Dead Money (17 page)

I put in a bet.

The old guy raised, and the Asian guy re-raised. Hell, I thought. What was going on here? It was a rainbow-flop – the three flopped cards were different suits – and far enough apart that straight draws were unlikely, the more so because of the pre-flop action. Someone could have the same hand as me, of course, which would be a pain but not a disaster. The big problem was if someone had flopped trips. I eyed my
two opponents. Could one of them have played that way pre-flop with a small pair, hit the trips on the flop? Sure.

Damn. I didn’t know what to do. And I was taking too much time thinking about it. Giving them a read. I always try to take the same seven seconds to make my move. Fold, call, bet, fake an angina attack, whatever. Keep the tells to a minimum. But I was well over ten seconds. I could feel them figuring me.

I folded my Queens.

The old guy and the Asian guy checked it down. Showed their cards. Junk.

That was enough for me. They were very good. Or colluding. Or both.

I got up and stretched. The pros encouraged me to stay, eyeing my remaining chips. I declined.

Butch gave me a Look. The Look said: Hey, man, you’re a pussy.

The office beckoned. A three-hour drive awaited. It wasn’t going to be an easy day.

Come on, I said. I got to get to work.

Butch heaved a sigh of friendly exasperation.

We cashed our chips. Butch had a healthy wad. I hadn’t done as badly as it felt.

Hey, I said, I did you a favor. Those guys were going to eat us both for breakfast.

Speak for your own self, said Butch.

I grabbed an acrid coffee from the kiosk by the door. I tipped the valet an absurd amount from the chips I’d kept.

They’re only made of clay, I told Butch.

He shook his head in mock despair.

We got into the car.

My first instinct, on settling into the well-upholstered seat, was to lean it back and sleep. I fought the feeling, shifted slowly into drive. I drove. I felt empty. My stomach growled and hurt. I hadn’t eaten all night.

My mind wandered with the road. Against my better inclinations, I started talking about Warwick.

He was not a man you reasoned with, I told Butch. Warwick was a man you obeyed or defied. There was no middle ground. The last time I’d tried to reason with him, I’d learned my lesson.

I’d come to the defense of a junior lawyer who’d been accused of having too much fun. Some associates had gone out partying one
night, after a long day of combing through hundreds of boxes of financial documents. They’d had some drinks. Things got a little out of hand. Unfortunately for the young fellow in question, somebody had a disposable camera, and took a few shots of him blearily, and apparently incompetently, trying to impress his favors on a female associate. She was herself possessed of considerable, shall we say, charms. Which charms were rather well displayed, in at least one of the photos.

I was Chairman of the Hiring Committee at the time. Sometimes better known as the Firing Committee. Warwick called me into his office. Showed me the pictures.

I laughed. Silly kids, having a little fun.

Warwick found my laughter inappropriate.

What we see here, he said, is highly unprofessional behavior.

Charles, I said. They’re just kids. Need I remind you of some of the more entertaining evenings we had as juniors?

He looked genuinely puzzled. It struck me that in fact he did need to be reminded – Warwick had a prodigiously selective memory. But as soon as I began describing a certain hot-oil wrestling incident of fifteen years earlier, he cut me off.

Those were different times, Redman, he barked. There are potential liabilities here.

Charles, I said. Last I heard the girl hadn’t complained to anyone.

Be that as it may, he replied in his flat stentorian voice, the firm has a responsibility to react forcefully and expeditiously to such incidents.

Why should this guy be punished out of proportion to the event? I asked. Just because he was unlucky enough to have been with someone who had a camera? Worse things happen every night of the week, I’m sure.

We cannot fail to act when we have acquired reliable information, he pontificated. To do so could set a precedent, or be used as evidence of a firm policy of disregarding such incidents.

Don’t you think this is a bit hypocritical? I asked. A whole bunch of our partners are married to former associates, Charles.

We cannot allow the values of the past, even if we personally share them, to undermine the well-being of the firm.

I felt like I was talking to a badly programmed automaton, and was about to launch into a screed about his lack of humanity when I noticed on his desk a piece of paper filled with neatly regimented point-form
sentences. I belatedly realized that he’d been glancing down at his desk regularly as he spoke.

Egad, I thought. Talking points.

He’d been reading from a script.

I hadn’t been talking to a human being. I’d been talking to a piece of paper.

Butch laughed long and loud.

With an evil as overweening as Warwick’s, I said, driving mechanically toward the office, there must be a pre-existing pestilence, germinating in some organ or another. The spleen, probably. The gall bladder. Some eighteenth-century thing involving bile. I’m confident that whatever it is will kill him someday. I’m just not sure I can wait that long.

I got some friends, said Butch with a laugh. Anatomists.

Anatomists?

Sure. They specialize in certain bones.

Bones?

Sure. Kneecaps. Like that.

Sure, Butch, I chuckled, have them call me up. We’ll do lunch.

For a moment, just a moment, I thought it might be a real good idea.

THE OFFICE, WHEN I FINALLY GOT THERE
, seemed a touch unreal. The light was too bright. The furniture shimmered in the fluorescence, vague, unfamiliar. My colleagues had a vulpine air. I saw an accusation in every glance. I tried to avoid them. I closed my office door.

All I wanted to do was sleep. I eyed the sofa on the far wall. It threatened to seduce me. I fought to resist its charms. Its soft cushions. Its inordinate length. Room enough and then some for a tall man, say six foot two, to lie upon. To sleep. To dream.

I shook myself. I had a job to do.

What next?

I figured it was time to talk to Jules again. Get his take on the twins. Find out why he didn’t tell me about them. An innocent omission, perhaps? Never came up?

Sure.

At the loft I rang the bell. Nobody answered. I rang again. I waited. I rang a third time. A small, thin voice came through the speaker. Yes?

It’s Rick Redman, I said. Is Jules there?

No, the voice said.

Maybe I could come in and wait for him?

No, said the voice.

Charm school. A wonderful thing.

Is this Lisa? I asked.

There was a long pause.

What do you want? the voice asked.

It’s Rick, I said. I’m the lawyer. Helping Jules. Would you mind letting me in? I won’t bother you. I’ll just hang around. You can throw me out any time you want.

Another long silence.

The buzzer rang.

I pulled open the door. I found my way to Jules’s door. It was ajar. Nobody in sight. I called Lisa’s name. No answer. I invited myself in. I found an Anchor Steam in the fridge. I sat down on the beanbag chair. Brown corduroy. Nice. I sipped the beer. It was cold. It felt good.

Lisa appeared. She was eyeing me from the other end of the huge room. She looked as small and frightened as a misplaced mouse.

Come and join me, I said.

Unh unh, she replied, shaking her head.

Why not?

You’re the lawyer.

We’re not all bad. In fact, as lawyers go, I’m not bad at all.

You were hired by Jules’s dad.

I confess. But Jules is my client. I’m acting for Jules. If his dad asked me to do anything that wasn’t in Jules’s interest, I’d refuse.

Right, she said sarcastically.

No, really. Join me over here. Give me a chance.

She came over gingerly, without taking her eyes off me.

As though I might leap up any second, smack her with a broom.

Sit, sit, I invited.

I felt a touch presumptuous, acting as though this were my home, not hers.

But she sat down.

You been seeing Jules for a long time? I asked.

She looked at me for a few seconds. I thought I could see a tear forming at the corner of one eye. She nodded slowly.

How long?

Three years.

I detected a need to talk, to confide. I knew I had to be careful, not to scare her off. But if I did it right, she might have something useful to say.

You from New York? I asked.

Long Island.

Really? I have a lot of friends out that way.

Silence.

You going to school?

I was going to F.I.T.

Ah, I said. I always wondered about that name. Fashion Institute of Technology. You’d think they might have come up with something a little more, I don’t know, artsy.

Silence.

You said ‘was.’ Did you graduate?

No. I dropped out.

You didn’t like it?

She shrugged.

What made you quit?

Long pause.

I needed to take care of Jules.

Does Jules need taking care of?

More than you know.

How so?

He’s very fragile.

She uncrossed her arms. A good sign.

Are you afraid he’s going to hurt himself? I asked.

The tear reappeared. She nodded.

Is that what you were fighting about, when I came over?

Her eyes widened.

How did you know that? she asked.

I didn’t. It was just a thought. So that was it?

Yes, she whispered.

She hung her head.

Geez, I said. I didn’t realize it was that bad.

He’s had it very hard.

I know. He told me.

He did?

She looked surprised.

He did, I said.

The tears began to flow.

I don’t know what to do, she said softly, wiping at her cheeks. I feel like I have to be with him every minute of the day.

Really?

She looked up sharply.

To make sure he doesn’t hurt himself, she said. He cuts himself, you know.

I didn’t know that.

On his stomach. He’s got scars all over. He’s got this Japanese sword. It’s sharp as a razor blade.

I remembered the scars. The books. The nunchuks. The kid had a samurai fetish, evidently.

Are you worried he’s really going to hurt himself?

What do you think?

Has he seen somebody about this?

She laughed a mirthless laugh.

Jules? You got to be kidding. He never wants help from anybody.

If I suggested somebody, do you think we could talk him into seeing them?

Never, she said. He’s Superman, you know. Not the comic book one. The other one.

Nietzsche?

That one.

The superman in his cave? Waiting to come out and conquer the world? Needs no help from anybody?

That’s the one, she said.

Super fucking Samurai Man. This was one dangerously messed-up kid.

She got up. I figured she was going to the bathroom, to cry a bit, or whatever. I got up too. To get myself another beer. But as she passed by she turned and pushed me back into the chair. Swung her leg over me, feline quick, sat facing me on my lap. She put her arms around my neck. She put her face on my chest. It happened very quickly. I was confused.
Did she need a fatherly hug? I put my arms around her. She was tiny and soft. She was crying. She felt very warm against me. I felt too large. Awkward. She lifted her face to mine.

It’s going to be all right, I said.

She put her mouth on mine. It was small and soft and wet and tasted like need.

I felt a stirring that I hadn’t felt in years.

Oh God, I thought, tell me the nightmare is over.

But not like this.

I pushed her back.

Lisa, I said, I’m sorry. I want to help you. But this isn’t right. We shouldn’t be doing this.

I know, she said, suddenly calm and with an air of wisdom that startled me. But I wanted to taste you.

She had a little girl’s voice. But she wasn’t any little girl.

She smiled a tear-stained smile. I returned her smile.

Okay, I said. You’ve tasted me. Now I think you’d better get back to that couch. Before Jules walks in.

Oh, he’d be okay with it, she laughed, lifting herself off me and going to the kitchen. Do you want a beer?

Sure, I said.

I was dizzy with the sudden changes of mood. Four, I could count, in less than half an hour.

This was one interesting girl.

Jesus, I reminded myself, she’s not more than five years older than Kelly.

The front door opened. Jules was home.

Anxiety. Disappointment. Fear. Relief. How was Lisa going to act? Would she tell Jules? Had I irretrievably destroyed my objectivity, my credibility? Could I get her alone again sometime?

Hey, said Jules, as though my presence was expected. What up?

I came by to ask you a few things, I said. And tell you a few.

He flopped down on the couch.

Lisa bite your head off yet?

Not at all. She’s been very nice.

Not too nice, I hope, he said, shooting her a Look.

I’m always too nice, according to you, she said from the kitchen, projecting her voice across the vast loft space.

That’s a fact, he said, and turned to me again. What up? he said.

He had a strangely confident air, for a young kid under suspicion of murder. One who, I had just learned, had a frightening propensity for self-mutilation.

Tell me about the twins, I said.

He fixed me with a level stare.

What about them?

Why didn’t you tell me about them? Let’s start with that.

Why should I?

I don’t know. It seems like it might be a detail worth knowing.

They got nothing to do with this.

I don’t know that. I don’t think you know that either.

Shit, man, I try not to think about those little slime-buckets, okay? It didn’t come up.