Alligators in the Trees

Alligators

in the

Trees

A Novel

Cynthia Hamilton

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used facetiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, businesses, events or locales is coincidental.

Copyright © 2005 by Cynthia Hamilton

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without the author’s permission.

First Published 2012

Woodstock Press

ISBN: 978-0-9776278-2-0

Library of Congress Control Number: 206900631

Editing by Gail Prather

Formatting by Six Penny Graphics

Cover design by Landini Design

For Guy and Melanie

Tobias Jordan pushed through the glass door of the small corner coffee shop, its cheap, tinny bell briefly heralding his arrival. A few fellow patrons looked up from their meals as he made his way to the nearest red-vinyl booth. It was his third visit to this unremarkable establishment, and it was the ordinariness of it that appealed to him. It was as anonymous as a dozen other such places in Manhattan, and he had gravitated to this particular spot because it seemed more seedy and unpopular than most.

A waitress appeared, handed him a menu and flipped his coffee cup right-side up, pausing only long enough to receive his consent before filling it with the curiously stale, vaguely burnt-tasting brew.

“Today’s specials are corned beef hash, eggs to order—although poached are a little risky—and a Belgian waffle with strawberries,” she said, moving on to the next table while Tobias pondered his options. She set the pot of coffee on the table and took out her pad and pen.

“Where’s the kid today, Phil?” she asked as she marked the date, table number and number of guests on the ticket.

“Caitlin’s on a field trip in Boston for the rest of the week,” Philip Glessner replied, as he gazed at her with dreamy admiration. “Priscilla, this is my attorney, Martin Fink,” he said, making an introduction that neither party had been expecting. Priscilla nodded warily while the man sized her up.

“How come he called you Priscilla when your nametag says ‘Bobbi’?” the uptown attorney asked, his tone suggesting he was in the mood for a little sport with the common folk.

Priscilla emitted a distracted sigh before replying. “My nametag says Bobbi because Frank, the mastermind behind this enterprise, balked at the expense of creating a new nametag, so he decided to take the more economical approach of recycling my predecessor’s nametag.
Et
voila,
I’m now Bobbi,” she said with tepid sarcasm, pen and pad poised to move on to the business at hand.

“That must be rather disconcerting to be called by someone else’s name,” Martin said, clearly enjoying the novelty of such small-minded thinking.

“Not at all,” Priscilla replied. “If you heard what Frank does to my real name, you’d understand why it’s a relief to be called Bobbi by him. Besides, I’ve come to think of it as my stage name, a persona I can shed as soon as my shift is over. It’s actually quite liberating. I can put this mundane side of my existence completely out of my mind when I walk out of here, and it’s as if I’ve only had an exceptionally weird, recurring out-of-body experience,” she said indifferently, her eyes straying briefly as she spoke. “Ready to order?”

“I’ll have the Belgian waffle and a glass of milk,” Philip said, gently handing the menu back to her.

“Two poached eggs on dry wheat toast, toasted well, and half a grapefruit,” Martin said, sliding the menu across the table without looking at her. The charm of hobnobbing with the hoi polloi had worn thin. Nevertheless, he watched along with Philip as Priscilla made her way to the window and hung their order.

“Isn’t she something?” Philip asked, his face radiant with adoration. Martin swung back around to face his friend and client.

“So that’s why you dragged me to this hole?” he said sourly. “Look, Phil, I know you’re in the doldrums right now, but you can find pick-me-ups more suitable than coffee shop bimbos.” He poured the contents of another non-dairy creamer into the already diluted coffee, in hopes of further disguising the taste.

“Priscilla’s hardly a bimbo,” Philip replied. “And your accusation is way off base.” His tone was not defensive, despite his obvious feelings for the maligned waitress. He could hardly expect someone like Martin to appreciate the special qualities a girl like Priscilla possessed, no matter how unpolished or uncultured her background.

With a deftness of a caricature artist, Philip added a small, tasteful turret to the elaborate Italianate villa he had sketched on his paper placemat. Martin cocked his head to examine the drawing, marveling once again at the man’s relentless talent.

“Have you been doing any of that professionally lately, or are you still intent on a pauper’s lifestyle?” he asked.

It was not purely concern for his client’s well-being that prompted him to ask. He had requested payment on a rather large outstanding invoice and had been told by Philip’s accountant there were not enough funds on hand to cover it. Annoyingly, Philip seemed unfazed by his financial crisis, but then again, he had so many crises on his plate, he probably could only concentrate on so many at once.

Still, Martin hated when clients fell in arrears on their accounts, especially when the clients happened to be friends. There was nothing worse, in his opinion, than dead-beat friends. Philip hastily added a few strokes of landscaping, and without losing a beat switched the placemat with the clean one next to him.

Not having received an answer to his query, Martin tried a different approach. “Has Marianne given any sign that she will agree to the latest settlement offer? That son-of-a-bitch Michelson won’t even bother to return my calls anymore. I would’ve never figured Marianne could stomach a sleaze-bag like him.”

“Greed and resentment make for strange bedfellows,” Philip replied lightly, as he drew the outline of a woman’s face. “And to answer your question, I haven’t heard a peep out of her either, which probably means she‘s still trying to determine if I have any secret Bahamian bank accounts.”

This remark made Martin think. “
Do
you have any off-shore accounts?”

Philip snorted. “As if I’d ever been in possession of my own money long enough to stash some away. You seem to be forgetting Marianne’s extravagant tastes.”

Martin hadn’t forgotten; Marianne Glessner was one of those women who grew more gorgeous and sexy with every dollar she spent. He didn’t know how she did it, but she had mastered the art of making every buck spent on herself count. All you had to do was look at her to know she was the crème de la crème, the epitome of a New York socialite. It gave Martin a delicious shiver to think of carrying her bags down Madison Avenue after an afternoon shopping expedition.

Priscilla broke Martin’s naughty reverie as she planted a grapefruit half unceremoniously in front of him. She was on to the next unfortunate customer before Martin could even react.

“What’ll it be,” she asked Tobias, flipping through her book to the ticket she had already started for him. He looked up from his scribbling as if he had momentarily forgotten where he was.

“A question,” he said, once he regained focus. Priscilla regarded him with the checked impatience that comes with too many years of dealing with the public. Everyone wanted to be cute this morning. It pained her to discover she had another doodler on her hands.

“What do your friends call you?” He had obviously overheard her explaining her alias to Philip’s Brooks Brothers-clad attorney.

“Sam,” she said, hand on hip, her expression deadpan.

Tobias waited for further elaboration. As none seemed forthcoming, he merely smiled weakly. “Okay, well…I’ll have a short stack, two eggs over-medium and sausage. Tell the cook to make sure the whites are thoroughly cooked. I hate runny egg whites,” he said, handing the menu back to her without looking, his thoughts already straying back to his scribble.

“Patty or links?”

“Links.”

“Want anything else to drink?”

“Is the orange juice freshly squeezed?”

Priscilla nearly laughed.

“Just some water then.” Priscilla nodded as she finished her shorthand.

“Egg get cold!” Frank yelled out from the kitchen window, attracting the bland attention of everyone in his eatery. He snatched the ticket from under the plate to identify which of his recalcitrant waitresses he should shout at. “Bobbi—pick up. Customer no pay for food no like eat,” he called out in his own peculiar brand of rapid-fire English.

“Keep your pants on, Frank. You know your devoted clientele will wait a lifetime for your extraordinary cooking,” Priscilla said nonchalantly as she hung her new ticket and picked up the plates for Philip’s table. Frank glowered at her from his side of the window, his height barely affording him a view of his feisty waitresses and the dining area beyond. He knew Priscilla had said something to make him look foolish, he just couldn’t figure out what exactly.

“No lip I take from you, Bobbi!” he threatened with raised spatula.

“Hey, no fair giving her all the attention,” June quipped as she traded places with Priscilla. The two waitresses exchanged looks of solidarity as June took her turn at needling their cantankerous boss. “Where’s my order, Frankie? Two eggs over-easy, bacon and grits. The ticket’s right here—you passed over it.” Frank looked at the wheel, alarmed.

“You’re slipping, Frankie. We can’t have service like this and expect to keep the customers coming back for more,” June taunted him as she discreetly helped herself to a fried potato from one of her customer’s plates.

“Okay, here’re the poached eggs on extra-toasted whole wheat, and the strawberry waffle for Phil. I’ll be right back with your milk. Anything else right now?” Priscilla asked as she unburdened herself of the hot plates.

Martin eyed his breakfast with disdain, though it was exactly as he had ordered it. Food just didn’t look right when served in a crummy joint like this. Phil rewarded her with a smile of utter contentment, though he didn’t seem even remotely interested in the plate of food before him.

“Everything’s perfect,” he beamed, receiving a look of mild disbelief in return.

“Okay, then.
Bon appétit
,” she said with appropriate cheekiness for the attorney’s benefit.

“Man, you’ve got it bad,” Martin said, as he watched Philip moon over the sight of the departing waitress. “How long have you been coming here?” he asked, suddenly suspicious that Philip’s downfall had been precipitated by this rather pitiful mid-life crush.

Philip readjusted his gaze and regarded his attorney. “I don’t know—six, seven, eight months.” He picked up fork and knife and began the process of removing the previously frozen strawberries and canned whipped cream from his waffle.

“Jesus, that looks disgusting,” Martin commented, quickly losing his taste for food altogether. “Was it before or after the collapse?” he asked as he pushed his plate away.

It took Philip a moment to figure out what he was referring to. “After, I think,” he replied. “Yes, definitely after,” he confirmed, his mind taking him back to the first morning he had stumbled into Frank’s Coffee Shop. He had ducked into the first available door after ditching his hardhat in a nearby trashcan. He had managed to beat the gang of bloodthirsty reporters by a few seconds, having escaped the building that had him making the news again, though for a vastly different reason than he was accustomed to.

The collapse of The Phoenix, a daring concept bearing his bold design, had propelled him from being the darling of New York revitalization to one of the city’s most vilified citizens. The brouhaha generated over the dramatic settling of this condominium project had harmed him more than anyone.

Because he had been the sole investor on this project, as well as the architect, he had made what was in retrospect a cavalier move, slightly modifying the dimensions for the caissons as specified by the engineer, in an effort to control costs. True, he would not have done such a thing on a client’s project, but since he was solo in this venture, he had made a decision based on his own best interests.

Now he alone shouldered the guilt and the blame for the structural insufficiency that had began as a slow deterioration of the sub-structure. It was miraculous no one had been injured or killed. But still, what did it matter? He was still haunted by his unwise attempt at thrift.

While Philip reflected on his current difficulties, Martin had been lost in his observation of those around him. He noted with snobbish distaste the difference in lifestyles between him and Philip and their fellow diners. It was the kind of slice of life that had him craving a massage, a sauna and lunch at his club.

He turned his attention back to Philip and observed him as he reflected privately over some unknown quandary. He had ambivalent feelings about representing Philip and was toying with the idea of referring him to another law firm, one greedier for the spotlight. The attention this case was generating was enough to cause some egomaniacal attorneys to overlook the fact that Philip Glessner was now a bottomless pit of debt.

The truth of the matter was Martin wasn’t sure how long he could keep the other partners at bay. This case was destined to stretch out for a minimum of four years, and that was only if all owners and tenants agreed to settle out of court, which was highly unlikely, with the tort sharks generating interest in a class action suit. No, the only chance Philip had was to make a comeback. But now that he was a pariah in his field, this hope seemed too far-fetched to be viable.

“Say, Phil,” he said, “I’ve been wondering if it might be a wiser move for you to engage a firm like Simon, Spiegel and Hays, one of the more cutthroat outfits better equipped to bully old ladies and pensioners. They specialize in these larger liability cases.”

Philip looked up from his waffle and stared blankly at him for a moment. “No,” he shook his head. “I wouldn’t think of using anyone but you, Martin. You’re a good attorney, and you know me. I need someone like you in my corner, even if you’re not personally handling the lawsuits. You’re a partner—you can make sure I’m in good hands. You’re my friend, and I need a friend right now. Besides, who else can I trust?” Philip said, as if this settled the matter.

Martin’s jaw worked absently, a telling habit that signified impatience. He shifted in his seat and tried again. “No, seriously—for your sake, I think you should consider it.” Philip looked at him warily.

“I’m not suggesting you switch divorce attorneys—I’m with you all the way on that. I wouldn’t think of abandoning you to that savage Michelson, but really, he’s the kind of guy you want on your side during settlement negotiations, and the trials, if the settlement route fails. We’ve got some good guys in liability litigation, but frankly, you’re going to need a veritable army to handle a case of this magnitude. We’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg, and we already have half the rainforest stacked up on nearly every available desk. We just don’t have the manpower to do the job the way it needs to be done,” Martin said, palms held up, shoulders shrugged.

Philip took one last bite of the waffle and washed it down with milk. “I’ll have money soon,” he said, correctly assessing the real reason Martin was trying to give him the shake. “You know practically everything I own is in the process of liquidation. Even after Marianne and her attorney take the lion’s share, there’ll still be ample left over to pay my legal expenses.”

Martin didn’t feel as optimistic as his client. As was typical with Philip, he had his head in the clouds and was out of touch with exactly how costly a divorce in his wage bracket could get. Plus, he was certain Philip’s various assets would not fetch as much as he figured. There were plenty of jackals out there poised to snap up his real estate at fire-sale prices. All they had to do was be patient and wait for Philip to get desperate, which shouldn’t be too much longer.