The Mayor of Lexington Avenue (21 page)

Cobb County was located at the northwest corner of Lake Okeechobee in the south central part of the state, where the word “cracker” didn’t refer to something you ate. It was the smallest county in Florida, with a population under 15,000, the majority of whom lived in the small town of Bass Creek. Although it was infinitesimal in size compared to Miami, Bass Creek had its own McDonald’s and Burger King, and rumor had it the Colonel was opening a franchise in the near future. In the winter, transients piled in from who knows where, old and young, rich and poor—but mostly poor. Citrus was the crop and pickers, many illegals, from Mexico, Colombia, Guatemala and other points south of the border always arrived for the harvest.

Jack had grown up in New York City but he was a Florida cracker at heart. For the last ten years, he’d spent his weekends and vacations out on the lake boating and fishing. He’d been alone for the last five, since Renee, his third wife, left him. She’d told him she didn’t marry a successful Miami lawyer to spend her weekends in a seedy, backwoods town while he went fishing. The woman had a point, but Jack wasn’t going to give up the one thing in life he truly enjoyed. So they parted ways. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, but he’d shut himself off after that.

The plan was to open a small office in “downtown” Bass Creek. He was going to represent anybody who walked through the door, the only contingency being that he would have to believe in their case. He was going to be the proverbial country lawyer and he was sure it was going to be a hoot. He didn’t need the money anymore but he did need something. What did Bob Marley call it —“Redemption”? But from what he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was from all those people whose legitimate claims he had defeated in court over the years on behalf of those bloodsucking insurance companies he represented. He’d always told himself it was just business but he knew. Hell, everybody knew. He was just a high-paid prostitute who sold his soul instead of his body. You can only live with that so long, and he had lasted longer than most.

Jack had given the firm notice last year, and they had negotiated for more than six months before arriving at a buyout figure of twenty million dollars, enough for a thousand people or more to live their lives out comfortably in Cobb County. But there was a snag. There was always a snag. As a trial lawyer he knew that intuitively. Never saw a perfect case.

This snag had been his own fault. He’d been at one of those fundraisers he hated, stepped outside for a minute to talk to his old friend Bob Richards, who happened to be the governor of the state—and blew it. There was no other way to put it. He blew it. Bob Richards was a friend the way wealthy people and politicians are friends—they drank together, socialized some and generally networked with others of their ilk. It didn’t go any deeper than that. But there he was at a fundraiser, the master of playing his cards close to his vest—Old Sourpuss himself—spilling his guts about his future to the governor.

“There’s a rumor going around that you’re leaving the firm,” Bob casually mentioned when they were out on the terrace alone. It was fall in Miami and this night was the first break from the tropical summer heat. It was about seventy-five, a slight breeze blowing, clear skies—the kind of night that people in Buffalo would soon be having wet dreams about.

“Yeah, it’s time to go. Make way for the young turks.”

“What are you going to do? I never took you for the retirement type.” There it was. He could have shrugged. He could have made some innocuous comment like “I’ll get used to it.” But no, he had to be honest.

“I’m not going to retire. I’m going to open a little office in Cobb County. Be a country lawyer.”

“Cobb County,” the governor mused. “I seem to recall old Harry Parker is about to retire from the circuit bench over there.” That was Bob, a politician’s politician. He couldn’t find his way through a spreadsheet, couldn’t recognize an environmental issue if it reached up and bit him in the ass, but he knew every open political appointment in the state.

“I don’t want to be a judge,” Jack told him flat out.

“No, I know that.” Bob replied, looking up at the stars and rubbing his chin.

“Besides, I’ve already committed that position to Bill Sampson, the state attorney, but Bill’s position is open. Jack, you’d love it! It’s a small office—only four other lawyers, no pressure. You’d be doing trial work. Whaddya say?”

That was Bob, the ultimate salesman. What could he say? A flat no would have been appropriate. But he was never one to turn down opportunity. It was trial work and he wouldn’t have to set up an office and hire staff. And he would have a few months off before he started. So he said yes. Not that night. He fumbled and fidgeted a bit and it took several phone calls from ol’ Bob, but eventually Jack relented. And that was it. The dream that he had planned for so long was gone—replaced by somebody else’s dream. Why he let it happen, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was fate.

After he passed Nancy on the way to his office, Jack instinctively felt something was wrong. He hated to admit it but he was a man of habit and somebody had thrown a wrench into his ritual. He recognized the problem soon enough. Corinne was not there to take his briefcase and give him his messages. For a moment he thought to ask Nancy where she was but decided against it. He walked into his office and called Rick Woods instead. He was a little on edge, a little concerned. Corinne had never been absent or late for work before.

“Rick, where’s Corinne? She’s not here,” he demanded when Rick picked up the phone.

“Relax, Jack. She called in sick. Apparently, for the first time in her life Corinne has the flu. You’re going to have to struggle through the day with Nancy.” Rick was being a little testy. The deal had already been made with Jack. He was leaving the firm soon—the sooner the better, from Rick’s perspective—and there was no longer any incentive to appease his every wish. Jack hung up the phone. He thought of calling Nancy in but he knew she was already on her way to get the
Cobb County Press.
Even Nancy’s screwups were part of his ritual. Something was still bothering him, though, and he wasn’t sure what it was.
I can’t be this upset simply because my secretary is out sick. It has to be something else. I can feel it.

He walked to the closet, took off his blue suit jacket, meticulously placed it on a wooden hanger and hung it up. He walked back to his desk, picked up
The New York Times
—he always read the
Times
first—sat down in his comfortable burgundy leather chair and began to read: world news first, then the local section, then the obituaries, then . . . his intuition was right. Something else definitely was wrong.

Nancy didn’t exactly run the two blocks to the newspaper stand. She’d already learned from Rick Woods that Corinne was sick and that she was going to be Jack’s secretary for the day. No reason to hurry back to the office.

“Think of it as an opportunity,” Rick had replied when she unthinkingly cursed into the phone after he gave her the news. She dreaded the thought.
If they didn’t pay so well, I’d just keep walking.
But that wasn’t an option. She needed the job.

His chair was facing away from the door and towards the window when she quietly stepped into his office. She walked right up to the desk with the paper and the messages. No sense being shy. They both knew she was late and had forgotten the paper. If he wanted to be a jerk about it, she was ready for him. She didn’t hear the sobs until she was right at the desk. Big sobs. His shoulders were heaving. She saw the paper on his lap.
The obituaries. Somebody died, and he’s actually crying. Maybe he did have a mother after all. Maybe blood does run through his veins.
The thought of him having a heart was almost too much for her. But there was a much more immediate problem—she was standing in his office, intruding on a very personal moment. What should she do? She couldn’t tiptoe out, although that was the most enticing option. And she didn’t want him to know that she had actually witnessed him in his moment of being human. Having no real choice, she finally decided to just drop the paper on his desk, making as much noise as she possibly could while at the same time pretending she’d seen and heard nothing.

He turned suddenly at the noise—so quickly, he startled Nancy. His red, swollen eyes confronted her.

“I have your messages but I can come back.” It was the best she could come up with. He didn’t say a word. He was still so overcome with emotion, he couldn’t speak. He motioned her to sit.
Oh my God, he wants me to stay! I need a drink.
As if he’d read her mind, he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two glasses. It wasn’t her drink of choice, especially at 9:30 in the morning, but she graciously accepted the glass and took a long sip simultaneously with him. Then he poured them both another. After the second shot, she started to relax.

“Nancy—it is Nancy, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir.”

“Nancy, have you ever lost anyone close? I mean very close?”

“I lost my mother when I was fifteen.” That made him pause a moment. She knew it would. It always shocked everyone.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay. That was nine years ago. I’m over it now.”

“You never get over it, Nancy. My father died ten years ago and I’m still not over it. He’s still with me, my harshest critic.”

Nancy couldn’t believe she was having this conversation with Old Sourpuss. She felt like asking for another shot to get her through when he suddenly stood up.

“Nancy, you and I are going to have to go to a meeting outside the office.” He walked over to the closet to retrieve his blue suit coat, still clutching the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Nancy was bewildered. Corinne never left the office for meetings with him—let alone with a bottle.

“Should I call Rick and let him know?” she asked.

“No. I’ll straighten him out when we get back.” She grabbed her purse and practically ran to catch him as he walked out the front door. The other office personnel who saw them leave just looked at each other.

He had her drive his black Coupe de Ville, which made her even more nervous. It was a lot bigger than her Honda and with two shots of Jack on an empty stomach she wasn’t exactly sure of her instincts.

“Where to?” she asked when she had successfully maneuvered the monster out of the parking garage.

“Do you have a neighborhood bar?”

“My father does, but it’s twenty minutes away over towards Homestead.”

“That sounds lovely. Let’s go there.” They drove in silence, Nancy concentrating on the road, trying to get used to the big car and Jack deep inside himself, sipping absent-mindedly from the bottle of Jack. She stole a glance at him from time to time and saw him looking out into space, his eyes teary. She didn’t dare interrupt him.
It must be his mother,
she thought.

Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of a dingy-looking place that appeared deserted from the outside. The sign out front simply read Fitzpatrick’s. The word “Bar” would have been superfluous from the looks of the place. Nancy got out first and led the way. Following her, Jack couldn’t help but notice, perhaps for the first time, that she had a striking figure—a compact torso, well-toned muscles, very attractive.
Where the hell have I been for the last year?
he asked himself. Five years was more like it.

“Hi, Nance!” the bartender, a strapping young Irishman, greeted her as they entered the front door.

“Hey, Tommy,” she replied, a little embarrassed. It wasn’t necessarily a good thing to walk in a bar in the middle of the day with your boss in tow and have the bartender address you by your first name.

Jack didn’t seem to notice. He was looking around, checking the place out. Nancy led them to a booth in the back. He would have preferred the bar but this was her place, her terms. It was a great place, though, very dark, with dark mahogany paneling throughout, black ceiling, dark green linoleum floors. The only light stole through the few clear spots in the dirt-stained windows. The joint certainly had character. Once they were seated in the old wooden booth, Nancy stood to get the drinks.

“Jack on the rocks?” she asked. He nodded. A minute later she was back with two of the same. “I ordered a pastrami sandwich because I have to have something to eat and they don’t serve breakfast here. Do you want something?”

“No thanks.”

“By the way, just so you know, Tommy and I went to high school together.” Jack smiled.
He actually smiled,
she told herself.

“I’m glad you told me that because I was starting to suspect that you were a rummy.”
A joke! He actually made a joke.
And it was an Irish joke of sorts. “Rummy” wasn’t a word used in too many circles. She laughed. She couldn’t help it. She was starting to warm up to Old Sourpuss.
Maybe he’s human after all.

They drank in silence for a while after that—he with that far-off, teary-eyed look. Nancy waited what she considered to be an appropriate period of time, but after three shots of Jack, her fear of her boss had worn off almost completely, and she wanted some conversation.

“So who died?” she asked. He just looked at her for a moment, a little surprised at her directness.

“An old friend,” he finally answered. He was slurring his words now. “A dear, dear old friend who I lost touch with many years ago.” He drifted away again for a few minutes. Then he began to talk.

“We grew up together in New York, lived in the same apartment building. He was my best friend,” he laughed, his watery blue eyes shining. Nancy could see him drifting back in time with that laugh. “New York was a very aggressive place back in those days. It’s probably worse now. It was like a small town every few blocks. Each neighborhood had its own crowd. They weren’t gangs really but guys and gals who hung out together on street corners, strutting their stuff. There were always fights, sometimes between crowds, sometimes within the crowd. And there was a hierarchy—the strong picked on the weak. Not Mikey, he was different. He always looked after me. If he didn’t, I think the neighborhood would have chewed me up and spit me out.