Cookie's Case (4 page)

“If you care about Cookie,” Henry now tells him, “then I'll see you in my office tomorrow at ten o'clock.” Henry turns to me. “Is ten good for you?”

“You may recall, Henry, I have a court appearance in the morning, the Josefina Ruiz matter. Could we do noon?”

“Oh yes, Ruiz.” He turns to Cookie. “That time good for you?”

“Um, uh …” she looks to Major for consent. He nods.

“Can I assume by your nod that the time works for you, Major?”

“Yes, it's fine.”

“Then it's confirmed. Tug, you're going to run along home to get a good night's sleep. We don't want our clients thinking that their new lawyer makes a habit of late hours in clubs before he goes to court.” He smiles at Cookie. “Not that there's anything wrong with the environment, of course.”

I give Henry a look. One that says: Hey, I don't get out to these environments too often and I haven't yet had a drink or taken in the sights. He reads me loud and clear.

“You're on your way home, Tug. Give the gentleman one of your cards.” I comply. Major looks at it, then puts it in his wallet.

“Come on now,” Henry coaxes, nudging me toward the door as I resist. “I'll take care of getting them to my office. You just show up at noon. Let's go.”

He shoves me again. “I'll walk you out.” To Cookie and the Major he says, “Be right back.”

I give in, and we head for the door. As if I have a choice. “Bye, Mick, sorry.”

He nods, understanding.

Ten steps into the march of disappointment, I turn to Henry. “Is this really necessary? I don't get out like this very often.”

“Appearances, my boy, appearances.”

“But how could she hold this against me? She's a dancer. It's her club.”

“It's not her I'm worried about. It's that Major guy. He obviously pulls all the strings. I'm not going to lose this case because of him. If you stay, he'll spend the rest of the evening gathering up information based on your conduct here to throw at her when they get home later.”

“Information? What information?”

“Any and all information. Any and all, my boy. A guy like that has to be insecure having a girl like Cookie. Look at the two of them together.” I turn back. He's right.

“This needs to be a Tug-free zone. When you interact with either of them from now on, it's got to be in a professional setting. Do you get me?” I could argue, but we're already almost to the door. “See you later, litigator,” Henry says genially. “We'll talk tomorrow.”

You'd think he'd wish me good luck on Ruiz.

Outside, I pass the doorman in the black leather duster. He's curious, and I don't blame him. “Why you out so soon?”

“I just came to say hello to a friend, that's all.”

“Nah, man. That ain't right. You go tell that shit to somebody else.” He turns away like I've insulted him. I remind myself he's a doorman and more instinctive than most people. Still on the sidewalk are my new friends with
The Watchtower
.

“The dawn of a new age is upon you,” the talker says. She, at least, is happy to see me leaving.

“Yeah, well it wasn't voluntary,” I assure her. “It's more like I got a new case and then was forced to leave by my referring attorney. But I'll go with the ‘dawn of a new age' if my choreography explanation fails with the wife.”

Confused would best describe her expression after hearing this.

I pull out my phone, which has been vibrating against my chest since I walked into the place. Private Caller has made nine more attempts. Who is this person and why is he so persistent? It's getting under my skin. Whoever it is needs a talking-to.

I pocket my phone and head to Grand Central, making it back to the burbs earlier than expected.

There, at home in Westchester, I find myself in bed next to my wife, Tyler—yes, that's right, her name is Tyler Wyler—by ten fifteen. Her pillow tower is already in place, the better to muffle my anticipated snoring. I'm just happy she's asleep. If I'm lucky, I'll be out of the house in the morning before she wakes, avoiding her kitchen disposition. Then, by the time I see her tomorrow night, she'll be more likely to ask if I have any spare cash, having forgotten to inquire about my evening with Henry and Mick.

Nice.

Just as I complete that thought, she pulls the pillows off her head. Instantly, I'm on the wrong foot. But that's because I'm dealing with an expert.

“You smell like alcohol, smoke, and cheap perfume. Where were you?”

The thing is, Jingles is smoke-free, I didn't drink, and Cookie wasn't wearing any fragrance. Did I mention Tyler is an attorney, too? Only now she confines her practice to tennis. Hmm. I need to think fast. Better skip the choreography thing. Best to go for vague and simple.

“I met Mick and Henry. It was fun. I picked up a case. I'm meeting the client tomorrow. The dawn of a new age is upon us. Love you, honey. I've got to crash. Big day in court
mañana
.”

“Don't snore,” she commands.

“I'll try not to, honey,” I answer, knowing this response will spark a heated exchange. A trade-off I'm willing to accept for heading off the interrogation of my evening's activity.

“Better try hard.”

“I will.”

“Real hard.”

“Okay, honey.”

“You better not snore tonight. I had to play two tie-breakers today.”

“I understand.”

“Well, you better do more than just understand. You better not snore.”

“I won't.” That is the answer she was looking for. Now I can rest—or so I

think. She's not done.

“It's the couch for you if you snore. I mean it.”

“But I need a good night's sleep. Like I said, I have a big day in court tomorrow.”

“Don't snore or breathe heavy, and you'll get a good night's sleep. Now stop talking

already.”

“Okay.”

“Shush!”

“Sorry.”

“I hear you breathing. Quiet.”

“I have to breathe.”

“No, you don't.”

Chapter Three

I
wake up early—in the den. Funny thing is, I don't remember either my eviction or the journey downstairs. But I imagine I continued breathing, which is how I found myself here.

I stand and tiptoe upstairs, making sure not to disturb Tyler. I'm now thinking about her kitchen disposition. When I'm dressed and heading back downstairs again, the dogs are watching. Where they're waiting marks the border of our in-home dog containment system. They dare not move closer or it's zap time. I step through their invisible barrier, give my big guy, Otis, his morning head pat, and they lead me through our kitchen, which has the biggest center island in town. (When we built the house, I asked my wife why we needed such a big island. It's six feet wide by twelve feet long. She didn't hesitate. “Because we do.”)

As I make my way past the island, the dogs are keeping an eye on me in anticipation of their freedom. After letting them out, all I can think about is that dancer, Cookie. She slips on a banana, becomes a victim of malpractice, gets two corrective procedures, moves in with an elderly boyfriend who gets her mixed up with a crappy doctor and a basement lawyer, and she ends up in a halo. Yet, she's out there doing cartwheels. I'm also thinking, in the most respectful of ways, about her great legs, her fine ass, and, of course, her perfect breasts popping gloriously through that halo vest. I propose the aforementioned counts as normal male reflection.

At least I admit it.

As I let in the dogs, I see Penelope coming down the kitchen stairs. She looks pissed. You'd think a seven-year-old wouldn't wake up ticked off. Actually, most of the time she's the most adorable, intelligent, intuitive, and hilarious little girl I've ever met. She's also a talented dancer, which makes me connect her to Cookie. No way, Little Munch, no pole for you. Not while I'm alive. And I say this while acknowledging the important civic service that pole dancing provides.

She stops five steps up from the bottom landing and sits down with authority, putting her elbows on her knees and resting her chin in her hands. She means business.

“What's up, Little Munch?”

“The boys, Dad, the boys. I can't stand them.”

“You mean Brooks and Connor, your brothers?”

“What other boys would I be talking about? I'm too young to date, right?”

“Uh, right, Munch. So what's the problem?”

“Control issues, Dad, control issues.”

“How old are you again?”

“Dad,” she responds, “c'mon, I'm serious.”

“I'm listening.” I can't wait to hear what she believes is a control issue. But there's no doubt, she'll be on the money.

“They think they own the TVs in this house. Brooks is addicted to those old stupid baseball games and hogs the one in the family room, and Connor hogs the one in the den, watching Classic NBA. I just don't get it. But it's not fair. So what are you going to do about this?”

This kid wants results. She's her mother's daughter.

“You're right. They shouldn't be allowed to control both televisions. I'll do something about it. Still, we must respect that your brothers are students of the games.”

“Whatever, Dad. Just fix it. I want to watch
my
shows, too.”

“I will, I will. I agree it's not fair. Just because they're older doesn't mean they get to control the TVs.”

“Older? What are you talking about? They don't control them because they're older.”

“Oh, really,” I say. “So tell me then, why do they control the televisions?”

“Please, Dad,” she says. Like, how could I not know the answer? “They control them because they're men.” I refrain from chuckling. This is serious to her.

“First of all, they're not men. Brooks is ten and Connor is nine. They're boys.”

She nods.

“And second of all, they have no gender-based right to control the televisions. Do you understand me?”

“Whatever. But you'll take care of it?”

“Listen carefully. As a girl in this world, you need to stand up for yourself and never let a guy think he has more rights than you, your brothers included. Understood?”

“Yes.” She stands and turns back toward the stairs.

I say in a serious tone, “Penelope.” She looks at me like she knows she's in for a lesson, and she's right.

“Sit back down.”

She complies, reluctantly.

“Now, what are men?”

“Dirty dogs.”

“Right. I've taught you well.” To her, it's like our pups needing a trip to the groomer. But it still serves the purpose. For the time being. After all, what are dads for?

“Can I go now?”

“Last thing. No one has the right to control anyone else.”

She nods.

“And you always have to be independent and do what makes you happy. Got that Little Munch?”

“Got it.”

OOH-DAT! OOH-DAT! OOH-DAT!

As I walk out my front door, my phone goes wild. It doesn't always get reception inside, so what was sent during the evening is now making a mass run at the thing. I don't want to miss my train, so I'll browse the incomings during my commute.

I get a choice seat on the train and begin to scroll away. There it is again. Six private calls leaving not one message. Next time, when whoever it is tries to call, we're definitely going to chat. The device suddenly vibrates in my hand. I look, and there he is now. It's time to confront.

“Hello. Are you the guy who's been calling me incessantly?”

“I don't know,” he says, a little unsure of himself. “What does incess … incess … incess—”

“
Incessantly
,” I say, helping him out.

“Yeah, what does that mean?” His voice reveals, right off the bat, that he's a little slow. Having fought to bring justice for many children who were victims of traumatic brain injury, I'm ultrasensitive to this.

I'd better take it easy with him.

“
Incessantly
means all the time. Has that been you calling me all the time, young man?”

“Yes. That's me.”

“Well, what do you want?” My tone is gentle.

“Tell … name … first,” he says, haltingly, sounding like a second grader attempting to read from a note card.

“Excuse me,” I say.

“Oh, sorry, mister. I'm reading off my sheet that tells me how to do this. The one they gave me. I can read, you know.”

“I'm proud of you, that you can read. Why don't you tell me your name?”

“My name is Robert Killroy. But I didn't kill no Roy, and I didn't kill nobody. That's just my name.”

“I understand, Robert. Why don't you tell me how you got my cell number before we go any further.”

“I did my investigation.”

“I see. Well, you're a pretty decent investigator, given that this isn't a number you can find that easily. Good job, Robert.”

“Thank you, mister. Investigating things is part of my job. I'm an investigator. Granny says I gots to be financially independent before she dies.”

“Your granny is a smart lady,” I say. “But, tell me, what kind of investigator are you, Robert?”

“I investigates why peoples don't pay their bills.”

“Well, are you an investigator or a bill collector?”

“Well, they told me I was a bill collector. But my granny don't like them bill collectors, so they said I could be an investigator instead, since I investigates things.”

“I understand. Like your grandmother, I don't like bill collectors, either. But I like investigators. In fact, I work with one myself. Her name is Pusska.”

“I done never heard that kind of name before, mister.”

“Yes, well, she's from Eastern Europe.”

“Is that near Eastern Parkway?

“No, Robert, it's a whole other country.”

“Well if it got eastern in it and it ain't in Brooklyn near Granny and me, then it got to be in Queens. Right?”

“Well, it's close, Robert.”

“I just knowed that. Didn't think it was all the way in Staten Island.”

“You're absolutely right. Now that we have that settled, how can I help you today, Robert Killroy?”

“Okay,” he says, “this part is easy. I'm calling to collect a debt. You owe Wang's Dry Cleaning fourteen dollars and seventy-nine cents. Did I read that right, mister?”

“Yes, Robert, I think you read that right. You tell Mr. Wang I'm not paying him that money, and he can keep the suit of mine he ruined, okay?”

“Yes, Mister.” But his voice is uncertain.

“Thank you, Robert. Could you also tell him to just forget about this, and I won't sue him for the seven hundred fifty dollars he cost me by ruining my new suit?” There's semisilence on the other end. I say
semi
because I can hear Robert's heavy breathing. He's likely a large young man from the sound of things.

“Hello, Robert, I know you're there. I hear you breathing.”

“Mister, you paid seven hundred fifty dollars for a suit?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Just one?”

“Yes, just one.”

“Well, you must be rich, mister. So why don't you pay Mr. Wang his fourteen dollars and seventy-nine cents that you owe him? He's a really nice man.”

“Robert, I'm not going to pay Mr. Wang because this is a matter of principle, not money. Do you know what I mean?”

“No, mister. You see, I'm a little bit retarded.” This statement shocks me.

“Robert, did you just say you were a little bit retarded?”

“Yes, mister.”

“Well, you don't sound it to me.”

“It's okay, mister. It don't bother me none. Granny says we gots to embrace who we are or we be living a lie.” The guy sitting across from me just flashed me a dirty look. Who could blame him? I hate when people talk on the train, too.

“Listen, Robert, I have to go now. Don't forget to tell Mr. Wang what we discussed. And your granny sounds like a wise woman. Have a nice day now, okay?”

“Ooh-dat! Ooh-dat! Ooh-dat!” he howls. Not just any wail but an uncontrolled shriek of pain.

“Robert! Robert!” I call out, disturbing the guy across from me again. “Are you all right? Are you all right?” I'm definitely concerned on his behalf, and I don't even know him.

“Yes, mister. I just gots the pains.”

“The pains?” I ask. “What are the pains?”

“In my ankle. From that van. The one that runned me over. I'll tell Mr. Wang what you said. I gots to go, mister. I needs to chop them out. Ooh-dat!”
Click.

Damn. I think I just missed a case. A very natural thought for a personal injury attorney.

At least I admit it.

From Grand Central, I take the 4 train down to the Brooklyn Bridge stop. The ads plastered all over the subway car feature one of my competitors. I like his approach. It's original. In giant letters it wants to know:
HAVE YOU BEEN INJURED IN AN ACCIDENT?

Back on the street, I walk a few blocks and then pause, looking up at the massive Corinthian columns of the New York Supreme Court. Above them the words of George Washington are engraved:
The true administration of justice is the firmest pillar of good government
. The funny thing is, it's been said that the word
true
was actually penned by Washington as
due
. Interesting. The building where lawyers gather to make oral arguments has a misquote inscribed on its facade. Who'd have thought? What's more, the word they got wrong is
true
, as in truth. What I've learned over the years is that any single event is riddled with several versions of truth. It all depends on whom you ask.

Just as I'm mounting the familiar steps, I feel my phone start vibrating in my inside lapel pocket. Crap. I'm certain it's not Robert Killroy, whose call I'd take. The problem is, I really don't like taking any calls at all before appearing in court. The wrong one can be too much of a distraction when it comes to the task at hand. I pull it out.

The screen reads
Home
. This can't be good.

“Hi, honey.”

“Don't ‘hi honey' me,” my wife says. “Why is Penelope insisting her name is Summer? What did you do?”

“I didn't
do
anything. I mean, we had a little philosophical talk this morning about being an independent person, but nothing about—”

“You're an idiot.”
Click
. At least she didn't call me a stupid idiot.

A few steps up, I sense the vibration again. Crap. I take it out. Home again. It's unlikely to be Tyler since she already had the last word. I hit
answer
. Before I even get a chance to say anything, Penelope speaks.

“Dad, it's me, Summer. Will you tell Mom to stop calling me Penelope? That's not my name anymore.”

“Hold on there, Little Munch. What're you talking about?”

“Well, I love the name Summer, and after we had our father-daughter talk this morning, I decided to change my name. As a show of independence. You can do that, you know. Change your name, that is.”

“That wasn't the point of our conversation. Your name's Penelope, and that's final!”

“It's Summer!”
Click.

I keep my phone in my hand. This ain't over. Five steps farther, and the phone does its thing again. It's not going to be Summer—I mean, Penelope—for the same reason it wasn't her mother. I pick up.

“Dad, it's me, Dirk.”

“Dirk?” I question. “Connor, is that you?”

“Dad, I used to be Connor. Now I'm Dirk. I like that name better. It's tougher-sounding. What time are you coming home tonight? I want to pitch to you.”

“Connor,” I say sternly, “forget about what time I'm coming home tonight and forget about changing your name to Dirk. Tell everybody to stop calling me. I have to make my argument in court this morning. Got it?”