The Ditto List (29 page)

“And you're not sure of any of that, right?”

“Right.”

“Hell, D.T. Welcome to the end of the century. It's not nuclear war that's going to be the end of us, it's that men and women can't stand each other any more. You think any species ever decided not to fuck? The dinosaurs, maybe?”

D.T. smiled.

“I think it's the broads' fault myself,” Gardner continued, “the lib shit, men are assholes, women are saints, working nine to five in a steel mill is woman's greatest goal. But I suppose you disagree.”

“Not necessarily. I think lib's off the track, too, in some ways. Putting all their eggs in the ERA basket. Devaluing motherhood. Promoting abortion like a cosmetic. But women have gotten screwed in some ways, and it's still happening. Look at law firms. You could fire a shotgun in every partnership meeting in town and not hit a single woman who isn't screwing the managing partner.”

“Yeah, maybe, but so what? Being a lawyer's a piece of shit. Fucking lackeys, is all we are. Women are crazy to want it.” Gardner laughed. “Why do you represent all those broads anyway, D.T.? What are you, a traitor to your sex?”

D.T. laughed. “Hell, I don't know. Because I like women, I guess. Better than men, I mean. Men are so damned frightened by their lives—their jobs, their kids, their age, their bodies going bad. Unless they're a month away from discovering a cure for cancer they figure they haven't fulfilled their potential, and then they figure, hey. Maybe I can't cure cancer but I can sure as hell fuck young girls. So that's what they do. Either that or they just crawl inside themselves and watch football till it's over. Women fight for it. Truth. Meaning. Whatever. And when it still doesn't keep their husbands from running off with the receptionist they're devastated. Then the divorce system comes along and screws them to the wall.”

Gardner swore. “That's a crock, D.T. I can name a hundred guys dragging around support judgments that are killing them like the plague.”

“And I can name a thousand women who live like slaves because they aren't getting one red cent for themselves or the kids from husbands who've been ordered to pay and can but aren't.”

Gardner's grin was sly. “You want to know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you guys who claim you're so fucking liberated, who admire women so goddamned much, like to work with them and be pals and all that, I think you guys are the
ultimate
chauvinists.”

“Why?”

“Because deep down you think broads really
are
inferior. That's why you don't have any problems with them. You don't think they're really capable of being a threat to you in any way. I mean, hell. It's like you say. All men are insecure, right? Comes with having a cock.”

“Right.”

“So if you
really
respected broads as much as men, then at least some of them would make you feel inferior as hell, the way some men do.”

“Not true.”

“Says you. That's why there's so much divorce, you know.”

“Why?”

“Women scare the shit out of us. Men don't know their function any more, except maybe to get stiff on cue and take the blame for everything from cellulite to cysts.”

D.T. shook his head. “That's not it. Want to hear my Dissertation on Divorce?”

“Shoot.”

“It's simple physics. There's a finite amount of intelligence and beauty in the world. In the first half of life, men get the brains, women get the looks. Then comes the Big Reversal. Men get dumber and handsomer, women get smarter and uglier. Ergo, divorce, because psychologically neither one can handle the switch. Plus there's the First Supporting Principle.”

“Which is?”

“In middle age men's and women's sex drives start traveling in opposite directions. Women's up after the birth of the first child; men's down from age eighteen. Women want it more and more; men can do it less and less. Prescription for disaster, maritalwise. The big bang.”

Gardner was cackling. “Christ, D.T. You ought to write a book.”

“That's just what the world needs. Another book about divorce.”

“One more thing,” Gardner said.

“Yeah?”

“What's the D.T. stand for?”

“Dutch Treat,” he said, and threw a dollar on the table.

They listened to bar sounds for a while, laughter and debate, fellowship and hostility, the periodic voicing of swizzled dreams. D.T. wondered why he didn't do this more often. Bullshit. Brag. Complain. Confess. Just like college. Then he realized he knew no one but Dick Gardner who would listen to his tale. Except maybe Bobby E. Lee, who had a tale of his own that D.T. thought he'd better not hear.

“So, you sleep with your clients or what?” Gardner asked suddenly.

“Nope. Never.”

“Bullshit.”

“Really. No future in it. All the guys I know who have, end up wishing they hadn't.”

“You can say that again,” Gardner confessed, as D.T. remembered one of Gardner's former wives was a former client. “Say, D.T. You aren't seeing Michele any more, are you? I mean, you're not about to remarry her or anything, right?”

“Once was more than enough.”

“You mind if I ask her out some night?”

D.T. was startled, then angry, then hurt. So this was the reason for the drink. And the bullshit. Gardner didn't want a discussion; he just wanted a pimp. “No problem. Take her out.” The words soured his mouth.

“You don't look too sure about it.”

“Hell, I don't have any say in the matter. But I warn you, she's about to marry a twerp named George.”

“No harm in trying, right?”

“Right.” Trying what?

“What's she like, anyway? I mean, really.”

“Michele's a wonderful woman. Cheerful. Enthusiastic. Funny. Spends money like an Arab, but the beauty is it's all her own. Generous. Kind. A miraculous, marvelous creature. I'm sure you'll be very happy.”

“Hell, D.T. I'm not going to marry the bitch. I just want to get in her pants.”

Gardner shook his head. D.T. grew morose by leaps and bounds.

“Want to go hustle up some chicks?” Gardner asked as he finished his drink. “I know this place on the west side where a lot of our type hang out.”

“What type is our type?”

“Oh, the ones who were born about the time ‘Moonglow' hit the charts and give head without being strangled.”

“I think I'll pass,” D.T. said. “The odds of two such lovelies being in attendance at the same saloon are astronomical.”

Gardner nodded absently, clearly eager to get away. “You're probably smart. Know what happened to me the other night?”

“What?”

“I'm in this joint, see, and I spot this halfway decent chick sitting at a table in the corner, alone, dressed to kill, definitely on the make. So I go over. And buy some drinks, and put about a number two move on her, and she responds on schedule. So I ask if she wants to go to my place for a nightcap. Next thing I know this hand is feeling around my crotch. And I get about half hard, and she acts like she's even hotter than I am, and then she says, ‘No thanks; I'm in the mood for something a little bigger tonight.' Can you fucking
believe
it? The world's going straight to hell. But fuck it, right?”

“Right. Fuck it.”

Gardner stood up. “Hang in there, D.T. Tell the Stone woman she's about to have some spare rooms.”

“And you tell Chas he'd better start getting liquid.”

They shook hands and parted at the door. D.T. watched Gardner go off to hustle chicks, and quickly hated him. He drove rapidly to his apartment, his mind woolly with drink and with the feeling he had just been party to something a bit unseemly.

By the time he had changed his clothes it was after six. He was hungry, but there was nothing in the refrigerator he hadn't eaten in the previous three days. As he surveyed the chilly larder the waxed carton on the top shelf reminded him of Lucinda Finders and the fantastic fact that she had nursed her child in his living room. His lips puckered. He opened the cupboard and inspected the crystal chalice that still contained a crusty remnant of her milk. He picked it up, tipped it, watched one last drop collect in a pearly puddle. He swirled the glass as though it held a priceless vintage, shuddered, then poured the droplet down the drain and threw the goblet in the soggy sack beneath the sink. Then he went to the phone and asked for Reedville.

“Operator.”

“I'm trying to locate a girl who lives in Reedville. At least her parents do.”

“What are their names, sir?”

“That's just it. I don't know. The girl's married name is Lucinda Finders. I don't know her maiden name. She's twenty-one. She just had a baby. Do you have any idea how I can reach her?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Could you ask around the office there? Please?”

“I'm sorry …”

“Please? It's very important. She could be in trouble.”

“Just a moment.”

The line hummed for a long minute. He imagined a line of women with red fingernails and headsets, exchanging whispered speculations between the calls of lovers and of gossips. Above the hum he listened to his stomach growl.

The operator returned. “I believe the folks you want are named Klinkheim. That's Earl Klinkheim. They have a daughter named Lucinda that just had a baby. One of the girls here knew her in high school.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“You're welcome. Shall I put you through to the Klinkheim number, sir?”

“Please.”

“One moment.”

The phone was answered with a grunt. “Mr. Klinkheim?”

“So?”

“Do you have a daughter named Lucinda?”

“Who wants to know? This ain't Delbert, is it? It damn sure better not be.” D.T. began to understand why Lucinda had gone off with the first one who would take her.

“My name is Jones. I'm an attorney. I represent Lucinda in her divorce action. I'm trying to get in touch with her.”

“She ain't here.”

“Do you expect her later on?”

“I don't expect her ever. Not after what she said to me the day she left. ‘Course that didn't stop her from running back when times wrinkled up on her, like I knew she would.”

“When's the last time you saw her, Mr. Klinkheim?”

“Three days ago, I reckon.” The brusque voice paused, then spoke suspiciously. “Say now. I just got sent a bill the hospital wants me to pay for them yanking out her kid. Now let met tell you. I ain't gonna pay the hospital and I ain't gonna pay
you
, if that's what you got in mind. The day she left the farm was the day she decided to pay her own way. So don't for a minute think you'll get any money outta
me
, Mr. Divorce Lawyer.”

“It's nothing like that. I hope you'll ask Lucinda to call me if you hear from her. That's all I want. The name is Jones.”

“Heard you the first time.” The line went as dead as the man's compassion.

D.T. put down the receiver, thought for a minute, then dialed his process server. An answering machine squeaked and beeped. D.T. left his message: Delbert Wesley Finders could be served with the petition in the case of
Finders
v.
Finders
at twenty forty-two Houston Street. Current balance in the outstanding account of the Law Office of D. T. Jones would be paid in full at the end of the month. Expedited action on the request to effect service would be very much appreciated. D.T. broke the connection and looked up another number and dialed it.

“May I speak to Dr. Haskell?” he asked the woman who answered.

“He's not here. His emergency number is 4295. If you need treatment please call that number or go at once to the hospital.” Her voice was uninterested and would remain so for anything less than a federally acknowledged disaster.

“I need to speak to the doctor about a personal matter,” D.T. insisted. “My name is Jones. I'm an attorney.”

Her voice mellowed not a whit. “I see. He's at the hospital, I believe. The monthly staff meeting.”

“Which hospital?”

“Providence.”

“Do you know where the meeting is?”

“The conference room, I suppose. That's where it usually is. If there really is a meeting,” she added, something more bitter than boredom in her voice. “Are you suing him, Mr. Jones? Is that it? Is he going to be sued for malpractice, on top of all the rest?”

“Nothing like that,” D.T. said quickly, wanting very much to ask what all the rest of it was, whether it was like the all the rest of it he encountered in his practice. But he forced his tongue to say goodbye.

He was at the hospital in fifteen minutes. A woman in white who spoke in whispers told him the conference room was on the second floor. When he got there the door was closed, but when he pressed an ear to it he heard voices. He sat in the adjoining waiting area and thumbed through a back issue of
People
. Johnny Carson was divorcing once again. The legal fee would be six figures. D.T. whistled. Nurses, patients, and visitors floated past, speaking in hushed tones.

The hospital grew still, as though everyone had been cured or died. The only sound came from the aluminum coffee pot that burbled occasionally atop a table in a corner. D.T. helped himself. A woman wearing hiking boots passed, reminding him of Barbara and her incessant clamoring for them to do something out-of-doors. The only thing he liked to do out-of-doors was golf, a sport Barbara held in a contempt more appropriate to despots. He wished he hadn't said anything to Dick Gardner about Barbara. Dick would probably try to get in her pants after he left Michele's.

D.T. put down his
People
and picked up a
National Geographic
. African women were still bare-breasted, he was happy to see, and did strange things to their lips. While he was reading of the liberation of Ethiopian tribeswomen the conference room door opened. A group of men and women spilled into the corridor, chatting, clutching papers to their breasts, moving among each other in stuttering bursts of progress like magnified malignant cells.