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“I’m sorry. Did you not know that Mr. Lovejoy had passed away?”
“I heard that he’d died a of couple years ago. It was longer than that, though, wasn’t it?”
“He died in eighty-nine.”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard. So, why have you gone to all this trouble just to tell me my old lawyer is dead?”
“You’re mentioned in his will.”
“I am?”
“We would have concluded this matter sooner, but his family contested the will. That took several years and a friendly judge. And you haven’t been easy to find. I’m the third investigator they’ve put on it.”
“There are good reasons I’m difficult to find.”
“Yes. I’ve picked up on that. I’m only here about the Lovejoy estate though. I have no other business with you.”
“How did you find me?” I asked.
“One of the regulars at The Hawk told me you lived on 2nd Street. I’ve been staking out different parts of the street for more than a week.”
“It’s a long street.”
“Yes, I learned that the hard way. I was driving by when you came out of your house this morning. I followed you down here. Do you have something to do with that mess going on a block away.”
“No comment.”
That brought a smile to his face. Then he reached into an inside pocket of the Army surplus jacket. I jumped even though it was clear he wasn’t about to kill me.
“I have a check for a hundred thirty-six thousand four hundred twenty-two dollars and eighty-five cents. It’s made out to Nick Nowak. Will you be able to cash that, Dom?”
I took the check and stared at it. Why had Owen done this? I guessed that the amount he’d left me was actually a hundred thousand dollars and the rest was simply interest that had accumulated since his death in eighty-nine. A hundred thousand dollars was the amount of money he allowed Deanna Hansen to put up for my bail. The amount I originally owed her. Had he been intending that I pay her back?
It was very unlikely she’d accept a hundred and thirty-six thousand dollars to pay things off. She was going to add interest. A lot of interest. Criminals tended to charge a higher rate than most banks. Maybe he thought she’d take the deal to stay on good terms with her attorneys. He wouldn’t have known that relationship would all fall apart years before I could be found.
Of course, Icouldtry negotiating with her. I couldtryto get her to take the money. And I might, if it weren’t for Monroe White and Rita Lundquist. They’d still be after me.
“Can you cash the check?” he asked again.
“Yes, I can.”
“Then I think our business is concluded.” He reached into his pocket and took out a card. “Just in case you need anything.”
“I won’t.”
“I hope that’s true.”
30
April 22, 1996
Later
Iwant to say that right and wrong are not the things we think they are. But that’s not exactly what I mean. Sometimes, what’s right is wrong and what’s wrong is right. And other times, right and wrong are basically the same thing. Or rather, some things, some acts, some events, are wrong and right at the same time. Like killing Stu Whatley.
It is wrong to kill. I know that; I feel that. As I’ve said, Stu Whatley was the third man I’d killed. Each man I killed was to protect myself or others. Sometimes both. That makes it right. Except I can’t help feeling that I should have been able to find ways to avoid killing and still find a way to protect myself and those I care about. I feel that I should, but then I can never find what that path should have been.
Life went on. Jackie-O’s personal belongings were auctioned off for thirty-four million—a tad more than my things would bring; Clinton released a shitload of oil from our national stores to bring down gas prices, which had nearly reached a buck and a half a gallon; and Ronnie had gotten the cast album forA Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forumand sang along incessantly.
