Egan, K J [SS] Midnight [v1 0]

















MIDNIGHT

by K. J. Egan

 

 

It
was a tough time of year for Tom Carroway, with the bowl games and the holiday
college basketball tournaments. As the subway train lurched from station to
station, he read the newspaper over the shoulder of the man beside him. Forget
about watching the ball drop. Michigan played Auburn tonight with a seven point
spread. Right after that came the semifinals of the Great Alaska Shootout and
then the finals of the Rainbow Classic in Hawaii. Action all through the night.
He switched hands on the metal bar and fingered the wad in his pocket. Just one
hit and hełd be flush. But the train lurched again and shook him back to
reality. He would be nuts to try.

 

He
spotted Dominic the moment he climbed up into Foley Square. Dominic stood with
one foot on the ledge of the fountain and flipped a coin like a football
referee. At the sight of Tom, he snatched the coin out of the air.

 

“Right
on time," he said. He had a pig nose and crooked teeth. “The New York T.A. is
an amazing thing."

 

Tom
said nothing. He plucked the wad from his pants and handed it over. The bills,
fresh from an ATM, snapped as Dominic riffled their edges with his thumb.

 

“All
there," he said. “Unless you sandwiched in fins for twenties. But you wouldnÅ‚t
do that, wouldja?"

 

Again,
Tom said nothing. But no, he wouldnłt.

 

“See
you next time," said Dominic.

 

And
the time after that and the time after that, thought Tom, the times stretching
unbroken into April. If he could stay on his budget, if he could avoid his
congenital need for action.

 

Carol
already had chambers humming by the time Tom blew in. The lights were on, music
played on the Judgełs radio, the coffeemaker made those long sucking sounds as
it brewed. Carol wore knee boots, a plaid woolen skirt, cream colored V-neck
sweater. Her face was flushed as if she had just come in from the cold, but the
rims of her eyes were a deeper red.

 

“Hi,"
said Tom. He put his hand on her shoulder and let it trail off as he squeezed
past her desk. “You all right?"

 

“Yes
and no," she said. She pulled herself close to her computer monitor, shielding
her face from him.

 

Carol
always put up a perky front, even on days she felt lousy. She and Tom had
worked together for five years and had been involved for the last one. He knew
her moods well, and this one looked somber. He rolled his chair out from his
desk and sat close behind her.

 

“WhatÅ‚s
up?" he said.

 

“NickyÅ‚s
physical," she said. “The doctor ... Well, you know how I always say Nicky
doesnłt listen. Thatłs not far off. Nicky doesnłt hear."

 

Nicky
was Carolłs five-year-old son, abandoned with her when her husband ducked out.
He was a cute kid and didnłt seem to have anything wrong with him.

 

“HeÅ‚s
deaf?" said Tom.

 

“Moderately,"
said Carol. She traced a finger in the air. “His audiogram looks like this."

 

Tom
grunted sympathetically. He had no idea what the audiogram meant, but knew when
he should play along. Carol leaned into her desk, sobs coursing through her
body. Tom spun her around. She tucked her face into his shoulder. He wrapped
one arm around her and dropped the other onto her lap. Carol was a runner. When
the weather was good, she changed into running clothes at lunchtime and ran
across the bridge to Brooklyn and back. Her thighs were like rocks.

 

“Hearing
aids," she sniffled. “I canÅ‚t believe he needs hearing aids. You know what thatÅ‚ll
do?"

 

“Poor
kid," said Tom.

 

“That,
and theyłre expensive. Three thousand an ear for decent ones."

 

“At
least we have good medical coverage."

 

“Not
good enough." Carol pulled back. She primped her hair, brushed Tomłs hand off
her lap, smoothed her skirt. She wouldnłt want the Judge to walk in on them
like that. “It covers only half."

 

Her
money situation, Tom knew, was no better than his, but for different reasons.
Aside from the salary differential between a law clerk and a secretary, Carol
supported her mother along with her son in a house that was falling apart.
Three thousand cash was a big hit, though no one would break her legs for
falling behind in her payments.

 

“ThereÅ‚s
always Big Al," he said.

 

Carol
forced a laugh. “My knight in shining armor."

 

Big
Al was Judge Canter, their boss. They were at their own desks, working, when he
came in, his owl eyes blurry behind thick glasses, his comb-over ruined by
static electricity when he pulled his schapska off his head.

 

“Uh,
good morning," he said.

 

He
went into his office, the innermost of the three rooms in the chambers suite.
Listening carefully, they could hear the rattle of hangers in his closet as he
hung his heavy black overcoat, the gurgle of coffee as he filled his cup, the
squeak of his chair as he sat down, the whisk of paper as he shuffled the
orders and decisions Tom had placed on his desk for signature. Carol waited the
appropriate interval. Then, arching her eyebrows at Tom, she went in.

 

Tom
couldnłt hear the exact words they spoke. But he could distinguish the staccato
of Carol laying out her latest dilemma from the deep, carefully considered
responses of the Judge. Tom could do a credible imitation of Canterłs voice.
Sometimes, in the darkness of his bed on Saturday nights, he spoke to Carol
like the Judge and made her laugh until she cried.

 

Carol
came out. Her eyes were still red and she still sniffled, but she was
unmistakably relieved.

 

“He
said hełll help," she whispered.

 

“See?"
Tom forced a smile. “I knew he would."

 

It
wasnłt much of a prediction. Judge Canter, in his Big Al mode, acted like a
rich uncle toward Carol. He paid her community college tuition, bailed her out
of unexpected bills (like the time she woke up to find her basement flooded
because the water heater burst), and picked up for the absence of Nickyłs
father by lavishing expensive birthday and Christmas gifts on the boy. Toward
Tom, he was always cool and professional, respectful of Tomłs considerable
analytical powers and writing skills. But Tom noticed a subtle shift in the
chambers dynamic in the year since he and Carol had become involved. The Judge
seemed even more generous to Carol while becoming unusually critical of Tomłs
work.

 

“I
think hełs jealous," Tom said on more than one occasion.

 

“But
hełs such a nerd," Carol would say, and then they would trade supporting
evidence. Tom thought Canter had been the kind of kid he and his friends would
have beaten up at school. Carol thought he was the type of bachelor who labeled
his socks and underwear for the day of the week.

 

Today,
there were no jibes. Yes, Judge Canter, the generous nerd, had come through
again. But the underlying problem was not the stuff of jokes. Little Nicky
Scilingo would be just as deaf tomorrow, next week, and next year as he was
today. Carol resumed typing on her computer. Tom stared, entranced by the way
her back narrowed and her hips swelled. He felt hamstrung, ineffectual. He
should be the one to help Carol through this crisis. But he had his own
problems.

 

* * * *

 

The
courthouse was quiet in the week between Christmas and New Yearłs, staffed by a
skeleton crew of judges and clerks. New Yearłs Eve was quieter still. Judge
Canterłs job was to sign emergency orders. A clerk from the Ex Parte Office
rolled in at midmorning with a dozen orders, mostly stays of eviction. He
briefed Tom on each case, then the two went into the inner office and presented
them to the Judge.

 

“There
may not be an afternoon delivery," the clerk said as the Judge signed the last
order. “IÅ‚m letting my staff go at three. If anything comes in, IÅ‚ll call."

 

“Uh,
fine," said the Judge. He locked his hands behind the back of his neck and
stretched. His shoulders were bony and his Adamłs apple quivered above the
tight knot of his tie.

 

After
the clerk left and Tom sat back at his desk, the Judge came out.

 

“Uh,
IÅ‚m going to close my door," he said. “IÅ‚m a little tired."

 

The
Judge had been napping during the day lately, a development Tom explained away
as fatigue but Carol worried might have sinister undertones. Today, they
exchanged only the briefest glance.

 

Carol
went into the middle room with a sheaf of papers to file. Tom put the finishing
touches on a decision. When he was done, he got up. The door to Judge Canterłs
office was ajar. Through the crack, he could see the Judge lying on his sofa,
his arms crossed on his chest, his head bent against the armrest, his glasses
askew.

 

Carol
stood on tiptoes, her elbow resting on the open top drawer of a file cabinet.
Tom goosed her. She stifled a gasp and turned around laughing. They kissed. He
picked her up and sat her on the table near the window. This was where they had
first done it, on a late afternoon last December after the Judge had gone home.
The memory and Tomłs current intent were not lost on Carol.

 

“HeÅ‚s
right in there," she said.

 

“HeÅ‚s
out. Dead to the world."

 

“HeÅ‚ll
wake up."

 

“IÅ‚ll
be quiet."

 

“You
wonłt be quiet," said Carol, though the idea did excite her. Still, her better
judgment got the better of her. She pushed Tom away, slid off the table,
adjusted her skirt and sweater. It would have been bad form for the Judge to
find them screwing not one hour after he offered to pay for Nickyłs hearing
aids.

 

Carol
continued her filing. Tom, his ardor stifled, wrote another decision. By noon,
the Judge still had not come out.

 

“Awfully
long nap," said Carol.

 

“Maybe
hełs still tired from waiting up for Santa Claus," said Tom.

 

“Very
funny."

 

Carol
went into the Judgełs office. A few seconds later, she came back to the doorway
and beckoned Tom.

 

Tom
knew the minute he saw the Judge that something was wrong. The Judge hadnłt moved
since he last peeked in on him. He pressed a finger against the Judgełs neck.

 

“Carol,"
he said. “HeÅ‚s dead."

 

* * * *

 

It
was Tomłs idea to take it slow. Not call 911 or the court officers, several of
whom were certified EMTs.

 

“We
need to think this through," he said.

 

“Think
what through?" said Carol.

 

“What
wełre going to do."

 

“IsnÅ‚t
it obvious? Donłt we call for help?"

 

“ItÅ‚s
no use."

 

“But
maybe someone can revive him," said Carol.

 

Tom
was no expert, but he had seen enough death beforehis father, an uncleto know
that Judge Canter was irretrievably dead. Whatever had hit him hit him almost
immediately after he lay down to take his nap. That was almost two hours ago.

 

“We
still need to call someone," said Carol. She went to the Judgełs desk and
picked up the phone. Tom jammed the hookswitch.

 

“Put
the phone down, Carol."

 

“Tom..."

 

“Put
the phone down and listen to me. One minute. Give me one minute."

 

Carol
put the phone down, and Tom guided her to the other sofa. They sat close
together, staring across the office at the Judge. Tom put his arm around her.

 

“Do
you know what happens when a judge dies?" he said.

 

Carol
shook her head.

 

“The
staff keeps their jobs until the end of that year. For us, today, that gives us
twelve hours before wełre out of a job. But if the judge dies on January first,
the staff keeps their jobs for the whole rest of the year."

 

“ThatÅ‚s
crazy," said Carol.

 

“ThatÅ‚s
the law."

 

“But
what if hełs not really dead?"

 

“He
is dead," said Tom. “What IÅ‚m saying is, better for us if he dies tomorrow."

 

* * * *

 

Carol
stayed behind in chambers while Tom went out for the things they would need.
She kept the door to the Judgełs office closed, and if anyone came looking for
him the story would be that he was asleep and left strict orders not to be
disturbed. “We need to act as though nothing happened," Tom had said. And so
Carol worked at her desk, typing attorney names onto form letters scheduling
conferences for February. It seemed so far away.

 

After
a while, Carol peeked through the door. Before he left, Tom had rolled the
Judge a quarter turn onto his side, explaining that he needed to turn the body
every couple of hours to prevent the blood from pooling and fixing the time of
death too accurately. The Judgełs arms were still crossed in front of his
chest, his face mashed against the back cushion of the sofa. Carol thought she
saw his leg twitch. She watched closely, barely breathing, and thought she saw
it twitch again. She immediately called Tomłs cell phone.

 

“HeÅ‚s
alive," she said. “He moved."

 

“Carol,
youłre seeing things."

 

“No.
Really. I looked. Hełs..."

 

“Test
it," Tom whispered. “Hold a mirror to his nose."

 

Carol
fumbled through her purse for her compact. She held it to the Judgełs nose,
then to the tiny gap between his thick, rubbery lips.

 

“Nothing."
Carol felt herself deflate.

 

“Your
eyes are playing tricks," said Tom.

 

“IÅ‚m
nervous," said Carol. “When are you coming back?"

 

“Not
long. I have one more stop."

 

Carol
went back to her desk and ate her hummus sandwich on seven grain bread and ate
her six carrots and drank her bottled water. She wished it were a warmer day so
she could change into running clothes and run the bridge. Running helped her
sort out her problems, made her feel better once the endorphins kicked in. But
no number of miles, no amount of endorphins would help today. She wished she
had stood firm, not allowed Tom to talk her into this plot, but the truth was
that she had no real choice. These jobs were scarce, and she needed this
job now more than ever because of the medical benefits. Bad enough Big Alłs
promise to pay for half of Nickyłs hearing aids died with him. Without a job,
shełd have to pay it all.

 

Three
ołclock came and went. The Ex Parte Office was closed now. The rest of the day
would likely pass without the need for the Judgełs signature. Carol felt a
slight lift in her spirits.

 

She
called home. Nickyłs voice sounded different to her now that she knew, the
slurs and the dropped consonants not just simple mispronunciations. Carolłs
mother took over the line.

 

“I
may be home a little late, Ma," said Carol.

 

“Fine.
No problem. Nicky and I are making popcorn."

 

Everything
always was fine with Carolłs mother. Shełd had a stroke a few years earlier,
which seemed to have affected the part of the brain where her considerable
powers of worry once resided.

 

As
Carolłs mother talked, the phone beeped. A Florida number appeared on the
caller ID screen, the Judgełs brother calling from Naples. Carolłs heart raced
as she waited for the red light indicating a voice mail to pop on. It didnłt,
and she relaxed.

 

“IÅ‚ll
call you later, Ma," she said.

 

* * * *

 

Tom
caught breaks at the luggage store and the car rental agency, and now that he
approached the courthouse on Centre Street he caught the biggest break of all.
Foxx, a court officer he knew well, was working the tiny judgesł parking lot on
the northeast corner of the building. The lot was mostly empty, and Foxx, once
he recognized Tom through the windshield, pointed him to a spot on the curb. He
and Foxx once had been close, like drug buddies except different. They would
fill out the football sheets together on Fridays, take extended lunches at the
OTB parlor on Canal Street, hit flat tracks as far away as Monmouth on Saturday
afternoons. Foxx had straightened himself out, forced by circumstances he never
discussed but, in rumors, sounded like a problem with Internal Affairs.
Sometimes Tom wished he had been scared straight too.

 

“WhatÅ‚s
with the wheels?" said Foxx. He had a cock-hipped stance and a habit of
following the most innocuous statement with a challenging stare.

 

“Rental,"
said Tom. “Going away for a couple of nights."

 

“With
sexy Carol Scilingo? Jackpot, man." Foxx slapped Tom a brother shake.

 

Tom
popped the trunk and hauled out the suitcase.

 

“ThatÅ‚s
pretty big for a couple of nights," said Foxx.

 

“Yeah,
well, we each brought our own suitcase but wełre going to consolidate
everything into one."

 

Tom
felt Foxxłs eyes on him as he rolled the suitcase in through the street level
entrance. Inside, he called the judgesł private elevator with a key. He
shuddered, wondering whether he convinced Foxx with his hastily back-filled
lie. But once the elevator car arrived and he fit the suitcase along the side wall
and the car ascended to the fifth floor, he felt an edge to his mood. It was a
good edge, a confident edge, the kind he felt when his bets were laid and he
knewknewhe was going to win.

 

Carol
hugged him the moment he walked into chambers.

 

“IÅ‚m
glad youłre back," she said.

 

He
squeezed her once, then let go.

 

“Anything?"

 

“Nothing.
Never heard from Ex Parte. Oh, but his brother called twice from Florida. Didnłt
leave a message."

 

“Okay,"
said Tom.

 

“What
do we do now?" said Carol.

 

“We
wait."

 

* * * *

 

They
waited for the solitude and the darkness five ołclock would bring on one of the
shortest days of the year. Tom scouted first, walking casually around the
entire fifth floor. The library was deserted, the transoms dark above the other
chambersł doors. A court officer sat at the security desk, but they didnłt need
to pass him on their way to the elevator.

 

It
was shortly after six when they had the Judge, bent like a contortionist, in
the suitcase. They shut the lights, locked chambers, and proceeded down the corridor
with Tom pulling from the front. The wheels rolled hard on the terrazzo floor,
the bottom of the suitcase bowed with one hundred and seventy pounds of dead
weight. Carol steadied the suitcase from behind.

 

They
made it to the elevator without encountering anyone. In the tiny car, with the
suitcase wedged between them, they exhaled deeply.

 

“WeÅ‚re
in the game now," said Tom.

 

Carol
forced a smile.

 

Theirs
was the only car in the parking lot. Everyone was gone, including Foxx. Traffic
was thin. Across Worth Street, a single pedestrian walked with his head down
and hands in his coat pockets. Tom waited for him to pass out of sight before
opening the back door of the car and cartwheeling the suitcase inside.

 

They
got in, Tom behind the wheel. Carol pressed her forehead to the dashboard.

 

“Hey,"
said Tom. He reached over and massaged the back of her neck. “ItÅ‚s not like we
killed him. Wełre just floating him for awhile. He wouldnłt mind. He always was
concerned about us, especially you."

 

“Yeah,
whatever," said Carol. She hoped that maybe tomorrow or the next day she could
look back on this and realize it wasnłt so bad. Right now, she couldnłt.

 

The
Judge lived in Stuyvestant Town, in a two-bedroom apartment he had shared with
his mother until she died about seven years earlier. Tom parked on the street,
and they rolled the suitcase out of the car and into the elevator and then into
the apartment. They were just as lucky, if not luckier, than when they left the
courthouse; they encountered no one. As they stripped off their coats and
turned on the lights and lowered the shades, Tom began to feel that edge again.
This is going to work, he thought. This is going to work.

 

The
bed was neatly made. Carol pulled down the covers while Tom dragged the Judge
out of the suitcase and onto the bed. The plan, hashed and rehashed during the
long afternoon, was to change him into his pajamas and lay him in his bed.
Someone would find him eventually, a neighbor or the super. If not, they would
report him missing after he failed to show up for work. By then, enough of the
new year would have elapsed.

 

The
Judgełs joints were beginning to stiffen, but Tom straightened them with some
gentle pressure. He removed the Judgełs clothing a piece at a time, handing
each to Carol. She dropped his socks in a hamper and hung his suit in the
closet. She counted five suits in all and saw, from the way they hung, the
precise order in which he wore them.

 

A
stench rose off the Judge as Tom worked closer. Not quite death, he thought,
but the smell of living decay, an old manłs odor. He hooked a finger under the
waistband of the Judgełs boxers, then stopped.

 

“Do
I need to go on?" he said.

 

Carol
turned from the closet. “I wonÅ‚t, if thatÅ‚s what youÅ‚re asking."

 

Tom
pulled out his finger. Who the hell would know the difference?

 

They
yanked on the Judgełs pajamas and plumped his pillows and covered him with the
sheets. Carol unhooked his glasses from his head and placed them on the
nightstand. Tom took one more look around the bedroom. Everything seemed
normal. He shut the light.

 

Tom
planned to roll the body a quarter turn every two hours, which would allow them
to leave around ten. They would drive up to Carolłs house in White Plains to
ring in the New Year together, then Tom would turn in the rental car and return
to his apartment on the Upper West Side.

 

They
went out to First Avenue and bought sandwiches and chips. On the way back, a
liquor store caught Tomłs eye. He went in and grabbed a cold bottle of
champagne. His wallet was light, so he charged it on his credit card. What the
hell, he thought. It was New Yearłs Eve. And in a few hours, if all went well,
he and Carol would have a yearłs worth of good fortune to celebrate.

 

Back
at the apartment, they ate their sandwiches at the coffee table.

 

“What
do you think happened to him?" said Carol.

 

“Stroke,
heart attack," said Tom. “Probably heart attack."

 

“He
hardly ever went to a doctor."

 

“He
looked like a nerd, but he was strong in his own way. The lawyers knew. They
couldnłt push him around."

 

Tom
went into the kitchen while Carol gathered the sandwich wrappers into the
plastic deli bag. He opened the fridge, but paused before taking out the
champagne. The fridge was almost empty: a carton of skim milk, a bottle of
seltzer, a half apple wrapped in a paper towel, a nearly empty jar of Cajun hot
sauce. Canter led such a bleak life, and Tom, who saw himself as a judge one
day, wondered if he would share the same fate.

 

Carol
came up behind him. She snaked her arms under his and pinched his nipples through
his shirt. He turned. They kissed hard. Tom lifted her onto the counter,
insinuated himself between her knees. What bleak life, he thought, as their
combined orgasms rattled them both. He doubted anything like this ever happened
in this kitchen.

 

Later,
they lolled on the couch and sipped champagne. Ten ołclock approached, the last
time Tom planned to turn the body. He lifted Carolłs elegantly booted feet off
his lap and crossed to the bedroom door. He opened it.

 

“Getting
a little ripe in here," he said.

 

The
phone rang. Tom froze. Carol bolted upright on the sofa. After the fourth ring,
an ancient answering machine engaged and a muffled recording of the Judgełs
monotonous voice announced his inability to answer the phone right now.

 

“Al,
Jack. This is the third time I called today, and I have to say IÅ‚m getting a
little worried. Iłll try you again at midnight. Hope youłre having a good time."

 

The
phone disconnected, and a deep silence ensued.

 

“We
canÅ‚t leave," Tom finally said. “If he doesnÅ‚t talk to Al, weÅ‚re screwed."

 

“But
hełs in Florida."

 

“Right,"
said Tom, “and if he calls at twelve and doesnÅ‚t talk to the Judge and the
Judge is found dead, the implication will be that the Judge died today instead
of tomorrow."

 

“So
what do we do?"

 

“We
let him talk to the Judge," said Tom.

 

He
turned the body, then joined Carol on the couch and watched the New Yearłs Eve
telecast cut back and forth between London and Times Square. The London shots
heartened them; midnight there already had come and gone. As local midnight
neared, Tom moved a chair next to the phone. He cleared his throat, let his jaw
go slack, assumed the Judgełs slouch sitting posture. This time his imitation
of Judge Canterłs dull monotone would be for real.

 

On
television, the ball dropped in Times Square. Carol leaned over Tom and kissed
him, careful not to ruffle his Judge Canter persona. Before the minute ran out,
the phone rang again. Tom gathered himself and answered.

 

“Hey,
bro, where the hell have you been?"

 

“Uh,
hi, Jack. Around. Doing things. Happy New Year."

 

“Same
to you. You had me worried. Almost called the cops to break into your
apartment. You remember what happened to Pops. Here one minute, gone the next."

 

“I
know."

 

“So
whatłd you do tonight?"

 

Tom
felt a bead of sweat squeeze out of his forehead. He needed to say something
vague and unverifiable.

 

“Uh,
had dinner in Chinatown. Walked around."

 

“YouÅ‚re
not with that hot secretary of yours?"

 

“Uh."

 

“CÅ‚mon,
you old dog. You sent me the pictures. How the hell did you get her to pose
like that?"

 

Tom
looked across the room at Carol. She was sitting on the sofa, hugging herself
as if cold. She couldnłt possibly hear what Jack Canter was saying.

 

“Uh,
loyalty," he said.

 

“That
kind of loyalty is priceless," said Jack. “You sure youÅ‚re not with her and
just donłt want to tell your bro?"

 

“I
should be so lucky," said Tom.

 

“Glad
I got you. Glad youłre okay. Happy New Year."

 

Tom
hung up.

 

“That
went well," said Carol.

 

“Uh
yeah," said Tom, still in character. “Real well."

 

* * * *

 

Tom
turned the body one last time, then he and Carol drove to her house in White
Plains. He begged off her invitation to come inside, saying it was late and he
was tired. He avoided calling her the next day, and they spoke only briefly on
the day after that. On January third, their first day back in chambers, they
waited for the Judge who never would come.

 

It
was mid morning when Tom brought up the subject of the pictures the Judge had
sent his brother. Carol denied it at first, then explained it had been over a
year ago, before he and she had become involved. The Judge was going to his
fifty-year high school reunion and wanted to show her off. It was nothing, she
said, just a joke. But Tom persisted. What was the pose, he wanted to know.
Carol refused to answer. They were deep into their argument when Foxx escorted
two NYPD detectives into chambers.

 

It
turned out Jack Canter got suspicious as soon as he hung up the phone. When he
called again New Yearłs morning and got no answer, he hopped a plane north. He
knew something was wrong as soon as he saw the body; the Judge never slept in
his boxers.

 

“But
we didnłt kill him," Tom protested as the handcuffs clicked around his wrists.

 

“We
know," said the lead detective. “But IÅ‚m sure youÅ‚ve heard the word fraud."

 

Copyright
© 2010 K.J.Egan

 

 

 

 

 

 








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