Sheer Gall (2 page)

“What's that?”

“Go see your doctor.”

“Excellent point. He'd be a good witness.”

I gazed at my gritty, vindictive client and sighed. “Sally, forget about the lawsuit for just a moment. The reason you should go see a doctor is that you're bruised and banged up. You should go see a doctor to make sure you're okay. Do it today.”

She grinned and saluted. “Yes, ma'am.”

I gave her a stern look. “Today.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Right after you see the police.”

She saluted. “Yes, ma'am.”

I winked. “Good.”

Chapter Two

“I swear, Benny,” I said in a voice low enough to keep the others from hearing, “one of these days your penis is going to get you into big trouble.”

“Hey, you think it listens to me?”

“I'm serious.”

Benny chuckled. “Relax, Rachel. It's not like she's in any of my classes.” He peered out his window. “So, do you have service of process on Commander Kinky?”

“Not yet. Probably next week.”

He pointed. “What the hell is that?”

I leaned over to see where he was looking. “What?”

We were at the top of the Arch, high above downtown St. Louis. Benny was peering out one of the windows on the east side.

“There,” he said, pointing to a factory building on the Illinois side of the Mississippi River. “Jesus, what the fuck are those things on the north side of that building? Cows?”

I squinted. “Yep.”

“You're shitting me.”

“Those are stockyards, Benny.”

“In East St. Louis? I thought they were all closed down.”

“Not all of them. That's Douglas Beef.”

Benny looked over at me. “Why is it taking so long to get him served?”

It took a moment to shift mental gears. “It hasn't been that long. Sally Wade came in last Wednesday. I filed suit on Friday. Today is only Tuesday.”

“Why not hire a process server and get the son of a bitch served right away?”

“Her choice. She wants the sheriff's office to serve the papers.” I shrugged. “She's a lawyer, Benny, and she knows it could take the sheriff's office a week or more to get him served.” I paused, frowning. “I think she likes the idea of a deputy sheriff showing up at McBride's law firm with the court papers. She thinks it'll embarrass him.”

“Sounds like a real sweetheart.”

“Hey, she's entitled. Any man who does that deserves to be humiliated.”

Benny stepped back and shook his head. “This is one of those goddam optical illusions.”

“What is?”

“These windows. How high up are we?”

Shifting mental gears again, I flipped through the National Parks Service pamphlet that I had picked up when we bought our tram tickets down below. “The Arch is six hundred and thirty feet tall.”

“Amazing,” Benny said.

“What?”

“Down below, looking up, you see these little bitty chickenshit windows, and you think, hey, when I get up to the top of the Arch they'll turn out to be as big as picture windows—it'll be panorama city. But look at them. They're still little bitty chickenshit windows. Weird. I'm telling you, Rachel, there's some strange shit in this town.”

“Hey,” I said with mock indignity, “I take time out of my busy schedule in the middle of the week to take Mr. New Jersey to the top of the world-famous Gateway Arch, soaring emblem of my proud hometown, and what do I get for my trouble? Nothing but grief.”

“I'm not giving
you
grief. You're a total babe, woman. But your hometown.” He shook his head. “We're talking weird.”

“Come on, grumpy,” I said, hooking my arm around his to drag him toward the tram loading area. “Someone who grew up near the Jersey Turnpike ought to remember the old saying about people in glass houses.”

“And what about this thing?” he said, stopping to look around. “A humongous stainless-steel arch, planted on the banks of the Mississippi, stuffed with trainloads of yokels cruising up and down inside of it all day long. What the hell is this all about? Some weird Midwest shrine to Ray Kroc?”

He was on one of his harangues, and, as usual, I couldn't help but smile. I also couldn't help but notice how the tourists on either side of us were edging away. Benny Goldberg tended to have that effect on strangers. He was fat and vulgar and loud and obnoxious. He was also brilliant and funny and thoughtful and savagely loyal. I loved him like the brother I never had, although he in no way bore even the slightest resemblance to any brother of my dreams.

We had gone to the Arch on impulse. Earlier that day, just before noon, Benny had dropped by my office after the antitrust seminar he taught every Tuesday morning. We went to lunch at O'Connell's Pub on Kingshighway. It was a sunny autumn day, and on the drive back to Highway 40 after lunch the Arch had been clearly visible to the east, gleaming in the sunlight.

“You ever been in that damn thing?” Benny had asked as we waited for the light to change.

“Not since grade school,” I answered. “You?”

He shook his head and then paused, turning to me with eyebrows raised. I had looked at my watch, checked my appointment calendar, and shrugged. “Why not?”

So we went.

“You got plans for later today?” Benny asked as the doors closed and the tram lurched forward. “Around five-thirty?”

Benny and I were seated by a tram window, which had a view of the dark and eerie interior of the Arch. There were two trams, and each ran on special tracks inside the hollow, curving legs of the Arch. One traversed the north leg of the Arch, the other the south. Each tram had eight barrel-shaped segments, and each segment held five passengers. A special leveling device kept the passengers in an upright position throughout the four-minute journey between the subterranean loading zone and the observation deck up top.

“Actually I do have plans,” I said. “Why?”

“We have a moot court social function at the law school.” He looked over at me and raised his eyebrows. “Big Jake'll be there.”

Big Jake was Jacob Sherman, an associate professor of environmental law at the UCLA School of Law. He was at Washington University for the semester as a visiting professor. He was also, according to Benny, a nice Jewish boy. Benny, in his entirely unsolicited role as Yenta the matchmaker, had selected Big Jake as the future Mr. Rachel Gold.

“Well,” I said sarcastically, “thanks for the advance notice.”

“What's your prior commitment?”

I gave him a wink and pantomimed a few karate chops.

“Oh, for God's sake, not that martial-arts class again. Skip it today.”

“No way, Benny. It's only our second week.”

“What's going on, Rachel? Since when did you become a Jackie Chan fanatic?”

“I'm not. I'm trying to learn a little self-defense. Considering what's happened in my life the last few years, it's about time.”

“Self-defense? I call a crowbar self-defense. Or a .357 Magnum. Bowing and jumping around barefoot in goofy white pajamas is hardly self-defense.”

I shook my head patiently. “The teacher is great and I love the class.”

I had enrolled in a self-defense class for women that was sponsored by the bar association. There were eleven of us, and we met twice a week for six weeks. Although I had been somewhat dubious before the first class, I was hooked already. I was spending forty-five minutes every night practicing the moves our instructor taught us.

“Where do you have those classes?” Benny asked.

“At the Vic Tanny health club in Clayton.”

“Oh, really?” he said, suddenly interested.

I looked at him curiously. “Yes, really.”

“Well, well.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I may have to drop by one time.”

“You? For what reason?”

“Best reason of all: they have an awesome collection of Stairmasters. There must be eight of them, lined up side by side.”

I frowned at him. “Oh? Since when did you become a Stairmaster enthusiast?”

“From the beginning. I'm no Johnny-come-lately on that piece of equipment.”

I studied him dubiously. “I didn't know you used a Stairmaster.”

“Me?” Benny gave me an incredulous look. “Are you nuts? I've never been on one in my life. What's the point? If God meant us to walk up fifty flights of stairs four times a week, he wouldn't have given us elevators.”

“Then enlighten me.”

“It's easy. There may be some great sights in this city, but nothing can match the rear view of eight babes in leotards and thongs doing their thing on the Stairmaster. As far as I'm concerned, the inventor of the damn thing deserves a Nobel Prize.”

I shook my head in wonder. “Would you remind me again why I'm willing to be seen with you in public?”

On our way out, we paused at the south leg of the Arch, craning our heads back to look up at where we had been. I could barely make out Benny's little bitty windows at the top. It was truly an enormous structure: a silver parabola towering over the banks of the Mississippi River, more than twice the height of the Statue of Liberty. The other leg was 630 feet north of where we stood—more than two football fields away. The base of each leg measured fifty-four feet per side, a perfect equilateral triangle that tapered to seventeen feet per side at the top, which was shimmering in the bright sunlight.

A towboat blast made me turn toward the Mississippi River, where a long string of coal barges was gliding south under the Poplar Street Bridge. The tow's powerful screws churned the muddy waters into a cappuccino froth.

Gazing out at the riverfront, you could still feel the history of the place, even though modern gambling casinos and a floating McDonald's were anchored along the cobblestone levee where the grand paddle wheelers once docked. We were near the south leg of the Arch, not far from the boardinghouse where Mark Twain lived during his two-year stint as a gossip columnist for the
St. Louis Evening News
. A hundred feet to the north of Twain's boardinghouse had been the offices of Grant & Boggs, a struggling real estate company owned by a man named Ulysses S. Grant. Each morning, Grant would pass by a house a few blocks to the south of his business that had been let to a Virginia officer of the Army Corps of Engineers who was stationed in St. Louis to solve the erosion problems along the riverbanks. That officer's name was Robert E. Lee. And on the spot where Benny and I were standing, back on a brisk, sunny morning in March of 1804, just days before they left on their famous expedition into the uncharted territories of the Louisiana Purchase, Captain Meriwether Lewis and Lieutenant William Clark had stood at attention in front of the government house as a lone soldier lowered the French flag and raised the American flag.

On the drive back to my office, Benny asked, “Do you think Neville McBride will fight or settle?”

“Hard to say. Sally thinks he'll try to settle.”

“And you?”

I sighed. “I really don't know.”

“You don't sound too pumped over the case.”

I glanced over at him and nodded. “I'm not wild about her.”

“How come?”

I gave him a weary shrug. “I know I should be more compassionate. What happened to her is awful. A total outrage. But she's so…so cold-blooded about it.”

“About what?”

“The lawsuit. All she's interested in is the money.”

He laughed. “What did you expect?”

I shook my head. “Something more.”

“Jesus, Rachel. She's
supposed
to be interested in the money. That's why she's the plaintiff. You're her lawyer. Remember? You gotta get with the program, woman. You sound like a proctologist who doesn't want to treat a patient 'cause he's got something wrong with his butt. You don't love butts, don't be a proctologist.”

“Maybe so,” I conceded.

He looked over with a sympathetic smile. “Hey, I understand. You want her to be Joan of Arc, and instead you got the Merchant of Venice in drag.”

I nodded glumly. “Sort of.”

“Just keep your fingers crossed, woman.”

I glanced at him. “For what?”

“For a fight.”

“Huh?”

“Let's hope that rich old fart decides to fight it. You know: millions for defense, not a penny for tribute. Then you can turn her into Joan of Arc. War is bliss.”

“Wrong, Benny. In this case, peace is bliss. Which is another reason I'm not excited about it.” I moaned and shook my head. “Can you imagine the media circus at the trial?”

“So? You'll be a star. I can see it now: Rachel the Jewish Goddess versus the Big Bwana of Bondage. We're talking cover of
Newsweek
, woman.”

I gave him a cynical frown. “More like the cover of a supermarket tabloid. Right next to ‘Elvis Meets JFK in Secret Michigan Hideout.' It'll be a freak show, Benny. I've been in enough of those for one lifetime.”

“Speaking of publicity, how'd you get the lawsuit on file without the press finding out?”

“Jacki handled it.”

Jacki was my jack-of-all-trades secretary.

Benny chuckled. “What did she do?” he asked. “Threaten to hogtie the courthouse reporter?”

“No,” I said, smiling at the image. Jacki stood six feet three and weighed close to 240 pounds. With plenty of ex-steelworker muscles rippling beneath her dress, she was surely the most intimidating legal secretary in town. “She waited to file the lawsuit until the reporter took his lunch break. With any luck, the press won't find out for months.”

Benny turned onto my street and almost immediately applied the brakes. “Oh, really?” he said with a big grin. “Looks like your luck ran out.”

I stared through the windshield. “Oh, damn,” I groaned.

A 2 News Team van and a NewsChannel 5 van were parked at odd angles in front of my office. Waiting on the sidewalk were the camera crews and two spiffy reporters, a young blond woman in a stylish lavender suit and a young Hispanic man in a blue blazer and gray slacks. Next to them was a rumpled reporter named Neil who covered the city desk for the
Post-Dispatch
. As Benny pulled his car over, the blonde spotted me and pointed with her microphone. She ordered her camera crew into position, and the other crew did the same. As the two TV reporters jockeyed for position on the sidewalk near the car, I saw the guy from the
Post-Dispatch
flip open his shorthand pad. Both camera lenses were pointed at me.