The Continuing Saga of:
”ICICLE BILL and Tommy Two-Head”

Chapter Eighteen: Farewell to Innocence

He had read some of the case history en route; attempted murder on a police officer, held for suspicion and/or questioning for various other murders and missing persons, etc. With any luck he might be able to drag this out for many, many billing hours. Maybe even enough to get the van fixed and rent a small office. He might even afford to send his son a few bucks. Ironically, a guy who used to be able to keep mob bosses out of prison, couldn’t do the same for his own kid. That had been about the time things had begun to go south for Hurley. A broken marriage, an estranged daughter, a son lost to the California penal system and a gambling problem. He took out his frustrations on opposing counsel in the courtroom. He’d earned the nickname, ’The Tin Man’, because he was so ruthless and relentless in the courtroom that anyone witnessing his performance and the way he left adversaries humiliated and defeated with such callousness, could only discern that he truly must have no heart.

Thusly, Hurley more than earned the nickname. He was just the kind of attorney that Icicle Bill needed. After being released from the I.C.U. and transferred to the sick ward at the jail, he was visited by Detective Smith. Bill sat slumped over the solitary table in the interrogation room. Bill had agreed to talk to him, but his story was lacking in details. Detective Smith paced the floor and wiped sweat from his brow. He knew he had about ten more minutes before Bill’s attorney showed up and he wanted to make the most of it. He listed the charges out loud.

”Attempted murder on a cop, suspicion in a triple murder in Miami, a missing girlfriend, using an alias...you got baggage man, I know it’s weighing you down. You feel like the weight of the world is pressing on you. I bet you can hardly breath. Listen, I know what it’s like, I also know what’ll make you feel better. Now how about you unload some of that burden pal? Come all the way clean and I’ll see what I can do for you. I can’t help you unless you help me. We help each other see? We’re in this together.”

Even in his medicated and diminished state, Bill recognized when he was being lead down a primrose path. The old good cop routine, I’m your buddy and your salvation was as old as Moses. The sad thing about it was, he really would like to unload, he’d like to come clean, but something inside of him told him the less he said, the better off he’d be. At least buy some time until he could get clear-headed and think things through.

”Look detective, I didn’t mean to harm that cop...I wasn’t myself, I wasn’t right, I don’t even remember it all the way through.”

Detective Smith spoke softly, ”Oh, right, right...the snake bites. The venom clouded your thinking, three or four days without sleep. O.K., now tell me again, why were you out in the middle of the desert wandering around?”

Bill was thinking he may have already said too much. Weren’t they supposed to be sending over an attorney. ”Camping...I was camping.”

Smith nodded in mock understanding, ”Right, camping. In a Lincoln, with no camping gear. And M.I.A. from your fancy L.A. high-rise job.”

Bills ears perked up.

”That’s right.” Smith continued, ”We know all about the law office, what we don’t know is why all of a sudden you boned out on em. By the way, they’d like to know also.”

Bill’s mind was clicking, Smith had been up-front about the charges but he hadn’t mentioned anything about the stolen one-hundred grand. Was it possible the law firm hadn’t noticed it missing’?

“Why you using an alias Bill? Why you driving a car registered to an Elena Chang, and where is she? What’s your real name? Come on Bill, last chance to clear things up.” Smith was getting insistent. ”Who else was involved in that stand-off that my officers responded to?”

Bill’s head was spinning, what to leave in and what to leave out. The car-jacking was out, trying to explain burying Gangster G in the desert could lead to nothing good. The gypsy, a midget girl, Tom, a biker dude with a bumper jack, an Indian philosopher and chick in a leopard bikini? He wasn’t sure he was believing it all himself. Of the gypsy’s tea, the snake venom or the morphine, he wasn’t sure which was stronger and how much of his memory was being affected by them. ”Listen detective, regardless of how all this all looks, you have to understand, I’m innocent.”

Smith had his back turned, he already realized this interview was going nowhere. He looked at his reflection in the two-way mirror. God he was getting old. Innocent? He grunted. He had seen em all come through this room. Pimps, priests, junkies, thieves, cops and criminals of all makes and models. And there was one thing they all had in common...ain’t none of em innocent. He looked deeply into the mirror, those lines were getting deeper every year. His mind wandered to his own loss of innocence. It was 1969.

He and Nickelbag Mike were on a three day pass from the San Diego Naval Base just before shipping out to Nam. They’d landed in Tijuana and hooked up with a one-legged Chinese prostitute with a bad eye and a lisp named Lucky Jade. She agreed to do em both, and for a little extra she’d pop out the glass eye and give eye hole. Nickelbag seemed intrigued but Smith was more concerned with the half pound of weed they’d copped. He had it stashed in a TWA flight bag and was considering the chances of getting it back across the border. Back then, crossings weren’t as heavily scrutinized, especially for military types. For extra security, Nickelbag had a switchblade knife secreted in the zipper flap of his jeans.

Lucky Jade lead them to a second floor flop with a single bed and dim lighting. She began to get naked and Smith was rolling a nice doobie, Nike’s mouth was agape at the ta-ta’s that the otherwise tore-up Lucky Jade was showcasing and the little striptease she was doing had them both more than a tiny bit interested. You pop a halfway decent prosthetic leg, a new eye and some dentures on her, Lucky Jade would be a real looker. As it was, the price was more than reasonable and they both considered themselves the lucky ones.

Perhaps that was a hasty presumption. About two minutes into the proceedings, an armed Mexican policeman barged into the tiny room through the unlocked door. Smith immediately realized, ’set-up’. Lucky Jade popped her glass eye back in socket and the Federale began poking around the room with his revolver pointed at the sailors. Nickelbag and Smith exchanged meaning glances that read neither one of them meant to end up in a Mexican jail, or robbed or worse. Smith acted first. He lunged at the cop’s gun arm as Mike grabbed him from the side. Lucky Jade somehow got tangled up in the mess of bodies, all of them gouging and biting and cursing as they rolled around on the dusty floor. That’s when the gun went off. Out of the four of them in that dirty room, only one had the misfortune of being the unluckiest. Lucky Jade. The bullet went straight through her heart, she was dead as a stone.

There was no turning back after that. Before Smith could think of the next step, Nickelbag had his knife out and the cop’s throat was making a wet gurgling sound as blood flooded the flophouse floor. The two buddies fled the scene and didn’t look back. The last trace of Smith’s innocence bled out on a whorehouse floor in Tijuana. The only other person that knew that story was buried in pieces in a rice paddy in the Mekong Delta.

As Detective Smith exited the interrogation room, Miles Hurley showed up. Hurley studied the aging, burley-shouldered detective’s face for clues. ”Well, detective...what do you think?”

Smith stopped and offered a blank expression. ”Think about what?”

”About my client, is he innocent?”

Smith’s face didn’t change appearance in any manner. He looked right through Hurley as he made his way past. He answered in a distracted tone. ”Innocent? Ain’t nobody innocent counselor...nobody.”