Dead Money (28 page)

Drunk Jake was drunk. He slipped on a patch of ice, lay in the street. He was giggling. I dragged him to the curb, just ahead of a barreling Denali. Jesus, I thought, that’s a big fucking vehicle. I began to sober up. Jake didn’t. I hauled him to his feet. I put my arm around him, held him up. We staggered comically toward the PATH train to Manhattan. I was hoping for a cab to pass, before we had to be subjected to the underground’s indignities.

At Bloomfield Street we stepped over a guy passed out on the sidewalk. We paid no mind. Just another obstacle on the road to becoming
a man. But he took offense. We had awakened him. From a most important dream, it seemed. He crawled to his feet.

Hey, he yelled, the fuck you think you’re doing?

I’m trying to rescue my frigid friend here from the ravages of the evil drink, I said. The devil rum. A concept you might well want to attend to, I added, eyeing his vein-lined face and trembling hands.

I was confident that the inebriate wouldn’t follow a word of it.

Fuck you, the degenerate responded. Quote Shakespeare at your peril, shitbag.

Ho, ho, an
intellectual
walking dead pile of drunken pus, I said, strategically ignoring the fact that Shakespeare had nothing to do with it.

He must have mistaken my friendly tone, for he immediately launched himself at me, all hundred pounds of desiccated liver and grime-encrusted flesh aimed at my midsection like an RPG from the ninth circle of hell. I stepped aside, losing my grip on Drunk Jake’s armpit. Jake staggered to a lamppost and held himself up by sheer force of will. The homeless bag of bones fell face-first into the gutter, reaping a visage full of dirty snow.

I laughed. Our dead-end friend gathered himself and launched another pathetic attack. I could see that he was going to take some convincing. I batted him upside the head as he came within arm’s length, knocking him sideways into a wrought iron fence, sending him sprawling once again.

This time he lay there for a moment, catching what little breath his ravaged lungs made available to him, and cursed me from the prone position.

You piece of whale shit, he said, I’ll Melville your ass from here to Nantucket.

Gad, I said, you’re a literate piece of crap. Get up and I’ll buy you a drink.

Stick him, Rick, kick his fuckin’ head in, yelled Jake from his position at the lamppost.

C’mon, Jake, I responded, my words slurring for the first time, he’s a fellow traveler. An angel sent from Dante for our delectation. Let’s buy him a drink.

All the bars are closed, Jake said, more cogently than could have been expected. Kick the shit out of’m.

I’m not sure that our good friend here should be the victim of the mere contingency that it’s after closing time, I replied.

The angry hobo was not appeased. He gathered himself up and took another run at me. He was hunched over. I detected a glint of metal in his left hand. A lefty, too, I thought admiringly. A creative thinker. I landed a heavy uppercut to his sternum. He collapsed in a silent heap, and bothered us no longer.

Pity, I said. I was looking forward to some interesting conversation.

Fuck that, said Jake, let’s find a cab.

As luck would have it, one tooled by at just that moment. We flagged it down.

Manhattan, I said to the driver.

He smelled of stale cigarettes, and Jersey City.

AS I APPROACHED HOME
I knew that I had to shed the macho skin. Kelly’d be awake. She’d be worried. In the midst of all of the bravado I’d neglected even to call her to tell her I’d be late.

I was deflated. I felt like a shit. I thought of my unconscious friend on the Hoboken sidewalk. Jesus. I probably should have called an ambulance.

But mostly I thought of Kelly. How I was going to explain this to her.

When I opened the door she was there. Standing in front of me. Arms crossed.

Where the hell have you been? she asked.

Out, I said. I had stuff to do.

I’m glad
you
believe that.

I looked at her. My angel child. My consolation. I didn’t want to lie to her. No, goddamn it. Whatever the price, with Kelly I’d be honest.

So I told her the story of my night.

She alternately smiled and frowned. She understood, I thought. Sort of.

Then the hard part started.

I talked to Detective Harwood, she said.

Who?

Detective Harwood. He’s investigating.

Jesus. He talked to you?

Yes.

Where? Here.

He came here?

Yes, she said, with a hint of defiance.

What right did he have to come here? What right did he have to talk to you without me here?

I don’t know, she said with a hard curl of the lip. You’re the lawyer, Daddy.

I sat and thought. Tried to place myself in the context of earlier that day. Before the manly thing had caught me in its spell.

He seemed very nice, she said.

Nice?

Yes. He seemed to want to know the truth.

I guess that makes him nice.

Nicer than most.

Right. Okay. What did he want?

I told you. He wanted to know what happened.

What did you tell him?

The truth, Daddy. What do you think I told him?

I felt weak. I felt dizzy. I was having trouble following.

Let’s talk about it tomorrow, I said.

No. I mean yes. Fine. But there’s something we have to talk about now.

What?

He said you wouldn’t give a DNA sample.

Oh God. What business did he have bringing that up with you?

She looked at me with accusing eyes.

It’s insulting, I explained.

Insulting, she said, with a disdainful air.

I thought about a bottle of Scotch. I’d finished off the talisman, but there had to be another one, stashed somewhere in the house.

They’re just doing their job, Daddy.

I know, I said, resigned.

Some macho guy. Brought low by a sixteen-year-old girl.

I sat and thought. Kelly didn’t take her eyes off me. Waiting for a verdict. Damn. Was it really pride, that made me refuse? How sure was I that I’d had nothing to do with it? I’d convinced myself. Consciously.
That the memory, the dreamlike state, had been indeed a dream. Or the recollection of a dream. A confused recollection bred by excess substances and guilt and, God help me, perhaps a touch of wishful thinking. But I hadn’t done it. Hadn’t done a thing. And even if I had – that doubt again – so what? I hadn’t killed her. If she’d killed herself, as a result? Was that my responsibility?

Probably, damn it.

But not legally.

Not murder.

I’d rot in goddamn hell. But I wouldn’t go to jail.

Okay, I said. I’ll do it. For God’s sake. I’ll do it.

All right, she said, and became herself again.

She gave me a small sad smile. A hug.

God, how I needed that.

THE MORNING WAS UGLY
. In eighteen different ways. Not counting the blotched and pallid face that met me in the mirror.

I slapped myself. Enough goddamn self-pity.

Or was it self-loathing?

What was the difference?

I made a mental note. To explore that with Sheila.

I called Dorita.

Meet me at my office, I said.

Dorita floated into Starbucks on a ridiculous velvet skirt. Red. Splayed about her like a tutu.

You’re going to love this, she said, in a tone that said I wasn’t.

Great, I said. More bad news. That’s what I crave.

Remember the Gang of Eight?

My fellow probationists? The ones whose meetings I keep forgetting to get myself invited to?

That’s the one. Well apparently they actually did something.

And what, dear girl, did they actually do?

They brought in some business.

All of them? Together?

Sort of. They drew up a plan. They called everyone they knew. Set
up lunches with all their contacts. Invited in some outfit to give them lessons in how to pitch business.

Jesus. They got serious.

They did. And the funny thing is, it worked.

Really?

They already got six new matters in the door.

You’re kidding.

I’m not. And Warwick is crowing about it.

What the hell does he have to do with it?

He’s taking all the credit, of course.

For threatening to fire us all?

The probation thing. A masterful stroke of management, he says. Lit a fire under them.

Shit, I said. It wasn’t really Harwood, was it? All Warwick needed was an excuse. To get rid of me.

You were the only one who didn’t participate, Rick.

They never invited me, goddamn it.

You never asked, Ricky. Doesn’t exactly show initiative, does it?

Yeah, yeah. Shit. I’m doomed.

There’s always hope.

I’m close to concluding that there is not.

Is not?

Always hope.

Oh dear.

I sat and thought about my fate.

I resigned myself to it.

It was time to get down to business.

Time’s running out, I said. The preliminary hearing’s in less than two weeks.

Let’s get to work, then.

What next?

Sounded like you had something in mind.

I don’t. Sue me.

Jesus. Okay. Let’s go talk to the twins.

Sure. We can appeal to their sympathy. Tell them I’m in danger of being fired. They’ll confess.

Just talk to them. Get to know them. God knows what information they may have. Maybe without even knowing it.

I suppose.

All right, then. Pick one.

I’ll take Raul. I’m not sure I’ve exactly ingratiated myself with Ramon.

All right. I’ll take Ramon.

But there’s just one thing.

What?

I don’t have any idea where he is.

Oh ye of little faith, she said.

She fished into her purse. Pulled out a pack of matches. Handed it to me. Inside, a telephone number.

Cell phone?

Little faith, but quick off the mark.

She strode out of Starbucks. She looked good from the rear. Hell, she looked good from every angle.

I LOOKED AT THE PHONE NUMBER
. What the hell was I going to say to this guy to get him to meet me? What was I going to say to him if he did?

For lack of something more creative, I decided to try the truth.

I dialed the number.

A voice answered. A smooth voice. Smooth, but not friendly.

Raul here, it said.

Raul?

Here.

Ah. Raul, we’ve never met. But I was hoping you might have a few minutes to chat.

Chat?

He said it as if it were a word he hadn’t heard before.

Talk for a few minutes. Place of your choosing. I’m buying.

Who are you? I’d forgotten that bit.

I’m Rick Redman. I’m a lawyer. I’m representing your brother.

My brother doesn’t have a lawyer.

He hung up.

Well, I thought. What was that all about?

I sipped my coffee.

Oh. Maybe he’d misunderstood.

I called back.

Raul here.

Your other brother, I said quickly. Your adoptive brother.

Long silence.

Raul?

Yes?

Jules. I represent Jules. Your father hired me. We spoke briefly the other day. About the bail.

And?

And I’d like just a few minutes of your time. Like I said, wherever you like. Whenever’s convenient.

Long pause.

Okay, he said.

All right. Thank you. I really appreciate it. I won’t take much of your time. Where would you like to meet?

Here.

Happy to do that. If you would be so kind as to tell me where ‘here’ is.

My place.

Could I have the address?

He gave it to me. Park Avenue. The bachelor pad. I was looking forward to seeing it.

I’ll be there in half an hour, I said.

I grabbed a cab. The driver smelled of shawarma and aluminum foil. On the way I called up Laura. Made an appointment. To have some living part of myself purloined.

She was pleased.

I wasn’t.

The twins’ place was a standard Upper East Side fortress. Massive block construction. Elegant multipaned windows. In every one a very fancy set of drapes. Uniformed doorman. Red jacket. Epaulets. Obsequious air.

Rick Redman for Raul FitzGibbon, I said.

He’s expecting you, he replied.

My. The personal touch.

Mr. Epaulet led me to the end of a narrow marble corridor. There was a single elevator there. In the elevator there was one unmarked button.

Nice to have your own.

I pressed the button.

The elevator rose.

It was silent, smooth. A sleek ride.

The elevator opened silently, right into a large, opulent living room. The walls were upholstered in burgundy silk. The furniture was lavish. Old. Polished to a moneyed glow. The drapes were heavy gold brocade, and closed. The room was lit by innumerable small lamps. Every surface seemed to have one.

A faint sweet odor permeated the place.

A pretty woman wearing a maid’s costume straight from central wardrobe urged me to sit on a massive dark green couch. I sank into it at least a foot.

When the time comes, I thought, it’s going to be hard to get out of this thing.

Please, sir, can I get you something? asked the maid.

I had expected some kind of foreign accent. I got Texas. Well, you can’t be right all the time.

She had a nice bit of cleavage going though.

I’ll have a Scotch, I said. On the rocks.

Live dangerously, I thought. Hell, you already are.

Miss Texas brought me a Scotch in a giant snifter. I stuck my nose in it. Smoke. Peat. Laphroaig. Had to be. The guy had good taste in single malts.

Raul entered.

He was an elegant sonofabitch, too. I had to give him that. He was dressed in black. Italian suit. Highly polished black shoes. Black silk shirt. One of those deep, deep tans that don’t seem real. His hair looked like it cost more than my car. If I had a car.

I saw the family resemblance, but it wasn’t striking. Non-identical, I concluded. One theory out the door.