Me Again (20 page)

Chapter 24

I
NEEDED TIME TO THINK. That’s why I didn’t tell Rebecca and Mrs. Margolis what I found. Instead I made small talk with them when they returned, not mentioning my meeting with Brandon or my subsequent discovery. We closed up my storage bay and went out for an early dinner before heading back to Union Station. Through it all, I tried to disguise how much heavier my little suitcase had become.

I know, I could have simply called Brandon, and given the money to him. But I had already given him a car that Rebecca said was worth as much as a house, and I had no idea how much money this was. It might be far more than the value of the car. But it might be much less, and I didn’t trust Brandon to do the counting for me. So I kept my guilty knowledge to myself during dinner and the train ride home.

When we got to the train station in Springfield, we walked Rebecca to her car, then I climbed into Mrs. Margolis’s car, accepting her offer of a ride home. We were scarcely underway when she said, “So, when are you going to tell me what’s in the bag?”

Trying not to sputter, I said, “Pardon?”

“You’ve had a death grip on that thing for the last four hours. What did you find?”

“Find?” I said. Yes, I was truly a great conversationalist under pressure.

“Jonny, you’ve been acting strange since we came back from the matinee. I know you don’t want to make a bad impression on Rebecca, but give an old broad some credit. You found something while we were gone, and whatever it is has got you scared to death.”

So much for the Hooper poker face.

“It’s complicated,” I said lamely.

“Life usually is,” Mrs. Margolis replied, pausing to flick her turn signal on.

“It’s just that what I found, well, it proves that I wasn’t a good person. And I don’t know what to do about that.”

Pulling up at a red light, Mrs. Margolis turned to face me. “Is it drugs?”

“No! Nothing like that. It’s... well, it’s money.” I swallowed. “A lot of money, I think.”

Mrs. Margolis nodded, her expression unreadable. Then the light changed, and she turned her attention back to the road, coaxing the car forward.

“Well, then,” she said, “we’ll count it when we get home.”

“I don’t want to drag you into this.”

“Why are you so sure you’re dragging me into anything? Maybe you just didn’t like to keep your money in banks. You wouldn’t be the first person to hide your money in your mattress, you know.”

“It was in the leather chair, actually.”

She shot me a sidelong look. “Same difference.”

“Okay, but I don’t think that’s it. That car, all this money – it’s more than I should have, based on the kind of job I had.”

“Maybe you got lucky at the track,” she said. In the glow of a passing street light, I saw her smile.

I laughed. “Somehow I don’t think—"

“Jonathan,” she said, “not to put too fine a point on it, but isn’t it safe to say you don’t remember how you came to own
anything
in that storage bay?”

I thought about this for a moment. “Well, yes,” I said. “I mean, I assume I bought it using money I earned at my job.”

“Which you don’t remember, correct?”

“Um, correct.”

“So how can you be so sure that you came about this money by illicit means?”

I sank a little lower in my seat. “Because my old business partner told me so.”

Mrs. Margolis cocked an eyebrow. “Really? When was this?”

I let out a long sigh, then filled her in on my encounters with Brandon.

“Oh, my,” she said when I’d finished. “No wonder you seemed so shaken up when we got back from the show.”

“Yeah, he really caught me off guard when he showed up today.”

“Well, it sounds like you handled it well. He should be out of your life now.”

“I hope so. But he pretty much confirmed that I was, well, a criminal.”

“Innocent until proven guilty,” she said. “Let’s count this money and see exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“
We
don’t need to deal with anything,” I protested. “This is my problem, and I don’t want to get you involved in something, you know, shady.”

For the first time her voice went stern. “Jonny, at some point you’re going to figure out that the people who care about you don’t mind helping you with your problems. Now, shall we head to my house, or would you rather count the money on your parents’ kitchen table?” At this she cracked a smile.

“I hadn’t thought about that,” I said. “Your house is probably a better idea. But isn’t it awfully late? Would you rather do this some other time?”

Mrs. Margolis tilted her head. “Jonathan, I’m an old woman. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in years. You think I could go to sleep without knowing what’s in the bag?” She turned to give me a mischievous smile, and I felt an instinctive reminder of why I had loved this woman.

“Okay, I surrender,” I said. “Let’s go to your house.”

Mrs. Margolis’s eyes flicked to her rear-view mirror. In a hushed voice she said, “I just hope nobody’s tailing us.”

“What?” I whipped around in my seat, my eyes frantically scanning the street behind us. It was entirely empty.

Mrs. Margolis laughed. “I’m joking, Jonny. You need to learn to see the humor in things – it makes life much more enjoyable.”

I shook my head. I had a lot to learn from this woman; that much was clear.

When we arrived at her house, Mrs. Margolis made quick work of opening up the suitcase and spreading the bundles of bills on her dining room table.

“Oh, my,” she said again.

“Yeah,” I replied insightfully, while she began counting.

“Well, this is just an estimate,” Mrs. Margolis finally said. “Based on the number of bundles and assuming each bundle has the same number of bills, I think we’re looking at a little more than three hundred thousand dollars.”

Feeling simultaneously guilty and stupid, I said, “That’s a lot, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Margolis nodded. “Let’s just say I should have let
you
pay for dinner tonight.”

I smiled, but felt panic creeping up on me. “What am I going to do with this?”

Now Mrs. Margolis sighed. “Jonathan, if you’re so sure that this money doesn’t belong to you...”

She paused, then shrugged.

“You could always give it back.”

* * * * *

This turned out to be harder than it sounded. The next day, after making my way through a phalanx of receptionists, my call finally got put through to Aaron Fisk, founder of my old firm, Fisk and Tucker. He seemed very surprised – and not at all happy – to hear from me.

When I got to the part I’d rehearsed, about “returning something I had to its rightful owners,” he shushed me immediately.

“What is your number?” Fisk demanded. “I need to call you back. But not from here.”

I recited my phone number, to which his only reply was, “Ten minutes.” Then the phone line went dead.

With nothing else to do, I sat and waited, hoping that ten minutes was not a long time.

It wasn’t. The phone rang just a short while later, and when I picked it up he hissed, “I cannot believe you called me at the office!”

Determined not to be intimidated by this man, I said, “I’m fine – thanks for asking.”

Unfazed, Fisk tore into me. “Listen, Hooper. I realize that you are brain-damaged, but you simply cannot call our office to discuss such... delicate matters. The firm has been under intense scrutiny lately.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said. Once again I found myself a blithe conversationalist around a man I didn’t trust. For once I didn’t feel bad about this unexplained ability.

Fisk said, “What exactly do you want?”

“It’s like I said,” I replied. “I’ve become aware that I have in my possession some...
things
that don’t belong to me. So I wanted to talk to you about returning them to their rightful owners.”

There was a long pause. Then Fisk said, “We simply can
not
do this over the phone.”

“Face to face is fine with me,” I said. “I could try to come up there, but it’s hard for me to travel.”

“No!” Fisk said, nearly shouting. “Do
not
come to Chicago. I cannot afford to be seen with you here in town. I will come to you. You now live in Springfield, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“This week is entirely shot for me. But I will be down in Springfield meeting with a client on...” Fisk paused, presumably checking his schedule. “...next Tuesday,” he finally said. “I could meet with you that evening to discuss this... this
matter
of yours. Will that work?”

My own social calendar was relatively uncluttered, so I was able to immediately respond. “Tuesday would be fine, I guess.”

“Done. Tuesday night. Meet me at that new place on Sixth Street.
Sonata
. Eight o’clock. Do
not
bring anybody with you, or I will not sit down with you.” He paused. “Do you know where Sonata is?”

My parents had driven me by it, and I knew it was considered one of the nicer restaurants in town. “I know where it is,” I said.

“Eight o’clock.”

“Eight is fine,” I replied, wondering how I’d get to the restaurant.

“The reservation will be under the name of Smith,” Fisk said, and hung up.

Chapter 25

S
ONATA WAS ONE OF THE TRENDY NEW RESTAURANTS in Springfield’s recently renovated downtown area. Everything about its décor screamed “modern,” which I’ve learned is often the opposite of “practical” or “comfortable.” My hostess seated me in a chair that looked more like a piece of abstract sculpture, a contraption of swooping black metal bars and red leather panels into which I had difficulty situating myself, and from which I feared the process of extracting myself might prove even more challenging. I was glad I had brought my cane, and looked for a place nearby to prop it.

Then I reached in my pocket and pulled out the photo of Fisk that I had printed off the Internet. I didn’t remember him at all, but I hoped the craggy face and massive glasses he wore would be easy to spot. I folded the photo and tucked it back in my pocket and began to examine the menu. I’m not sure how to label the cuisine, but it seemed to favor unusual combinations of flavors. Kumquat chutney was featured in one dish, and the lobster and fennel spring roll with mango chili dipping sauce piqued my curiosity.

“God, you lost a lot of weight,” a voice boomed.

I looked up to see the stern face of a tall, solidly built man with thinning white hair and heavy black-rimmed glasses. He stood across the table from me. I rose with difficulty, but managed to do so without resorting to my cane.

“Mr. Fisk,” I said, offering my hand.

“Hooper,” he replied, reluctantly shaking my hand. His grip was firm, though. This was not a weak old man.

We maneuvered ourselves into our chairs while Fisk barked, “Chivas; rocks,” at a passing waiter. Fisk nodded to me.

“Me too,” I said. I had recently acquired a fondness for Scotch, sharing an occasional late-night cocktail with my father, who referred to the heavy bottle of Chivas in the liquor cabinet as “the good stuff.”

At a table nearby somebody’s cell phone began playing a noisy pop tune.

“That reminds me,” I said, reaching into my pocket. I pulled out my phone, hit some buttons, and laid it on the table, along with my house keys.

“I always forget to mute the thing,” I said. “Drives me nuts when it goes off in a restaurant.”

Fisk said, “I put mine on vibrate when my driver dropped me off.”

A busboy came by, filling our water glasses. Then our drinks arrived. I picked mine up, wondering stupidly whether I should toast him before drinking. I discarded the notion and took a sip. It was good stuff.

Fisk did the same, then set his drink down. “So what is this all about? And be quick about it – I have a flight chartered back to Chicago tonight, so I only have time for one drink.”

Apparently tonight would not be my first kumquat chutney experience after all. I took another sip, then set the heavy tumbler down.

“I’ve got money – a little more than three hundred thousand dollars – that I don’t think belongs to me.” I had memorized that statement, testing it on Mrs. Margolis to make sure my numerical references were correct.

“And why is this my problem?” Fisk said. A waitress came by, but he waved her away.

I decided to be blunt. “I believe that this is money that Brandon Cox and I bilked out of one of our Fisk and Tucker clients. And I want to give it back.”

Fisk stroked his chin, his eyes scanning me like a dog-show judge evaluating a cocker spaniel. Finally he spoke.

“You...
believe
this is how you came into this money.”

“Yes.”

“And that it belongs to one of our clients.”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“Which what?” I said, puzzled.

“Which client?”

“I... I don’t remember.”

“And do you remember how you...
bilked
them?”

“Er, no.”

“And do you know the total amount for which you allegedly bilked them?”

I noticed he was slipping legal terminology into his conversation. Now my actions were
alleged
actions. But that was the least of my problems. Suddenly my masterful plan to clear my conscience was faltering badly.

“Let me see if I can sum this up,” Fisk said, “You
believe
that you bilked an unknown amount of money from an unknown client, by means you do not remember. Am I getting that right?”

“Yes,” I mumbled.

“And again, I find myself asking, why is this my problem?”

“What I did – what we did – wasn’t right.”

Fisk had been sipping his Scotch, but now he slammed the glass down.

“Hold it right there,” he said. “What
we
did? Now you are saying
I
was a part of... of whatever the hell you are talking about?”

“Yes... no... I don’t know,” I said brilliantly. “I assumed you would know what was going on – I mean, it’s your firm.”

Fisk’s voice was an icy whisper. “You do
not
want to try to bring me into any mess you created. That would be a mistake the size of which you cannot begin to fathom.”

Then his voice mellowed slightly. “You said yourself, you have no recollection of these alleged actions, correct?”

“Yes.”

“But you do recall working with Cox on this.”

“It’s not that I actually recall it. But he’s told me about it.”

This gave him pause. “You spoke to Cox,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Have you considered simply giving the money back to him?”

I’d been flailing, but here he was bringing up a topic about which I had a strong stance. “No,” I said, “I don’t trust him.”

To my surprise, Fisk laughed, a harsh sound more like a cough than an expression of levity. “You may be less brain-damaged than you think,” he said. “Cox is a snake.”

I stared at him, trying to choose my words. “So, why don’t you get rid of him?”

Fisk sighed. “Hooper, with everything that has happened in the past few years, the last thing Fisk and Tucker needs is any negative publicity – so much as a hint of any wrongdoing. If I try to fire Cox, he might raise a stink, and I cannot have that. So I keep him assigned to accounts where he has little or no opportunity to cause any problem. And we watch him like a hawk, and he knows it. So Cox has been neutralized.” Fisk spread his hands in an odd shrug. “It is an imperfect solution, but such is life in our line of work.”

Your
line of work, I thought, but said nothing.

“As far as your little problem,” Fisk said, “I fail to see how I can help you.”

“So you acknowledge the possibility that what I said is true?”

Fisk nodded. “Cox is a snake. Frankly, I always thought you were, too. So it would not surprise me to learn that you two were playing it fast and loose back then.”

He sighed. “It was a different time,” he concluded. The look on Fisk’s face suggested that he missed how things were “back then.”

“So you’re okay with just... just sweeping this under the rug?”

Fisk’s voice grew more cold. “Hooper, you are an intelligent man. Or at least you were. Even now, you do not come across as a dummy.”

I shifted awkwardly in my seat, damned by faint praise.

“You need to be realistic,” Fisk said. “Yes, it looks like you...
acquired
some money that was not rightfully yours. But you cannot say how, when, or from whom. The person you
acquired
it with will not help you. And I will not allow myself to be dragged anywhere near this grenade. So I honestly do not know what you hope to accomplish.”

I had no response to offer, so Fisk went on.

“I am aware that some... questionable activities may have taken place at my firm – none of them with my direct knowledge or involvement, I hasten to add – but I have straightened things out now, and everything is under control.”

Fisk leaned forward. “Everything is under control,” he repeated, “and I cannot let you jeopardize that.”

The look in his eyes chilled me, making wonder just how far he would go to protect his firm. I suspected
very
far, and for the first time felt a little afraid of the man.

Helpless, I asked, “So what should I do with this money?”

Now Fisk was becoming exasperated. “For God’s sake, Hooper,
spend it
. Look at you – you lost everything. You will never work again, at least not in accounting. I have heard about your brain damage in that respect, you know. Your brother is not the most tight-lipped person in the firm.”

Teddy. I gritted my teeth.

“Spend it,” Fisk repeated. “Buy yourself a house. Hell, buy your parents a house. Whatever – just spend it. Think of it as compensation for all you lost.”

“But it’s somebody else’s money.”

“So give it away if you feel so strongly about it.” Fisk drained his glass and rose from the table with a grunt. “But not to me.”

He laid some money on the table, and walked away.

I stayed a little longer, finishing my Chivas. Then I wrestled myself out of my chair, tucked my phone and keys in my pocket, and grabbed my cane.

“Thank you
very
much, Mr. Smith,” a waiter called after me as I walked out. Apparently Fisk was a good tipper.

I stood at the curb in front of the restaurant, taking in my surroundings. Sixth Street was bustling with activity, mostly people my age or younger roaming around the shops, clubs, and restaurants that lined the street. Music from several different establishments mingled and clashed in the air, and car horns honked as drivers battled for parking places.

Finally I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around.

Mrs. Margolis beamed up at me. “So, did you get it?” she asked eagerly.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s find out.” I pulled out my cell phone, and pressed the combinations of buttons she had shown me. Then I held the phone up to my ear. In a moment I smiled.

“Got it,” I said. “It’s faint, but you can hear our voices.”

“Wonderful!” Mrs. Margolis said, reaching into her purse. She pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open. “I managed to get a couple of decent shots of the two of you from where I was sitting. It was tough because of the lighting, but I think this one came out particularly well.”

She held her phone in front of me, and I could make out the image of Fisk and me leaning over the table in intent conversation.

“Wow,” I said. “I had no idea a phone could do all this.”

She smiled, snapping the phone shut. “Technology is a wonderful thing. Now, come along – I’m parked this way.”

As we walked to her car, I briefed her on the conversation I’d just had with Fisk.

“So you got him to admit they were cooking the books?” she asked.

I shook my head. “He was being pretty careful about what he said. And he made sure
never
to admit that
he
was involved in any way. But he did make it clear that he was aware of some of the problems inside the firm.” I paused, remembering his words. “He says it’s all under control now.”

“Well,
now
the law makes him responsible for that sort of thing, whether he’s directly involved or not. I’m not surprised he’s being careful.”

“I doubt we can use anything we recorded tonight in court,” I said. “He was
very
careful.”

“Still, it’s good insurance. I doubt he’d want anybody seeing these photos of the two of you together, or reading transcripts of your conversation, no matter how cagey he was with his words.”

Mrs. Margolis beeped her car open, and we climbed into our seats. She started the car, but left it in idle. I became aware that she was staring at me. Then I saw how broadly she was smiling.

“This was more fun than I’ve had in years,” she said. “I feel like Mata Hari. And you’d make a good James Bond.”

I laughed. It had been a little fun, I had to admit. Then my spirits crashed again.

“But I still don’t know what to do with this money.”

She smiled, putting the car in gear. “You’re smart. You’ll think of something.”