Dead Money (4 page)

I looked for tracks on his arms. Didn’t see any.

I don’t know. Maybe because he’s your dad?

That wouldn’t explain it.

Well, it’s all the explanation I’ve got today. Anyway, I’m not here to be a marriage counselor. I’m here to get you out of whatever shit you’re in.

He considered that.

In that case, he said at last, I guess you’re hired.

Good, I said, taking a seat.

Fuck him, he said again. This time the emphasis was on the first word:
Fuck’m
.

Okay, I said.
Fuck’m
. Right now, I need you to tell me what happened. Beginning at the beginning. Continuing to the end, which is right here right now. Then we figure out what to do about it. First thing, you didn’t do it, right?

I didn’t do shit.

Good. That’s the right answer. Now, tell me all about what you didn’t do. In other words, what happened?

Shit happened.

Yeah, I know. Shit happens.

He snorted.

So, what exactly kind of shit happened?

There was a fight.

A fight?

Yeah. A fight.

What kind of a fight?

A fight, man. A fight. What kind of a fight do you think?

I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking the questions. Listen, Jules, this is going to take a very long time if it keeps going like this. I’m not the cops. I’m your lawyer. I can’t help you if you don’t help me.

Meaning?

Meaning, can you just answer the damn questions?

He considered this for a while.

Okay, he said. You got a smoke?

As a matter of fact I do, I said, but I doubt they’re your style.

I fished out my pack of ultra-light menthols.

Shit, he said. My brand.

For the first time, he’d surprised me.

I thought you’d be a Marlboro-type guy, I said.

Yeah, me too, he replied. But I like these. Maybe I’m half black or something. Or half a fag.

Right, I said, lighting his and mine, I guess I am too. So, let’s get back to the story.

The fight story?

Yeah. The fight story. Who was fighting?

Me and this guy.

What guy?

A buddy of mine. Larry.

Larry who?

Larry Silver.

What were you fighting about?

Money.

What money?

Money he said I owed him.

How much?

Two grand.

Two grand? That’s a lot of money.

That’s a lot of money.

And you don’t agree that you owe him the money?

Owed him. No. I didn’t.

Why ‘owed’?

What do you mean?

Why the past tense?

You don’t owe a dead man money, do you?

It depends. But wait a minute. I guess we need to back up a bit here. He’s dead?

Yeah. He’s dead. What the fuck. They didn’t tell you that?

They didn’t tell me anything.

I’d been thinking simple assault. Aggravated at most. Plead it down. Make Daddy happy. Get back to the quiet life of litigation, drink and gambling.

Were there any weapons involved in this fight? I asked.

Nah. Hands. Feet.

How did he die?

I don’t know.

He didn’t die right there?

Shit no. Broke his nose maybe. That’s all.

So how did he die?

I told you, I don’t know. They found him later.

Who found him later?

I don’t know.

Then why did you say ‘they’?

I don’t know. It’s what you say.

Where was he when they found him?

I don’t know. I don’t know shit.

What did they find?

They found him dead, man. Shit. I’m getting a little tired of this crap. Okay, okay. You don’t know shit. All right.

He put out his hand for another cigarette. I gave him one. I took one for myself.

We smoked awhile.

Okay, I said. I’m going to have to get some information.

Sounds like it.

Before I go, just tell me the whole story again. What you do know. The fight. From the beginning. I’ll stop asking questions.

That’d be good.

All right then. Shoot.

Larry came over. He was pissed. He said I owed him money. From the poker game.

Poker game. Hm. Maybe I had some expertise to bring to this case after all.

Two grand, he said. I said, Fuck you, man, I don’t owe you no two grand. We settled up last night. I mean, he was too wasted to remember shit anyway.

And?

So he starts yelling and shit, all kindsa bullshit. I could tell he was
wired. I don’t know what he was doing, mescaline or something. He had that paranoid thing in his eyes. I couldn’t even understand what he was saying half the time. So I told him to fuck off and come back when he came down. But that just got him more pissed off. He picks up a bottle, and he’s waving it at me, a beer bottle, and he’s saying he’s going to kill me. So I dive at him, low, going to take him out at the knees. And then it was just punching and wrestling and shit, and I guess he let go the bottle at some point, ’cause he never hit me with it. And sometime in there I must’ve busted him in the nose, ’cause he’s bleeding all over from it, and after a while we’re just both all tired out, and we lie there for a while, breathing heavy, and I say, Shit, Larry, what the fuck? And he’s, Fuck you, man, and he gets up and walks out, and he slams the door.

And that’s it?

That’s it, man. Next thing I know the cops are at the door, and they’re telling me I killed the guy.

So you never heard from him after he left?

Nah.

Anybody see any of this fight? Hear it?

Shit, somebody had to hear it. There’s fifty people in the building. It’s lofts. It’s an old factory building. You can hear everything. I hear the next-door neighbors fucking six times a night.

Okay. All right. I’ve got to go ask some questions. Don’t go anywhere.

Yeah, sure. I’ll cancel them plane tickets.

I started thinking I kind of liked this kid. Feisty little guy. I might even start to believe his stupid story, you gave me a little time.

ON THE WAY HOME,
I stopped at the Wolf’s Lair. I took my usual seat next to the cash register.

I worked on a double Scotch, and the seventeenth draft of an article for
World Oil
magazine. I was bored.

I read the letter tacked to the wall behind the register. I’d read it before. A hundred times, at least. It was on the letterhead of a Dr. Fritzinger. It said:

I wondered, as usual, what it was doing there, pinned to the cork above the telephone.

But I never asked. If I did, they’d probably figure I didn’t get the joke.

Whatever it was.

A young guy sat down next to me. Well, younger than me. He was maybe thirty-five. He ordered a whiskey sour.

Hey, he said.

Hey, I replied.

What’s that you’re writing?

An article.

Really? You a writer?

Not really. I’m a lawyer.

Oh, he said. So, what’s it about? The O.J. case?

No, I laughed. I don’t think they care too much about O.J. anymore. Old news.

Right.

It’s just a little thing for
World Oil
magazine.

He leaned closer. I could smell aftershave.

World Oil?
he said. Don’t think I’ve heard of it.

I’d be surprised if you had. The circulation’s only about three thousand.

Really?

He seemed genuinely interested.

So, why would you want to write an article for them?

It’s a very rich three thousand.

Ah.

Very, very rich.

So, you’re an oil lawyer?

No. Just a litigator. Sometimes oil companies are involved.

Right. So, what’s it about?

It’s about the difficulty of enforcing an arbitration award in Kazakhstan.

Ah. Interesting.

No, I said, it’s not. But it looks good on the resume.

Ah.

I went back to my article. I looked for wrongly italicized commas. That’s what you do when you get to draft seventeen.

The guy went back to his drink.

A few minutes later he leaned back in. The aftershave was musky, pungent.

I’m an actor, he said.

Really? That’s great.

Not so great. I’m not working right now.

I’m sure something will come up.

It always does. But I’m in a dry spell right now.

That’s too bad.

Last thing I did was a hair loss thing.

A hair loss thing?

Yeah. You know, one of those spray-it-on-your-bald-spot things. A commercial.

Right, I said, glancing at his long, full hair. Well, it looks very natural.

It was funny, he laughed. They tricked me out in a bald man hairpiece. Itched like hell.

Why wouldn’t they just hire a bald guy?

I don’t know. I guess I had the look they were going for.

I pondered that one.

By the way, he said.

Yes?

You need any carpentry work done?

Gee, I don’t know. You a carpenter too?

Yeah. When I can’t find work. But don’t get me wrong. I’m good. I used to do it for a living. My former life. I’m not one of those waiters looking for a break. Like that one over there.

I looked around.

The one with the bow tie, he said.

Ah, I laughed. Him. Yes.

I’m not like that. I’m a serious guy.

Yes. I can see you’ve got some substance.

You can?

He was surprised. Pleased.

Kind of charming. Innocent.

So anyway, he said. I can do anything. Rough work. Fine work. Whatever you need. Just to tide me over. Til I get another gig.

Gotcha, I said. Right.

Maybe I can find something for this guy, I thought. Nothing big. Can’t afford anything big right now. A little thing. A bookshelf, a table.

Well, I said. Let me think about it. There might be something I could use you for.

Great, he said, getting up to leave. Hey, I’m here all the time. Just drop by and let me know. Or leave a message with Thom.

Sure. I’ll do that. Nice talking to you.

Jake, he said, putting out his hand.

Rick, I said, reciprocating.

His hand was warm. Dry. His grip was loose.

Funny. I’d never seen him there before.

I GOT HOME BEFORE MIDNIGHT
. An early night. I felt virtuous.

Melissa was still up. She was on the sofa, reading, reclining, legs curled beneath her. Black hair. Green eyes. She was beautiful. After eighteen years, I was still startled by it.

She had a smile for me that night. I basked in it.

What’s up, love?

Nothing, she said. Just reading.

What?

Oh, nothing.

She was embarrassed. It was something about feng shui. Or pressure points. Anti-carcinogenic foot massage. She knew I’d laugh. Yes, darling, my liver feels so much better, now that you’ve squeezed my pinkie just so. Others have squeezed my pinkie before. But not in just that way.

She wouldn’t find it funny.

She was fragile.

I sat next to her. I took her hand. Her fingers were long, patrician. Her skin was dry. There were small, eloquent lines at the corners of her eyes.

She was not so young anymore.

It bothered her.

I met a kind of interesting guy tonight, I said.

Really? she replied.

She sat up a little straighter. An unusual concession.

I was encouraged.

He seemed like a nice enough guy, I continued.

Oh?

I told her a bit about him. The carpentry thing.

‘But don’t get me wrong,’ I quoted him, ‘I’m good. I know what I’m doing.’

She laughed at that. A brittle sort of laugh.

I thought maybe I could get him to do a bookshelf. For the bedroom.

Sure, she said.

I’ll invite him over.

Sure.

Her eyes returned to her book.

The audience was over.

I trudged upstairs.

NEXT MORNING MY BACK FELT GOOD
. I told Judy to cancel my appointment with Dr. Altmeier.

I gave Butch a call. Figured he might know a little bit by now.

Meet me later, he suggested. The usual hang.

Gotcha, I said.

I marked up some briefs. I took a three-hour lunch meeting with a bottle and a half of Corton Charlemagne. 1998. Not as good a conversationalist as Dorita, but it had a good nose and a long finish.

I took a nap. I made a few phone calls. I grabbed a cab. It smelled of sardines. The traffic was hell. I thought about the Case of the Red Car Door.

My client, Juan Perros, had been convicted on the testimony of one witness, his girlfriend, who hadn’t actually seen him commit the crime. Now, I didn’t know whether Juan did it or not. I still don’t. But I did think that something wasn’t right. It didn’t pass the smell test. There just wasn’t enough evidence presented to the jury to take a man’s
freedom away. It seemed clear to me that Juan was put away on the basis of nothing more than preconceived notions about guys named Juan from Brooklyn.

Jury verdicts are awfully hard to overturn, though, and I had to find something other than the fact that Juan’s court-appointed lawyer had slept through large parts of the trial. That didn’t make him any less effective than half the criminal lawyers in town.

I was lucky. I found Butch. It wasn’t his case, directly. He’d been a minor witness. But he had a sense of justice that was, shall we say, somewhat more nuanced than that of many of his colleagues. And with his help I found the one thing that was guaranteed to spring Juan. Prosecutorial misconduct. Big, juicy prosecutorial misconduct. Up-the-wazoo prosecutorial misconduct.

When they’d arrested Juan, they’d taken pictures of his car. The car was a black Chevy Impala, just like the one that had been seen at the crime scene. But, as was plain to see from at least two of the photos, photos that appeared mysteriously in my e-mail in the middle of the night, it wasn’t all black. It had a bright shiny red driver’s side door that Juan had gotten from a junkyard to replace the original after he’d been sideswiped in a 3 a.m. drag race on Prospect Boulevard.