Dead Money (7 page)

I laughed so hard I dropped the milk.

Jesus Weinstein! said Kelly.

Jesus Weinstein? I asked, grabbing paper towels.

Yes?

What the heck is that?

Mr. Weinstein. He’s my Tech teacher.

I think I knew that. And?

Well, the other day in class he’s writing on the blackboard. He writes down a bunch of stuff. Circuit diagrams and stuff. And then
he says—You know how his hair is red and sits on top of his head like roadkill?

I remember that. At least, I remember you telling me that.

Well, now it looks like bad-fitting roadkill.

Okay.

And he says, this is your Bible. It’s the Bible of electronics.

What? His hair?

If by ‘his hair’ you mean ‘the stuff he wrote on the blackboard.’

Ah.

So now we call him Jesus Weinstein.

I think I’m following you, I laughed.

And that’s what we call Jesus, too. Jesus Weinstein.

I guess that’s the part I don’t get.

If you don’t get it, I can’t explain it to you.

Okay.

I mean, why not?

Right.

We’ve got it. Why not use it?

Right. I’ll remember that, next time I write the tuition check.

Kelly laughed her sweet, infectious laugh.

Melissa appeared in the kitchen doorway. Rumpled. Bleary.

What’s all the laughing about?

Just joking around, Mom.

Melissa frowned, went to the fridge. Opened the door. Leaned over and peered in, as if shortsighted.

Which she wasn’t.

Where’s the milk? she asked, irritated. Most of it’s on the floor, said Kelly.

Melissa scowled at me. I still had the sopping paper towels in my hand.

I shrugged, like an embarrassed schoolboy.

You’re such a clumsy fool, she said.

Serious. Grave. A doctor giving her patient the bad news.

She was still beautiful.

I turned away and sighed.

Oh come off it, Mom, said Kelly, lightheartedly.

Did you walk the dog yet? was Melissa’s answer.

Not yet, Mom. I’m eating breakfast.

Good God. How many times have I told you he can’t wait for your
dithering all morning? I’ll be picking up dog crap all day again. Always the same. Every bloody day.

The dog had been a mistake. Kelly was a cat person, like me. I’d had cats all my pre-Melissa life. Loved cats. Aloof, but intense. Relaxed, but ready to attack when necessary.

Just like me.

Sure.

When Kelly was small, she’d insisted on a pet. Of course, I’d said. Bad enough to be an only child. The least we could do was get her a companion. But Melissa was allergic to cats. A sign I should have heeded, long before.

So we had a choice: a hairless cat, or a dog. Kelly went for the dog. It was a bichon. Cute and cuddly. As close to a cat as we could find. Purebred, unfortunately. Cost me a cool fifteen hundred.

Kelly loved the dog. I tolerated it. Melissa hated the thing. Nobody walked it. It shat all over the house.

Melissa’s voice rose as the dog rant escalated. Her face turned hard. But she didn’t look at Kelly. It was as though she were alone. Talking to herself. Angry and alone.

I felt it in my teeth. My knees. My lower back. The pain. To see her like this now. Aging. Angry. Alien.

I’ll go buy milk, I said, and slunk out of the room. The corner store was not so far away. I’d take the damn dog. What did it cost me? Less than a confrontation would, for sure.

Day in, day out, the anger.

It hadn’t always been like this. I remembered other times. Law school days. The Blue Bar. Low ceiling. Pale blue walls. Odd lights in unexpected corners, throwing blue shadows. Bryan Ferry singing ‘Avalon.’ Cold and at the same time warm.

She had been brash, funny, fearless. Domineering. Beautiful, of course. But needy, underneath all that. And smart as hell.

I fell in love.

I thought that she did too. We lived life as the joke we arrogantly thought it was. We were smart enough to get away with it. For a while. We joked with Marco, the owner of the Blue Bar, in a pink dress, shining Day-Glo in the blue light. We exulted in our difference from the crowd. From our fellow students, fearful of failure. We both knew we’d never be the life of the party. But we’d make our own. Melissa, me and Marco. There were rarely any other customers in the place. The joint must have
been a front for something, we’d speculated. We couldn’t figure out what, though. Marco seemed so innocent.

Then, in her apartment, she’d succumb. Tie me up, she’d say. Take me hard. Show me who’s a man. She’d wanted to be dominated. Submissive. At my mercy. Deliciously against the grain. It struck a chord in me. A deep, discordant chord, full of danger and promise. And yearning. The Tristan chord, it was, brought to life.

When it was over, we’d collapse into each other’s arms. We’d put on Bruckner’s Eighth. We’d kiss for hours, and hold each other tight. The power of our love seemed endless.

What had happened? Had I missed something? Had this Melissa always been there, this new Melissa, angry and vindictive, waiting to leap out, lash out and tear apart our dreams? I’d seen no sign of it, back then.

There were the pills, of course. The green ones, purple, orange, white. The vodka that washed them down. Stolichnaya from the freezer. But substances alone could not be all it was. It made no sense. It must always have been there. The anger. Hiding. Waiting. The pills and vodka only helped it show itself.

WHEN I GOT TO WORK
the elevators were down. Firemen slogged about the lobby, heavy with rubber clothes, oxygen tanks, large axes. Bomb scare, someone said.

A sign from God. Fuck the Lockwood hearing. I’d call the court. Plead natural disaster. Unforeseen contingency. Death and destruction. Lower back pain.

I called the other side. Pled my case. They agreed to an adjournment. We called the judge’s clerk.

No problem, he said.

It worked.

I was free.

I figured I’d drop by FitzGibbon’s office. See what I could see.

I grabbed a cab to the Consolidated Can building.

The cab smelled of stale cigarettes, and distress.

I negotiated the three security checkpoints. I found myself on the thirty-third floor. FitzGibbon was in.

The salsa guy was there, sitting like a stiff in his usual spot.

Furniture. It comes in all shapes and sizes.

FitzGibbon was leaning back in his chair, feet on the desk. He had on a pair of what looked to be very expensive snakeskin boots. And a seersucker suit. I hadn’t seen one since New Orleans.

I told him about my talk with Jules.

FitzGibbon didn’t ask me how Jules was. He didn’t ask me whether there was anything he could do to help.

Instead he leaned forward, looked me in the eye, and said, Hey, as if the thought had just occurred to him, you don’t think he’s innocent, do you?

I tried not to look too surprised.

It’s not my job to make that judgment, I said.

He leaned back in his chair.

I admire that, he said. I really do.

Well, I said. I’m doing my job.

Mmm, he said, and looked off into the distance.

He leaned forward again. Gave me a long and searching look. Didn’t say a thing.

The guy was not normal.

Or maybe he was trying to get me rattled. Sizing me up. See how I handled it.

Either way, I decided not to push the envelope, yet. Probably not prudent. To alienate the firm’s biggest client, fishing for dirt.

I’d like to come back and talk to you some more, I said. After I’ve got a little more information. I want to dig around a bit.

Sure, he said, the toothy smile growing larger. Anything for a lowlife.

I returned the smile.

There was another long pause.

You look a bit like Harrison Ford, he said.

Ah, I said. Thank you.

I wasn’t sure it had been intended as a compliment, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. All I could think about was how to get the hell out of there. Before things got even weirder.

It’s been a pleasure, I said, and got up to leave.

But it wasn’t going to be that easy.

Redman, he said as I reached the door.

I turned around.

I assume you’ve got some good Trusts and Estates people?

New business, I thought, switching to rainmaker mode. This could be going somewhere. Maybe Warwick had been right.

Sure, I said. We’re a full-service shop.

I’ve got a little something I’d like somebody to take a look at.

Just give me an idea what it’s about, I said, so I can set you up with the right people.

I was thinking of Dorita. T & E was her specialty.

Well, he said, it’s a little delicate. But I guess you’re my lawyer, right? Attorney-client privilege and all that?

Strictly speaking Jules is my client. Though of course you’re paying the bills.

Are you sure? he said, looking none too pleased.

There’s no reason you can’t be my client too, I said. So long as there’s no conflict.

Conflict? Why would there be a conflict?

I don’t know. It depends on what it is.

Let me tell you, he said, just between you and me.

I wasn’t sure that it could be just between him and me. For one thing, Mr. Hairdo was in the room. But I let him talk.

You know that Jules and I haven’t always got along.

Yes, I said. I think you mentioned that.

I took him out of my will.

So I understand.

You don’t judge me for that, do you?

It’s not my job to judge, I said, truthfully.

I have my reasons. If you knew them, you wouldn’t judge me.

I’m not judging you, I said, not entirely truthfully.

I was, in fact, judging him. But I promised myself not to bill him for the time.

The thing is, he said, he’s got some trusts. From his grandfather.

I had wondered how Jules could afford a loft in Manhattan. I’d put it down to rent control.

Your wife’s father? I asked.

He got that vacant look again. He looked at Mr. Hairdo. Mr. Hairdo looked back. If something was communicated between them, I sure didn’t know what it was.

FitzGibbon turned back to me.

Mine, he said. Dad felt guilty, at the end, I guess. He left us some money. Put some in trust for the future grandchildren.

Ah.

Very substantial trusts.

Ah.

The income isn’t much. But when Jules turns twenty-five, he gets the capital.

I see.

It bothers me.

It bothers you.

Yes. I’d like to talk to somebody about it.

I was starting to get the picture.

Well, I said, that would seem to present a pretty stark conflict.

How so? he asked obstinately.

Jules is my client, as I said, even if you’re paying. And what you’re talking about certainly doesn’t sound like it’s in my client’s interest.

His face darkened.

It’s for his own good. The kid’s never going to come to anything as long as he can suck off grandpa’s tit.

Ignoring the bizarre metaphor, I stuck to my guns.

That may well be true, I said. I don’t doubt you. But that’s not a judgment I can make. Like I said, I’m not in the business of judging.

You’re in the business of getting paid by me, goddamn it.

His neck bulged with purple veins. I saw my nice new business flying out the door. But there were lines that even I was not ready to cross.

Yes, I said, you are paying the bills. I agree. But frankly, if you insist on this as a take-it-or-leave-it proposition, I’ll have to say no.

He glared at me. His neck throbbed.

It was a stalemate. I’d played it right. He was a tough guy. Tough guys admire toughness.

Listen, I said, here’s what I can do. I have a buddy, a very smart guy. A pillar of the T & E bar. He’s got his own firm. I’ll refer you to him. He’ll do a good job for you.

FitzGibbon didn’t look entirely mollified, but he nodded his large red head.

All right, he said. Have him call me. I’ll have him checked out.

I WENT BACK TO THE OFFICE
. The bomb scare, or whatever it was, was over.

I thought about FitzGibbon’s last remark. I wondered whether he’d had me checked out too. And if he had, what he’d found.

I called up John (Don’t-Call-Me-Jack) Kennedy. He and a buddy had spun off a small Trusts and Estates boutique. Wills. Old ladies. Trusts. Tax shelters. Helping the rich stay rich. John was very good at it. He had the perfect blend of perfectionism and schmooze. And a closet full of designer bow ties.

He was a touch over-sensitive about his name, however. I took a childish glee in exploiting it.

Hey, Jack, I said.

Don’t call me Jack, Dick.

You won’t be so rude to me once you hear what I’m calling about.

I’ll be the judge of that. Really, I mean it.

Okay, okay, shoot. You got some work for me. You’ll never let me forget it.

Right on both counts. But even better than you think. Listen up. We’ve got a big client.
Big
big. Eamon FitzGibbon. CEO of Consolidated Can. You know him?

I know of him.

Good. Big, fat, red-faced, Irish charm. But most important, rich as Croesus.

That I knew. Even us T & E guys read
The Wall Street Journal
.

Especially you T & E guys.

Especially us.

Right after you finish with the
Times
obits. I know. Anyway. He needs some help. Estate stuff. Maybe some tax stuff. Doesn’t sound like much. But as sure as A leads to P with an ampersand you can make something big out of this.

I don’t doubt it. Sounds good.

Don’t doubt me. I can’t give you any details. Privilege, you know. Do a conflict check. Actually, I can tell you this much: it’s more than privilege. Dark-glasses-and-trench-coat stuff. Keep it quiet, okay? We’ll
get together. Compare notes. Later. Just make him happy. We’ll go places, Jack.

Don’t call me Jack.

That’s my boy. Keep him happy, okay?

You said that already. You can count on me.

I know that. That’s why I called you, and not one of my other asshole T & E buddies.