The Maze
Page 93
"This is over," said Big John, rising slowly from his chair, one beefy hand on Martin's shoulder. "Don't say anything, Marlin, nothing more for these folks."
"What makes you believe I didn't have Belinda?" Marlin said in a low whisper, leaning toward Lacey. "You really think a woman could laugh at me? Turn me down? No way, Marty. Yeah, I had Belinda. I don't want you, Marty. You're cynical. You probably hate men, you probably don't ever-"
"Marlin, dammit, let it go. Listen, you moron. I told you to shut the fuck up."
It took just an instant of time, just the barest instant, for the violence to erupt. Marlin raised his chained hands, clasped them together into fists and brought them down with all his strength on John Bullock's left temple. Big John groaned very softly in his throat and slumped back into his chair, his head falling forward to hit the Formica tabletop. He was out. A trickle of blood snaked out of his right nostril.
The sergeant was all over Marlin. The door burst open again, and three cops surged in. She wondered why they didn't just shoot him. It would save the taxpayers millions of dollars. But they didn't shoot him. She wanted to yell at them that he was filth, that he'd probably go to an institution and maybe get out in twenty years and begin it all again. She managed to keep her rage to herself.
"They'd send me to jail for sure if I did," Dillon said close to her ear. "Sorry but I can't, Sherlock." It was then she realized that she'd just whispered what she was thinking. Only Dillon had heard her, thank God. No one was paying any attention to her at all. They were all over Marlin, dragging him out of the room. She heard someone yell out, "Get a goddamn ambulance in here! The guy cracked his own lawyer's head!"
Marlin turned very slightly and smiled back at her. "She was good, Marty, really good. That punk husband of hers was a monster, not me. I cared about them, cared about their souls. But he was real bad. She wanted me, Marty, not the other way around, I swear. You know something? I miss Belinda."
And then he was gone, surrounded by cops, shuffling forward, the leg shackles clanking against the linoleum of the hallway.
"What the hell is going on here?" Savich said, his hand tightly around her wrist.
"Nothing makes any sense, nothing." They walked out of the station. She remained silent for three blocks, then stopped and said, "He was playing with me, Dillon. The minute I said Belinda's name, he began his game. You heard all those questions I asked. I was just trying to learn the truth, but now things are muddier than ever."
"That's why Big John let you go on and on with Marlin with just a bit of his famous bluster. He wanted to muddy the waters."
"He succeeded. Do you think Marlin was intimate with Belinda?"
Savich frowned at her, then shook his head.
That evening, on Newbury Street, coming out of Fien Nang Mandarin Restaurant with its red paper lanterns swinging in the evening breeze, Savich was speaking to Sherlock, his hand raised to flag down a taxi. He never saw the car that came around the corner, skidding loudly on two tires, heading right toward them, until it was too late.
He threw her to the sidewalk just before the car struck him, flinging him onto the hood of an old Buick Riviera.
"No doctor, Sherlock. No hospital, no paramedics. Forget it. We can't afford the time. No, it's just not the time. Just imagine the police reports, the investigation, the questions, it would take too long. No doctor."
He was right, but she worried. He was holding his arm, limping slightly. She knew every step hurt him. The elevator door opened onto their floor. He leaned on her heavily. "No, don't say anything. I'm all right. I've had enough injuries over my thirty-four years to know when it's serious and when I'm just banged up. You promise me you're okay? I threw you pretty hard."
"I'm just a little bruised on my left side, nothing more."
She unlocked the hotel room door. "If I'd been the one struck by the car, what would you have done?"
He stopped in the middle of the room. He had the audacity to grin at her. "You'd be strapped to a gurney on your way to the Emergency Room."
She shut the door very quietly and locked it. She slid the chain home.
"I see. But you, the big he-man, can take anything anybody dishes out."
"Yep, that's about the size of it. Now, I need to make a phone call."
She got ice and wrapped it in a towel. He was on the phone when she handed it to him. He lifted his shirt and pressed it against his ribs. So, it was his ribs, not his arm.
"What makes you believe I didn't have Belinda?" Marlin said in a low whisper, leaning toward Lacey. "You really think a woman could laugh at me? Turn me down? No way, Marty. Yeah, I had Belinda. I don't want you, Marty. You're cynical. You probably hate men, you probably don't ever-"
"Marlin, dammit, let it go. Listen, you moron. I told you to shut the fuck up."
It took just an instant of time, just the barest instant, for the violence to erupt. Marlin raised his chained hands, clasped them together into fists and brought them down with all his strength on John Bullock's left temple. Big John groaned very softly in his throat and slumped back into his chair, his head falling forward to hit the Formica tabletop. He was out. A trickle of blood snaked out of his right nostril.
The sergeant was all over Marlin. The door burst open again, and three cops surged in. She wondered why they didn't just shoot him. It would save the taxpayers millions of dollars. But they didn't shoot him. She wanted to yell at them that he was filth, that he'd probably go to an institution and maybe get out in twenty years and begin it all again. She managed to keep her rage to herself.
"They'd send me to jail for sure if I did," Dillon said close to her ear. "Sorry but I can't, Sherlock." It was then she realized that she'd just whispered what she was thinking. Only Dillon had heard her, thank God. No one was paying any attention to her at all. They were all over Marlin, dragging him out of the room. She heard someone yell out, "Get a goddamn ambulance in here! The guy cracked his own lawyer's head!"
Marlin turned very slightly and smiled back at her. "She was good, Marty, really good. That punk husband of hers was a monster, not me. I cared about them, cared about their souls. But he was real bad. She wanted me, Marty, not the other way around, I swear. You know something? I miss Belinda."
And then he was gone, surrounded by cops, shuffling forward, the leg shackles clanking against the linoleum of the hallway.
"What the hell is going on here?" Savich said, his hand tightly around her wrist.
"Nothing makes any sense, nothing." They walked out of the station. She remained silent for three blocks, then stopped and said, "He was playing with me, Dillon. The minute I said Belinda's name, he began his game. You heard all those questions I asked. I was just trying to learn the truth, but now things are muddier than ever."
"That's why Big John let you go on and on with Marlin with just a bit of his famous bluster. He wanted to muddy the waters."
"He succeeded. Do you think Marlin was intimate with Belinda?"
Savich frowned at her, then shook his head.
That evening, on Newbury Street, coming out of Fien Nang Mandarin Restaurant with its red paper lanterns swinging in the evening breeze, Savich was speaking to Sherlock, his hand raised to flag down a taxi. He never saw the car that came around the corner, skidding loudly on two tires, heading right toward them, until it was too late.
He threw her to the sidewalk just before the car struck him, flinging him onto the hood of an old Buick Riviera.
"No doctor, Sherlock. No hospital, no paramedics. Forget it. We can't afford the time. No, it's just not the time. Just imagine the police reports, the investigation, the questions, it would take too long. No doctor."
He was right, but she worried. He was holding his arm, limping slightly. She knew every step hurt him. The elevator door opened onto their floor. He leaned on her heavily. "No, don't say anything. I'm all right. I've had enough injuries over my thirty-four years to know when it's serious and when I'm just banged up. You promise me you're okay? I threw you pretty hard."
"I'm just a little bruised on my left side, nothing more."
She unlocked the hotel room door. "If I'd been the one struck by the car, what would you have done?"
He stopped in the middle of the room. He had the audacity to grin at her. "You'd be strapped to a gurney on your way to the Emergency Room."
She shut the door very quietly and locked it. She slid the chain home.
"I see. But you, the big he-man, can take anything anybody dishes out."
"Yep, that's about the size of it. Now, I need to make a phone call."
She got ice and wrapped it in a towel. He was on the phone when she handed it to him. He lifted his shirt and pressed it against his ribs. So, it was his ribs, not his arm.
