Foreclosure: A Novel (3 page)

“What?”

“
Did
the bank promise him he could refinance?”

He set his glass down and ran his finger over a drop of wine caught on the rim. “You live a case for two years, it’s easy to forget what the truth is. I know what the mortgage said, and that’s good enough for me.” Distracted by silence, he realized she was scanning every inch of him from across the table like some hungry animal.

“You look really familiar,” she said, her voice growing raspy.

“Ryan Gosling? I hear that all the time.”

She missed the levity, and focused her eyes intently. “Maybe if he had darker hair and stopped working out. And sat at a desk all day. And honestly, your face is a little fuller. But yeah, I guess I can see the resemblance in this bad lighting.” Nodding, she was taking this way too seriously. “But you do have his sexy vulnerability.” His chest tightened as he waited for her to render her verdict. “So yeah, I guess you could pass for his less genetically gifted brother.”

“But I’m taller too, don’t forget that.”

“You are tall, too.” And that realization seemed to strike an erotic nerve. She shook it off and laughed. “Isn’t it amazing how short people in Hollywood are? I heard that Tom Cruise is like four feet tall.”

“Four feet?”

She leaned forward carefully. “Don’t laugh too loud, or the scientologists will get you.” She paused, as if to prepare him for some grave truth. “I had a girlfriend up in Clearwater and you would not believe what they put her through.”

“I guess I wouldn’t.”

She glanced around the restaurant before continuing. “Do you believe in destiny?”

“Destiny?”

She nodded. “You know, like fate?”

David started to try and distinguish his understanding of destiny from fate, but decided to save that discussion for another day. “Is this about the scientologists?”

“I’m being honest with you. You don’t seem like most guys I know, always putting on a front. And I, well, I think it was destiny that you visited my office today.”

“Maybe I had my reasons.”

She shrugged. “I don’t beat around the bush. I like you. I might be a few years too old for you, but I can see myself liking you. But you’re hiding something.” She stared ahead for a moment, and David didn’t flinch. “So tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Your happiest memory?”

“Adult or childhood?”

“Adult.”

Too easy. “Finally having the money to buy a ’67 Stratocaster.”

She reached across the table and took his left hand. He gripped the glass with his right. “You play?” She studied his fingers.

“I’m impressed you know where to look for the callouses.”

She smiled back. “I used to date a guitarist.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I know guitarists.”

She nodded, enough said. “You still play much?”

“Not anymore.”

“What kind of music?”

“Before, mainly the blues.”

Her brow rose with surprise. “Really? You don’t seem like a bluesman.”

He cleared his throat and belted out his best Buddy Guy: “Why can’t you see I got the blues, baby, why can’t you see what’s going on?”

Her eyes bulged as she squeezed his hand. “Well, I never imagined that voice coming from the likes of you.”

“Me neither,” he mumbled.

She was almost in a trance now. “And as a child?”

“What?”

“Your happiest memory as a child?”

As he carefully navigated those murky waters, another easy answer came to mind. “When I was about twelve, my dad took me into a bar in Newark where his band was playing. He couldn’t get a sitter—probably couldn’t afford one. A waitress set me up at a table all by myself, fed me Shirley Temples all night. And I watched them play a three-hour set, on a school night. And I knew that one day I wanted to be up there jamming out like that.”

“So your dad’s a musician too?”

“Was. He was a musician. And a damn good one. Better than I ever could be.” He took his hand back and returned it to his lap.

“So what happened to you?”

David smiled, shook his head, and pointed to his tie. “Life happened.”

“Those are nice memories.” She stared into space, as if she were considering how she would have answered had someone asked her. Then she turned her gaze back to him. “Funny, I thought you’d say winning your first case.”

“Well, given the fallout of winning my first jury trial, I don’t think I’ll put that one very high on the list.”

She was still nodding, taking inventory of the progress she was making with her young prey. “So you’re a lawyer and a guitarist, and you just won your first jury trial. But you’re still hiding something.”

He turned the nearly empty decanter upside down and captured the last pour of wine. “Aren’t we all? What else do you want to know?”

“You can start by telling me why you walked into my office today.”

“I thought it was fate. Or destiny?”

“Maybe so. But you still had your reasons.”

Here goes nothing. “Frank O’Reilly,” he said with the intonation of a question.

“Oh my goodness.” She grimaced. “Buzz kill.”

“You work with him?”

“How do you know Frank?”

“I don’t. That’s why—”

“So you wanted to meet Frank, maybe pitch some work to him?”

He nodded. “I guess you could say that.”

“And you seem like such a nice boy.”

“You don’t think I’m up for it?”

“I sure hope not.”

Katherine sat back in her seat and crossed her arms.

“I’m sorry if I brought up a sore subject.” He wished he could find a magic button to rewind the night by about sixty seconds. “You said you have a flight in the morning. Where to?”

“The Bahamas. Tickets are half off on New Year’s. Which is why I’m here with you on New Year’s Eve.”

But a rewind button would do him no good. “You going with Frank?”

“You guessed it. He’s down there fishing now with a few buddies. We’re all getting together for the holiday. To celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

“Two thousand seven.” She chugged the rest of her drink, rolled her eyes, and shook her head.

“Like I said, I’m awkward in conversation.”

She nodded, ever so slowly, cleared her throat, and then moistened her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. “Well, are you awkward in bed?”

David hit send on an email to Blake Hubert that attached a bullshit report no one would ever read. He had to give Blake some credit: his email reminding David that Blake needed the year-end litigation reports tonight could not have been more providentially timed. Five glasses of wine and a highball chaser following today’s events were nearly enough for David to indulge in his first one-night stand since he’d met Lana. But he knew he wasn’t ready for that. Not to mention how sleeping with Katherine might implicate his pursuit of O’Reilly. After reading Blake’s email on his BlackBerry, David told Katherine he was sorry, he had to go. Telling her he was getting over a difficult relationship didn’t help matters, but asking if he could call her when she returned from the Bahamas may have salvaged something. So did assuring her he just needed another week “to sort things out.”

As Stevie Ray broke into the solo to “Life Without You,” David realized that dinner with Katherine, like most of his ventures outside the courtroom, in the end only reminded him that Lana was gone. And if he was honest with himself, he would admit that it hurt. Badly. But, he told himself, not as bad as it hurt last week, which was a little less than the week before. By the time the ache in his diaphragm had deepened, he realized he had lost himself in the song and was fighting a mild case of the spins. He reminded himself again that he was never honest with himself, and if he was, he’d also admit that this place was his prison. Which was just enough to remind him he needed another drink. And he had just the drink in mind.

A moment later, he flipped the light switch in Alton Holloway’s corner office and took it all in: the three diplomas from an array of Ivy League schools. Photographs of Alton posing with Florida Supreme Court justices and teeing off at Augusta where, Alton was wont to brag, he golfed an 86 (while drunk). David ran his hand over the antique desk and wondered what sinister things Alton had plotted from this piece of furniture. Then he turned to the walnut cabinet behind his desk, the notorious cabinet known to house the firm’s deepest and darkest secrets—secrets that Alton refused to have electronically stored in this new digital age of e-discovery, and to which only Alton possessed the key. David tugged on each of the four cabinet drawers. They didn’t budge.

Remembering his waning buzz, he turned to the redwood globe in the far corner of Alton’s office. He opened the upper crust of the earth and found an enticing assortment of delicious rare scotches and bourbons. And how nice of the partners to leave a clean snifter for him. He grabbed the nearest bottle, a 1997 Macallan Highland, and poured himself a few ounces.
Perfect
, he thought.
The year I started law school
.

He raised the snifter for a toast to a picture of Holloway and his trophy wife. “To assholes.” He slammed the drink, poured himself a refill, and raised it for another toast. “And to of counsel.” He belched, sending a queasy sensation rippling through his gut like a monsoon. “I’m going to beat you, Alton Holloway. As soon as Frank O’Reilly returns, I’m going to beat you at your own game.”

He poured another drink and made a note to nurse this one. In fact, he couldn’t fit anything else in the old bladder until he made some room. He was about to leave for the john when inspiration struck.

He turned to the ficus in the far corner of Alton’s office. “You look thirsty, buddy.”

He unzipped his fly and let it flow. The most relief he’d felt in a while. And it never stopped. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d pissed this long. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d pissed. He checked the soil and made sure he had a few inches before there would be any overflow.

Then he heard a door slam in the distance. He had no idea where, other than it was somewhere in the office. Regardless, there was no way he could stop this piss in midstream. He would have to wait another second. Or two. Or three. He pinched it shut, but that just sent a light spray like sea mist all over Alton’s wall.

He quickly zipped up, tiptoed to the doorway, and peered into the long dark hallway. Nothing. Finally, he heard a voice, somewhere far off. Maybe two voices.

He eased down the hallway. As he neared the corner to the adjoining hallway, the voices became clearer. Two distinct voices.

“Hurry up if you want it,” one of them said.

He followed the trail of voices to Mackenzie Alderman’s office. Just as he turned the corner, the door to her office slammed shut. He took a peek through the blinds on the small window running parallel to her door. There she was, lying on her desk with her legs wrapped around someone’s head.

Another look confirmed it was none other than Alton’s head.

This was certainly too good to be true. He stood aside and considered how to take advantage of this golden opportunity. After shoring up his plan, he pulled out his BlackBerry and peeked around the corner again. If only he could get a shot of Alton’s face, but now Alton was nowhere to be seen. Just then, David spotted him on the floor, clumsily undressing. Alton sprang back to his feet and started giving it to Mackenzie on the desktop from behind. Her moans sounded exaggerated and slurred.

Alton tilted his head just enough to show his face breaking a sweat. His biceps bulged as he gripped her thighs, pounding her with an impressive rhythm.

David raised the BlackBerry lens and snapped a shot. He stood aside and reviewed his handy work. It was golden all right, so much so that he could not resist the urge to take one more, just for good measure. He leaned back around the corner and held the BlackBerry steady.

As he was about to click the button, the BlackBerry began ringing—the loudest damn ringtone he’d ever heard. He raced away from the window and fumbled with the button to turn the ringer off.

He stopped at a safe distance and listened.

“What was that?” Mackenzie moaned.

“My phone,” Alton moaned back.

“That wasn’t your ringer. And it’s outside.”

Silence. Then the shuffling of feet and clothing. David turned the corner and sprinted down the hallway. Just as he turned the next corner, the light from the previous hallway chased him through the next corridor. There was no safe pathway to the office exit, the only door he could use at night. He raced through the next hallway, knowing they could catch him at any corner.

He reached Terry’s office and remembered Terry’s big-ass mahogany desk—big enough to hide a Mini Cooper. As soon as he was safely under it, he checked the BlackBerry to see who’d called. Maybe he’d made a mistake in blowing off Katherine. But it wasn’t Katherine who had called—it was only Blake Hubert, probably with a question about the report. Whatever he wanted, it would have to wait a few days.

David turned the BlackBerry off and waited. Footsteps were approaching. Sounded like they’d stopped in front of Terry’s office.

“Well?” Mackenzie whispered down the hallway.

“I don’t think it was anything,” Alton said. “It must have been an office phone.”

“I hope you’re happy. What’s wrong with a hotel, anyway?”

“Let’s get that room.”

Hearing Alton’s seductive voice turned David’s stomach. He waited what seemed at least five minutes and figured they had to be gone. But even if he made it outside, he could not risk being seen by Alton and Mackenzie—or anyone else, for that matter. Plus, he was growing tired, too tired to get his car and drive.

Outside, the crackling rumble of fireworks heralded the arrival of 2008. David wished himself a happy New Year, closed his eyes, and fought a ferocious case of the spins.

Twelve hours into the new year, he lay in limbo on the couch. A bowl game played on the TV, but he couldn’t tell you which one. He held his ’67 Stratocaster, the Olympic White antique he’d purchased last month for fifteen grand. “The nail in the coffin,” Lana had called it. Of course, she wouldn’t understand just how lucky he’d been to find this particular guitar, even if he’d had to spend the money he had put aside for her engagement ring. The neck felt a hair thinner than the later-model Strat his dad bought him when he was twelve—the guitar he cut his teeth on, and which now sat in his study collecting dust. David bent the B string with his left hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to strum it with his right.