’t kill him; I didn’t even know what they were doing until after it was over.”

“Why did they do it?”

He summons up the dignity to laugh a short, derisive laugh at my expense. “What do you think? He stole their crayons?” He shakes his head at the stupidity of my question.

Marcus takes a step toward Jimmy, which serves as a dignity-remover. Jimmy continues. “To shut him up. He overheard some things, and he wasn’t smart enough to keep quiet about it. When he called you, they put him away.”

“What did he overhear?”

Jimmy shakes his head. “I don’t know, but it had something to do with those murders.”

“Was Dominic Petrone involved?”

Jimmy flinches noticeably, then seems to pause, as if considering his position. The survival rate for people who squeal on Dominic Petrone isn’t too high. On the other hand, Jimmy is naked in a room with Marcus and a knife. Talk about your “six of one, half a dozen of the other.”

He probably makes the decision that Marcus and the knife represent a more immediate threat, so he starts talking again. “I don’t know for sure, but it’s a pretty good bet. The guy who arranged the prison hit was Tommy Lassiter, but I doubt he’d be doing it without Petrone setting it up.”

“Who is Tommy Lassiter?”

Jimmy almost does a double take at my question, then looks over at Marcus. “Come on, man . . .” is his way of telling Marcus he shouldn’t have to explain this to me, an obvious idiot.

“Tell him,” Marcus says.

Jimmy does as he is told. “Lassiter is a button man, the best there is. He’s a psycho, but if Lassiter wants you dead, you are dead. That’s it.”

“Does he work for Petrone?” I ask.

“Among others. He works for money. Sometimes it’s Petrone puttin’ up the money, sometimes it’s someone else. This time, I don’t know for sure . . . I swear. But Petrone is the best bet.”

There isn’t much more for us to get out of Jimmy, and the rest of the conversation centers around him getting us to collectively swear that we won’t reveal he talked to us. I agree and ask him to keep the secret as well, but even Marcus moans at the request. If Jimmy were to tell anyone he was here, he would effectively be committing suicide.

I take Kevin back to my house so he can get his car. On the way there, he says, “What do you think Marcus would have done?”

“You mean if Jimmy didn’t talk?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I think he would have done whatever he had to. I think if they played a game of chicken a thousand times, Marcus would win every time.”

This answer doesn’t please Kevin very much. Kevin would prefer that trials and investigations play out the way they were drawn up in law school. The problem is, I don’t believe Marcus went to law school.

“But Marcus is on our side? He’s one of the good guys?” Kevin asks.

I shake my head. “We don’t find out who the good guys are until the jury tells us.”

“I think by then it’s too late,” he says. “Way too late.”