Courthouse (10 page)

Pellegrino stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a blank look on his face.

“However, the question before me now is simply, did Mister Pellegrino forfeit the right to that bail as a result of his subsequent picketing activities? Unfortunately, and, at the risk of repetition, I repeat that, unfortunately, the record is totally insufficient as it stands to show he is a danger to the community.” The Judge looked at Malone. “That's how I see it, Mister Malone. That's my ruling. Petition denied.”

Malone glanced at The Crusher fiercely, then silently gathered the papers on the table before him.

“There being no further business before this court, this court stands in recess. All rise,” said the clerk as the Judge left the bench.

“Holy shit,” exclaimed The Crusher. He was elated, smiling as he turned to friends sitting in the courtroom. There were several men and a couple of women all smiling, waiting for The Crusher. “You were beautiful, Counselor,” said The Crusher, wrapping his arms around Marc and squeezing him tightly.

Marc let out a half-feigned moan as The Crusher's arms enclosed him.

“You were fabulous. You're the greatest,” The Crusher persisted as he put his arm around Marc's shoulder. They started to walk out of the well of the court.

One of the men waiting at the railing for The Crusher, a swarthy, chunky, dark-haired man with a bulbous nose and a heavy five o'clock shadow, handed The Crusher a diamond watch and a platinum star sapphire ring. The Crusher had taken them off before the proceedings, not wanting to flaunt his jewelry before the Court, and also in preparation for being remanded to jail.

Marc glanced toward the back of the courtroom and noticed George Tishler sitting in one of the audience benches. George smiled as Marc saw him. Marc moved toward George.

“Still batting them out, eh, Marc?” George smiled broadly, reaching out to shake Marc's hand.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Marc asked, grasping George's hand.

“Just came to see the great Conte at work.”

“Counselor,” interrupted The Cruslier as he and his retinue moved toward the rear of the courtroom. “We're going downstairs. You want us to wait for you?” The Crusher held the door open as he spoke to Marc.

“No, that's okay, Patsy,” said Marc. “I'll talk to you later.”

“Okay. Hey, listen, don't forget to come up to the rally at Columbus Circle Monday. We'll all be there. Philly'll be there. Come on up, we'll have some laughs.”

“I doubt that I can make it,” said Marc. “I'm going sailing this weekend. I won't be back until Monday some time, so I may not be able to make the rally at all.”

George stood silently next to Marc.

“Not make the rally?” exclaimed The Crusher. “What a time you're gonna miss. You can go sailing any time, Counselor. But this rally is going to be fabulous. A real show of strength. There's gonna be a hundred thousand people there to show those FBI bastards they can't walk all over innocent people, women, kids. They want to arrest us, if we do something, fine. But following our kids into school; following our wives into church. That's rat-bastard bullshit, if you pardon my French,” The Crusher said to George.

George smiled and nodded.

“I'll try and make it if I get back in time,” Marc deferred, knowing he wouldn't.

“Yeah, make one of your courtroom speeches on the deck of your boat.” The Crusher began to laugh. “You'll breeze all the way in on the hot air. I'm only kidding, Counselor. Hey, listen, you oughta invite me on your boat. I'll bring some ‘sangwiches'—provolone, salami, capacullo, wine, the works. Just tell me when. And listen”—he mugged for George's benefit now—“if you ever need your boat sunk for the insurance, I got just the guy for you.” He laughed boisterously and left the courtroom.

“Your client, sir, is a complete madman,” said George, watching the large doors to the courtroom close behind The Crusher. “That's going to be quite a rally,” he added.

“Compagna is doing a job,” said Marc. “He's going to build a hospital; he's already raised the money. He's even opening a camp for kids—all kids, all races and religions, and all that.”

“He is doing good work,” admitted George. “It's too bad Compagna has such a bad reputation. And people like your client here definitely do not help their cause.”

“He's just a big kid,” said Marc.

“I wouldn't want to meet that kid in an alley, day or night,” said George.

“Neither would I,” agreed Marc. “Come on, now, tell me why the hell you're here and not in City Hall running the city.”

“I came to see you, of course,” George replied. “I need your help on something.”

“You. name it, you got it,” said Marc. “Come on, I'm going to meet Maria for lunch. We'll go to Ponte's. Join us.”

“That sounds great. I haven't seen that lovely and groovy wife-lady in ages,” said George. “And besides life is beautiful, the food at Ponte's is great.” George was now reciting a motto from the top of Ponte's blackboard menu.

They both laughed as they left the courthouse.

6

Thursday, August 10, 1:05
P.M.

Marc and George Tishler stood alone at the long, dark, quiet bar in Ponte's Restaurant. Each held a tall vodka and tonic filled to the brim with ice. Maria had just excused herself to go to the powder room. At the far end of the bar, the bartender was talking softly with three customers. Somehow, the dimness of the bar, bathed in the cool of the air conditioner, and the chilled glasses of vodka and tonic helped Marc and George forget the humid dog days pitilessly lying in wait just beyond the front entrance.

“You really going sailing for the weekend?” George asked. He lifted his drink toward Marc, then sipped.

“As soon as I finish a couple of little things in the office after lunch,” Marc replied, lifting his glass to return George's
salute
. He too sipped. “Franco's already on the boat getting it rigged out.”

“Who's Franco?”

“He's our man Friday,” Marc replied. “He was a client I got out of trouble. He had no family of his own, no relatives, so Maria and I sort of adopted him into our family. He drives the car, sails the boat, keeps the house in order.”

“He live with you?”

Marc nodded as he took a long drink from his glass.

George drank again. “That's the life. All weekend sailing. You won't be back before Monday?”

“No.”

The maître d' walked over to them. “We're ready any time you are, Mister Conte.”

“In a few minutes, Ruggierio,” said Marc.

“Now that you two decadent people have induced a public servant who usually grabs a ham on rye at his desk to this den of luxury, I'm dying to order something fantastic,” said George.

“You won't be disappointed,” said Marc. “Here's Maria now.”

Maria was tall, dark-haired, and beautiful in an exotic way. Her body was lithe, with firm breasts and taut buttocks and legs. She wore a beige pants suit and her hair was back and off her neck. She had small gold hoops through the lobes of her pierced ears. Maria smiled widely as she reached the two of them.

“With a smile like that, I don't even mind waiting,” said George.

“You want to go in?” said Marc. “I'll have them send the drinks to the table.”

“Don't bother about mine,” said George, draining his glass.

Marc did the same.

“That solves that problem,” said Maria. She reached out and held Marc's hand as they walked through the passage to the dining room.

The maître d' showed them to a banquette against the wall in the first room. About three quarters of the tables were filled. It was still a little early for the Friday lunch crowd. The room was dim, decorated in reds, with paintings hung every few feet on the walls.

“Hello, boss,” said one of the captains, smiling as he approached. “Hello, Mrs. Boss.”

“Hello, Romano,” said Maria.

“A bottle of red wine okay with you, George?” Marc asked.

“Sure.”

“The usual?” the captain asked. Marc nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“You look great,” George said to Maria.

“Thanks.”

“And that outfit looks fantastic on you,” he added.

“Thanks again, George.”

“Are you trying to turn Maria's head?” chided Marc.

“I wish I could. I told you I don't know what she sees in you, anyway.”

“I do,” she said, her hand touching the back of Marc's head.

“There, that ought to put you in your place,” said Marc.

“I'm put in my place.”

The wine arrived, and the captain poured a small amount into Marc's glass. He tasted it and nodded. The captain poured wine for all of them.

“How's your teaching job going?” George asked.

“Great, just great,” replied Maria.

“She's doing an amazing job,” said Marc, “even if she won't say so herself. She takes these kids from deprived backgrounds, mostly Puerto Rican and some Black—her school is in East Harlem—they can hardly communicate when she gets them. They can't even speak in sentences.”

“Their parents probably can't either,” said George.

“That's exactly right,” said Maria. “A couple of years ago, these kids would have been considered retarded or stunted. Now, we take them at pre-school age and prepare them to go to school, teach them a little, make them comfortable by bringing them into our world a little.”

Marc smiled as he watched Maria talk.

“It sounds good,” said George.

They sipped their wine silently for a moment.

“Where did you get it?” George asked Maria. “The great outfit, I mean.”

“Marc and I found it in Saks.”

“You two still buy all your clothes together?” asked George.

“Tht only way to do it,” said Marc.

“I can just see me telling Phyllis that we should go shopping for her clothes together. My clothes, she doesn't mind helping me buy. But her clothes. She'd tell me to take the air.”

“She's missing out on a lot of fun, George. So are you,” said Maria sipping her wine.

“I am?”

“Sure. I love Marc and the most fun I get out of life is making him happy,” she said. “The happier I make him, the happier I am. And since he feels the same way I do, he wants to make me happy. You see, we get twice as much happiness this way. Remember, loving is giving, George, never taking.”

“That's a nice theory, Maria,” said George. “But it doesn't seem to be too popular among the adult population. Do you think people are really able to do that—just give? I mean, it's like opening yourself up to get kicked in the teeth.”

“Being in love does mean opening up and being very vulnerable,” Maria agreed. “But the person who loves you in turn doesn't want to take advantage or take anything. They go out of their way not to hurt. And you do the same. So you end up neither hurting or being hurt.”

George looked to Marc, then back to Maria skeptically.

“It's really easy, George,” assured Maria. “There are so many things in the world—so many everything, that I can easily find something that both Marc and I like or enjoy. Why choose anything that doesn't make both of us happy? Take clothes, or shoes, for instance. There are so many pairs of shoes in a shoe store. Suppose we're looking for shoes, and I see a pair I like. And Marc tells me he doesn't like them. I don't buy them. We keep looking, and then he sees a pair of shoes he likes. And I don't like them. We still keep looking. Eventually, we'll find a pair of shoes that we're both happy with and buy them. That's giving to each other, George.”

“But then your theory requires taking,” said George. “You take your partner's love, don't you?”

“No, you're making them happy by being gracious enough to accept the love they extend to you. That's still giving to them.”

“I'll tell my wife,” said George. “I can also tell you what she'll tell me to do.”

“That's enough psychology,” Marc said. “How about lunch?” He signaled the captain, who rolled the blackboard menu to their table.

“What should I order?” George asked.

“Try the calamari and shrimp casserole,” Marc suggested.

“What is it.”

“Trust us on this, George,” Maria smiled.

“Oh, it's one of those things I shouldn't ask about until after I've tasted it?”

“That's it,” Maria smiled. “I'm having the same.”

“Me too,” said Marc.

“That's good enough for me,” said George.

The captain noted their order and left.

George looked around the room. Maria and Marc sipped their wine, table watching for a moment. The room was full by now. Marc noticed Judge Feld from the Supreme Court standing at the maître d's desk, waiting for a table. To those who didn't know he was a judge, he looked just like any other person waiting for a table. All those accouterments of the bench, the court officers, the robe, the official importance which create a world of pomp were gone. The Judge had to leave them behind when he ventured into the rest of the world. Marc thought Feld looked uncomfortable being treated like a mere mortal.

“Captain,” Marc said softly.

“Yes, sir?”

“That man over there at the desk—gray hair, dark suit.”

The captain looked. “Yes, sir.”

“He's a judge and a friend of mine. Tell Ruggierio to make a fuss over him. Get him a table.”

The captain nodded and walked to the desk. He whispered to Ruggierio, the maître d'. Ruggierio walked to Judge Feld and extended a gracious greeting, apologizing for keeping the Judge waiting. The Judge beamed and felt more comfortable now. The maître d' began to lead them to a table near Marc and the others.