Dead Money (3 page)

Joan Warwick?

They were on some conceptual art committee or something together. At the Modern.

Hence the ropy thing on the coffee table, I surmised.

His eyes wandered to the window. I could have sworn they misted up a bit.

I was beginning to wonder when FitzGibbon was planning to get around to talking about his son’s little problem. I was also getting a little concerned about the drift of the conversation. I didn’t trust myself not to blurt out some random comment about Joan Warwick’s taste in men. For all I knew we were being recorded, for Warwick’s later entertainment.

I decided to get to the point.

What do you know about Jules’s situation? I asked.

He stared at me. He looked confused.

Jules? I repeated. Anything you can tell me about his situation?

Jules? he bellowed. Not a damn thing. I got a call from some public defender guy. Seems Jules didn’t have the balls to call home himself.

Well, I said, I suspect he wasn’t thinking too clearly.

It was FitzGibbon’s turn to give me the raised eyebrow. Thinking I was making some reference to drugs, I surmised.

Stress, you know, I clarified. It’s not every day you get arrested. I assume he’s never been arrested before?

Not that I know of. But that isn’t saying much.

His voice trailed off. He picked up the ashtray again. Gazed at it intently. As though it had some secret to reveal.

I kept my counsel.

He looked up at last.

All right, he barked. Head over there. Find out what’s going on. Warwick says you’re a top-notch guy. I’ll have to take his word for it.

I was flattered. Sort of.

Apparently the audience was over.

I got the particulars from FitzGibbon’s secretary. Jules had called from a lockup downtown. She gave me the address.

Mr. Security followed me out. Sat on the edge of her desk. Gave her a smile. Gave me a Look.

I felt like I was interrupting something. Something I probably didn’t want to know about.

I GRABBED A CAB
. The plastic pine tree air freshener hanging from the mirror did little to disguise the smell of sausage and green peppers.

The jail was bleak. Outside, a prisoner in white coveralls was tending a tiny wilting garden. He gave me an obsequious smile.

Inside, I was ignored. I asked around til someone directed me to a large square woman. She ruled behind an elevated counter fronted by bulletproof glass. One look and she knew my type. The big-shot lawyer hired by someone’s daddy. I asked to see Jules FitzGibbon.

Jules FitzGibbon? Harry, you got a Jules FitzGibbon back there? she shouted over her shoulder in a heavy New Jersey accent. It came out ‘beck they-ah.’

I heard an indeterminate growl from the back.

Miss New Jersey turned back to me.

Nah, she said. They let him go.

Ah, I said. Well. I understand he was questioned here earlier. Is there someone I can talk to?

She gave me a withering look. Didn’t answer.

I had an idea.

Hey, I said, is Butch Hardiman on duty?

Butch? she said. Maybe.

I took that for a yes.

Would you do me a favor and call him? Tell him Rick Redman’s here?

She added a layer of skepticism to her cynicism. Picked up the intercom. Paged Butch.

When he came out, Butch had his big smile on for me. Butch was an old buddy. We’d been on opposite sides of a case or two. We understood each other. I asked him if he knew what was up with this Jules FitzGibbon. Told him I was the kid’s lawyer.

Don’t know much, he said. They brought him in on something. Not enough to hold him on it. Sent him home.

What’s the ‘something’?

Don’t know, he said. Wasn’t here when they brought him in.

You got an address for him?

I can get it for you. Ask around a bit.

Hey, I said. Appreciate it. We’ll catch up next time.

Sure thing, buddy, he said.

Butch always made me feel good.

IT WAS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE
to get a cab downtown in the afternoon. After ten minutes of futility a beat-up gypsy car rolled by. The driver gave me the ‘you need a cab?’ look. I leaned in the window to negotiate.

The guy smelled of anchovies.

I got in anyway.

The traffic was hell. Why should today be different from any other day? Hey. Not so bad. Gave me time to think.

I leaned back.

I thought about my life.

It wasn’t entertaining stuff.

I thought about Melissa.

Some months before, we’d taken her to the Emergency. She’d fallen down, hit the bathtub with her head. Kelly had found her, lying on the tiles in a pool of blood as big as Lake Wobegon. Melissa had opened her eyes.

How was school? she’d said to Kelly.

She was that far gone.

Kelly had called me at the office. I’d interrupted my nap. Rushed home. We’d tried to get her into the car, but she wouldn’t go.

There’s nothing wrong with me, you prick, she’d yelled, blood spraying from her mouth.

So we’d had to call the cops. She’d liked that even less. They’d strapped her down. Loaded her into the ambulance.

She’d let loose with a few nouns and adjectives I didn’t know she knew, before the EMTs shot something into her, and she got quiet. Kelly and I sat with her in the back, on flimsy fold-out seats. I felt too big, like an adult in kindergarten. Kelly’s eyes were red from crying. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

They kept her for five days. She’d lost a lot of blood. Had a minor stroke along the way. No permanent damage, they said. I wondered. I still wonder.

Kelly and I went to the hospital to pick her up. A nurse brought her to us in a wheelchair. She seemed small. Humbled. It was strange to see her that way. Disconcerting.

I’d never thought of her as small.

We were taken to see Steiglitz.

There was something too slick about Steiglitz. He had that George Hamilton thing. Bronze tan, set off beautifully against his pristine white lab coat. Sparkling, manicured teeth. Six foot five if he was an inch. Smooth baritone. Vaguely European accent.

Come to think of it, there was a whole lot too slick about him.

But he was good at what he did. The best, I’d been told.

He made us wait. Kelly sat on the green couch. I sat in the armchair. Behind the desk, a large picture window gave on to the East River, dark and languid in the rain. Brooklyn on the other side. A large windowless building dominated the view.

We all stared out the window.

We didn’t talk.

There was nothing to say.

Steiglitz entered, filling the room with color and charisma. As if from another world. Large. Larger than life.

We were diminished.

He strode to the desk. Sat down. Looked us each in the eye, ending with Melissa.

Hello, Melissa, he said.

Hello, Dr. Steiglitz, she replied.

You’ve got a problem.

I know, she whispered.

He turned to me.

It’s very simple, he said. When it gets to this point, there’s nothing we can do.

He paused to let that one sink in.

As professionals, I mean. The best we can do is show you the way. Give you some tools.

Okay, I said.

She’s not going to change.

Though he looked straight at her as he said this, he spoke in the third person.

Unless, he continued.

Unless?

Unless she hits rock bottom.

If this wasn’t rock bottom, I asked myself, what was?

And even then, he said. Even then. There’s no guarantee. This has gone very far. But I can tell you, with complete assurance, that if she doesn’t hit rock bottom, nothing will change. Or at least, if she doesn’t really, truly believe that next time, she’s going to hit rock bottom.

He paused, but clearly wasn’t finished.

We waited.

He looked straight at Melissa.

She’ll be dead within a year, he said. Maybe two.

No emotion showed on his face. He was simply stating a fact. His voice was still the silky baritone of the late-night radio announcer.

Melissa looked at the floor.

I’m trying, she mumbled.

You’re trying, he said, a note of sarcasm creeping in. All right. Let’s examine that. What is the longest period of time you’ve gone without a drink? In the last year.

There was a long pause while she thought about that.

I quit at Christmas, she said at last.

Kelly looked up at me, brows knitted. If she had quit at Christmas, it was news to us. She’d been, if anything, more absent then than ever.

I didn’t ask you when, said Steiglitz. I asked you how long.

He was slowly raising his voice. Playing the prosecutor. Melissa was
so shrunken, so beaten down. I felt protective. I wanted to say something. But Steiglitz gave me a Look.

The Look said: Don’t do it.

How long did you quit for? he repeated.

Three weeks, she said, barely audible.

Three weeks, he nodded. When did you stop?

Christmas Eve. I stopped on Christmas Eve. I wanted to be there for Kelly.

We could barely hear her. Kelly looked at her feet. Melissa hadn’t been there Christmas Eve. She’d been asleep in Kelly’s room. We’d eaten without her.

And when did you start again?

Kelly’s birthday, she mumbled.

When is Kelly’s birthday?

The fifth.

January fifth?

Yes.

I looked at Steiglitz, a question in my eyes. What did all this mean?

He ignored me.

How many days in three weeks? he asked.

He was boring in.

Twenty-one, she mumbled.

How many days between December twenty-fourth and January fifth?

She was silent.

How many, Melissa?

Thirteen, she whispered.

Twelve, Melissa. Twelve days.

Twelve.

Not three weeks.

No.

Not even two.

No.

She looked up at Steiglitz for the first time. She seemed strangely pleased. As though she had enjoyed his performance. Or perhaps it was relief. That somebody at last was confronting the Monster.

He looked at me.

So, he said.

Silence.

Rock bottom, he said.

What does that mean? Kelly asked, with a flash of impatience. What’s rock bottom?

The street, he said.

The street?

She has to know that if she takes another drink, another pill, she’s on the street. That’s it. She’s gone. You’re going to disown her.

You’re telling me to throw my wife out on the street? I asked.

Only if she has another drink. Or takes another pill.

He looked at me placidly. It occurred to me that he had had this conversation many times before. An infinite array of naive and loving husbands, fathers, sons. Anguished. Confused. Protesting.

I thought of all the homeless people on the streets I walked. They’d hit bottom, to all appearances. They didn’t look too cured to me.

I suddenly felt very tired. I just wanted to go home.

He’s right, you know, said Kelly.

She never failed to surprise me.

Melissa looked resigned. Steiglitz looked smug.

It seemed that everyone understood but me.

Steiglitz prescribed three Valium a day, for five more days. To ward off the DTs. Then nothing. Antabuse. AA. And patience. One day at a time. Not just for her. For us.

When we got up to leave, Steiglitz came around his desk. He shook my hand, and Kelly’s. He turned and put his arms around Melissa, hugged her.

He was so tall, so manicured.

She was so small, so disheveled.

JULES LIVED IN A CONVERTED FACTORY
on the lower East Side. More factory than converted.

I rang the bell.

I rang it again.

I rang it a third time.

A sleepy voice finally responded.

Yeah? it said.

Jules?

Yo.

Jules, I said, I’m a lawyer. Your father sent me.

Hmph, he responded.

Jules, I said again, a bit louder.

Silence.

Do you think you might let me in?

Silence.

I was girding for more repartee when the door finally buzzed. I pulled it open just in time.

I took an ancient elevator to the third floor. Found Jules’s place. The door was ajar. I invited myself in.

The loft was huge, asymmetrical. A balcony ran across one end. Bedroom up there, I surmised. The lower space was entirely open. The ceiling must have been at least twenty feet high. Exposed metal girders, painted primary colors. Blue, yellow, red. The effect was startling, but pleasant. The space was big enough to take the color. At the far end, tall arched windows, a spectacular view of the tenements across the street. A kitchen counter against the left-hand wall, underneath the balcony, piled with pizza boxes, takeout cartons, beer bottles.

A body was lying on a large tattered couch. My client’s, I presumed. It had its back to me.

Sit up, I said to the back of its head. I need to talk to you.

It rolled over and opened its eyes. They were gray and out of focus.

Who are you? he asked.

A reasonable question, I assured him. I’m Rick Redman. Your father sent me.

He considered that information. He eyed me intently. His eyes were focused now.

Fuck him, he said at last.

I’d be glad to do that, if I get the chance, I said, attempting to curry favor. But right now he’s paying me to represent you. And if I were you I’d take advantage of it.

He thought some more.

Fuck him, he repeated.

Okay, I said. Fuck him. Now let’s get down to business. You’re in some shit here. I don’t actually know what kind of shit yet, but you can
help me with that. I think it’s safe to say it’s going to take some work to get you out of it.

He sat up. He looked at me with curiosity. His eyes stayed gray. He looked down at his shoes. Standard-issue paint-splattered high-tops. Faux-camouflage overalls. Metallica T-shirt. Nose ring. Hair dyed an unnatural henna red. In short, the downtown works.

He’s paying you? he asked.

Yep.

Why?