Alligators in the Trees (7 page)

Tobias never so much as glanced at his watch all night. He wandered from one drinking establishment to the next, stopping at an all-night diner at some point, prowling through parts of the city he had never been to before, moving through the night like an unseen alien. He felt almost invisible. The less conspicuous he became, the more at ease he became. There was no one around him who knew who he was, no one who wanted a piece of him or his time. He was absolutely anonymous.

The pace of his evening energized him, washing away his fatigue. It was as if he drew strength from feeding off the conversations of those around him, like an undetectable human leach. He emptied his mind of his own thoughts so he could absorb his impressions of the strangers he encountered, sizing them up as he read the clues they displayed about themselves.

Gradually, the bars and pubs closed, leaving him to wander after-hours clubs and extra-sleazy flesh joints. Those places quickly lost their appeal, and Tobias was left with cruising down the deserted streets, the blocks slipping by as he automatically plodded along. He walked all the way uptown and made a loop, by dawn arriving where he had started out.

He laughed weakly as he discovered he was across the street from Frank’s Coffee Shop. This was where it had all started almost twenty-four hours earlier. It amazed him that one day had forever altered his life.

It was only quarter to seven, and already there was a light but steady stream of customers coming and going. Tobias leaned against a lamppost and watched the activity for a while. He was so desperate for something to eat and a cup of coffee, even Frank’s coffee would be welcome. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to go inside.

As he watched Priscilla and her coworker from a distance, he recognized in them the type of life he had gravitated to once he had sabotaged his father’s hopes for him becoming a Wall Street guru. His expulsion from Harvard Business School for smoking pot took care of that. Horrified as everyone was, they never learned of his real offenses—dealing, gambling, selling term papers—nor did they give him credit for his newly acquired principles of capitalism.

His parents were certain he was trying to drive them into early graves when he took a job as a delivery truck driver for a meat distributor. Even though it had only lasted nine months, it had a profound effect on him. It had changed his whole outlook, giving him a taste of life on the lower rungs of the class structure, forever cementing his phobia of being one of the bourgeoisie.

Of course, looking back, he appreciated how lowbrow and crass that episode of his life really was. Beer cans stuffed full of cigarette butts, gas-guzzling muscle cars and easy camaraderie flashed across his mind’s eye, but he could still recall how exciting and stimulating it seemed back then.

Life on the top hadn’t been so bad either, on the surface, but it had a numbing effect on his soul. He had become so insulated, so protected, he had lost touch with his empathy, and with it his ability to tap into the raw truths about people and life. All he needed was to reacquaint himself with the nitty-gritty, and boom, his mind began to fire on all cylinders. Oh, it was good to feel alive again, half dead from exhaustion, but still more alive than he’d been in years.

His hunger and fatigue finally reached the level that required action. He was on the verge of hallucinating. He was just about to lurch across the street for another unappetizing meal at Frank’s, when a fresh refrain floated through his head.

“Don’t you remember how it feels…Don’t you remember how it feels…Don’t you remember how it feels?”
Tobias stood there, frozen, as if experiencing a stroke. The rest of the lyrics came to him not as words, but as a fully formed idea that had been torn into fragments; it was all there, it just needed to be sorted through and assembled.

He reached for his cell phone, forgetting for a moment he had disposed of it. No problem—Brody was an early riser. Without another thought to his physical needs, he headed off in that direction, the new song fairly splitting his head as he sprinted down the avenue.

Philip sat next to his attorney as they faced off against Marianne and her hired gun, Lou Michelson, the man who surely had inspired every nasty joke ever told about attorneys. His loathsomeness was his calling card; sometimes all it took was the mention of his name to prod the other side into settlement negotiations. He was so repellent, his own clients seldom referred to him by name. Most attorneys dreaded going head to head against him, and very few managed to walk away with their dignity intact.

It took every speck of willpower on Martin’s part to keep from squirming as Lou glared at him and his client with blatant contempt. Martin maintained his appearance of nonchalance by repeatedly reminding himself of all the attributes and privileges he had that his adversary lacked: Ivy League degree, various prestigious country club memberships, and a well-respected name in New York society.

As the two attorneys squared off with a preliminary of bad vibes, Philip stole the occasional glance at his soon-to-be ex-wife. From what he could tell, Marianne was as composed and unflustered as if she were ensconced in her box at the Metropolitan Opera. Her complexion was flawless, her attire was discreetly expensive, and her expression gave no clues as to what lie behind the perfect façade. She would not look at him, though she didn’t give the impression she was intentionally avoiding him, but rather, as far as she was concerned, he didn’t exist.

Her slight of him inflamed Philip at first, but then he began to find the whole charade amusing. If they hadn’t all been assembled for the express purpose of dividing the proceeds of his life’s work, he might have laughed out loud. This was all a farce, anyway. He knew how it would all come down: the lion’s share would go to Marianne, while both lawyers would pocket smaller fortunes, with precious little left for him. He didn’t know why he had to suffer through the pretense of negotiations.

Eventually, the game got underway, with each attorney trying to trump the other by producing documentation supporting their respective client’s position. For every property appraisal Martin offered, Lou flashed another of greater valuation, thereby pumping up Philip’s net worth in order to make a claim for a higher dollar amount. As only three of Philip’s many holdings were already in the process of being sold, there was a lot of room for speculation.

The more the lawyers quibbled over the value, the less interested Philip became in the outcome. One way or another, the three of them were going to bleed him dry. The tediousness of watching them chisel it all up was enough to put him to sleep. That changed, however, when Martin made an objection that prompted Marianne to break her silence.

“You seem to be forgetting I have my young daughter’s future to look out for,” she said, with all the piousness of a devoted, self-sacrificing mother.

“Caitlin will be amply provided for,” Martin said calmly.

Marianne regarded him coldly through thickly lashed eyes. “Not if your client has his way.”

Instantly, Philip’s anger flared. “What are you talking about?” he barked indignantly. “I’ve already agreed to the outrageous sum of six thousand a month for child support.”

“That’s not going to be enough,” she said, still refusing to look his direction.

“What do you mean, that’s not enough? This is one child we’re talking about, one that will be spending half her time with me, don’t forget.”

The haughty way Marianne raised her eyebrow made Philip flinch. There was an implied threat there that he couldn’t read. What imaginary grievance was she working up now, he wondered apprehensively.

“We’ve already established the child support payments, Marianne,” Martin said with exaggerated courtesy.

“We’ve rerun the numbers, and that figure ain’t going to fly,” Lou said. “You’re going to have to make it eight thousand, or we’ll have to let the court set the amount. You’re going to have to come up with a better alimony figure, while you’re at it,” he said menacingly.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Philip said, shooting up from his chair like a Jack-in-the-box. “You demanded twenty-thousand a month, and that’s what we reluctantly agreed to. And not a penny more.”

“Sit down, Philip,” Martin cautioned him.

“Tell your client that based on his income and the expenses of my client, not to mention the length of the marriage, he will have to pay her alimony in the amount of twenty-five thousand a month,” Stan said, his menacing grimace making his features more repugnant. Philip turned to Martin in disbelief.

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question—” Martin began to protest.

“What income?” Philip exclaimed. “Are you forgetting that my firm is no longer solvent? Just exactly how do you expect me to come up with that kind money if you’re forcing me to liquidate all my assets?” For the first time since they sat down, Marianne turned to face him.

“We were married for nearly sixteen years, Philip—that has to count for something. After all, you did take the best years of my life,” she said with such trite predictability, Philip laughed.

Marianne colored under her makeup. “I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you,” she warned, her lovely features hardening.

“Oh, really? And precisely what would you do if you were in my position?”

“This is not the place for histrionics, Mr. Glessner,” Lou said condescendingly.

Philip snorted at his remark, but he never took his eyes off his wife. “You know, Marianne, if those were the best years of your life, maybe you should be paying
me
. You seem to be overlooking the fact I made those ‘best years’ possible. And frankly, if that was the best you had to give, I think I deserve a refund,” Philip said, exposing a side of himself his attorney didn’t know he possessed. Martin had little time to marvel over this show of backbone, however; the opposition had commenced with a righteous indignation fest on the other side of the conference table.

“I do
not
have to sit here and take this kind of abuse,” Marianne said, as she rose angrily from her chair. Lou made a big show of collecting his paperwork pile of weaponry, while Martin tried to get them to retake their seats.

“Look, this kind of squabbling will get us nowhere. You might as well sit down and get this over with, Marianne. Don’t forget—the sooner we get the details ironed out, the sooner you can get on with your life. And the less you have to pay Mr. Michelson out of your settlement.”

Philip wasn’t sure he cared for the sound of that last sentence. Marianne shot one final look of scorn at her husband and sat back down. Lou, acting as though it was against his better judgment, slowly sat down and laid out his ammo. “Good. Now, let’s take one issue at a time here. We were discussing the value of the Trenton apartment complex…”

The settlement conference droned on until half past six. All parties looked worse for wear, even unflappable Marianne, whose stress showed itself in the fine creases on her forehead. Philip hoped she was having one of her reported “migraines,” though he doubted now that she had ever experienced anything harsher than menstrual cramps.

Lou escorted her out while Martin seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to collect his things. Philip sat there, dazed by the uselessness that came out of so much expended energy. He had worked fourteen-hour days on a regular basis and never felt this wiped out before.

“Well, Michelson didn’t totally clean us out. And at least we got them to agree to staggered installments on the settlement. That should make things a lot easier on you,” Martin said over his shoulder. All Philip could manage was a small huff.

Martin looked at him and decided a drink was in order. “What can I get you?” he asked, as he opened a cupboard and took stock of the options. “Scotch is your drink, isn’t it? We’ve got a good single-malt here, or whiskey, gin, vodka—whatever you prefer.” Philip ran a hand down his face from forehead to chin and huffed again, this time more dejectedly.

“I could use a drink, but frankly, I’d just as soon get out of here. How ’bout we go somewhere else?” he asked, as he hoisted himself out of the chair.

“Sorry, it’s late. I’ve got to get home. Laura’s planned some dinner party tonight, and she’ll skin me alive if I’m not there by seven.” Philip rechecked his watched.

“Then you better get a move on,” he said.

“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” Martin said as he held open the door for his dispirited client. “Don’t worry, this will all be over in a month or two.”

“Yeah, then I’ll just have another three or four years of lawsuits to contend with,” Philip replied sarcastically, as they headed down the hall to the elevator.

Philip sat in the low-slung Barcelona chair and stared out at the city at night. The chair was especially appropriate to his mood, low-slung as it was, putting him within easy reach of his glass and the bottle of Scotch he had picked up on his way back to his loaner apartment. Because of the way the chair forced him to sit, any impetus remaining in him to do anything else was easily overcome by the sheer force of gravity. It would have taken more energy than he could muster to get out of the thing, so he decided he’d just have to sit there all night.

As he sat there reliving the last horrendous hours of his day, it struck him as almost surreal that he had ever married someone who was as cold-hearted and money-grubbing as Marianne. She certainly hadn’t seemed that way in the beginning. He remembered her as being very sweet and amenable, fresh and pretty, and happy to be by his side.

Perhaps he had been blind to her faults. He knew he wasn’t the best judge of character, in large part due to his aloofness. It was true he didn’t pay much attention to others, absorbed in his own world as he was. This fault aside, he still found it hard to believe that Marianne had always been so shallow and hard. It baffled him to think the woman whose life had been transformed by her connection to him would harbor such resentment toward him.

No matter what case she made against him, how could she possibly deny that being married to him had been anything but a positive experience? Even if she didn’t love him, she couldn’t say he hadn’t been good to her. So why all the animosity? What did she use as her justification? Maybe she had it in her mind that the collapse of The Phoenix had been an unpardonable act against her, turning her well-ordered world upside-down. Who knew? He sure didn’t.

As he took another swig of Scotch, the truth finally dawned on him: this whole debacle had marred Marianne’s reputation. It wouldn’t do to have that kind of gossip floating around—all those other society matrons whispering behind their manicured hands as she entered the room. Philip saw now that in order to keep her place in the social hierarchy, she had no choice but to rid herself of him.

In time, the fact that she had divorced him immediately after the scandal—while wringing every cent she could out of him—would restore her position. It was only natural, Philip supposed, that Marianne should be looking out for herself. It was just his hard luck he didn’t marry the type of girl who believed in sticking by her man when times got tough. Maybe that type of loyalty didn’t really exist anymore.

No matter how ugly things got between them, he had gained something from her that would comfort him the rest of his life, namely Caitlin. They could take his last dime, his reputation and his career, and he’d still feel like the luckiest guy in the world having her as his daughter. When he looked into her face, he saw the best part of both he and his wife, melded together in a hopeful new package. If they hadn’t lived up to their own expectations, perhaps this newer, better version of themselves could.

More important was the love that was reciprocated between father and daughter. There were times when he’d look down at her as he was driving her somewhere, and she would be wrapped up in her own games—singing to herself or playing with her dolls, or reading out loud. No matter what she was involved in, if Philip said, “I love you, sweetheart,” she would reply without skipping a beat, “I love you, too, Daddy,” because it was one of the things in life she was certain of. Even with all the chaos in their lives, Caitlin believed her mommy and daddy loved her, no matter what.

This happy reflection was cut short by the memory of the menacing look he had received from Marianne at Martin’s office. The implication suddenly hit him and it was enough to propel him bolt upright in his chair. Marianne had given him a chilling look when he reminded her that Caitlin would be spending half her time with him. How low could a person stoop? Using her child as a way to extort more money out of him. But her look said it all: she was planning something treacherous, he could feel it.

Philip jumped out of the chair—not an easy move considering the chair and his size—and grabbed his sports jacket. He couldn’t sit there another minute or he’d lose his mind. Without even thinking his plan through, he fairly sprinted the two blocks to the garage where he kept his car. He drove up FDR Drive, crossed the George Washington Bridge and took I95 all the way to Boston. He could not rest until he had Caitlin by his side again.