Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (3 page)

Now
he sits on the right hand of the right-handed while I hang out in a rat’s nest
downtown. Speaking of which, Sal, you got any leads on space for me?

Because
if I don’t find something soon I’m going to move into your office at the Golden
Glow.”

Sal
put an arm around me. “Now, that’s a potent threat, girlfriend. But I warned
you at the outset that the Glow is a fluke: most of what I buy and sell is
residential rehab in neighborhoods you don’t want to work in. Maybe I could
find a place like this, but times are slow. Don’t hold your breath.”

Sal
had negotiated the purchase and reconstruction of Arcadia House, but it was in
Logan Square, too far from the Loop businesses that make up the bulk of my
work.

“That’s
what I need, Sal—a whole house. I could live on top and work downstairs.”

My
tone was sarcastic, but she cocked an interested eyebrow. “Not a bad idea, Vic.
Don’t laugh it off.”

We
walked out together. Marilyn and Lotty, who were discussing the pregnancy
complications of one of the residents—she’d been kicked in the abdomen in her
sixth month—trailed after us. I stayed near Lotty until Marilyn and Sal had
driven off.

“Why
are you angry with me about the woman in the Pulteney?” I asked.

“Am I
angry? Maybe so. I sometimes think you’re too arrogant with other people’s
lives.”

“When
a surgeon calls someone else arrogant, you know there’s a problem.” I tried to
make it a joke, but it fell flat. “I don’t want to be a god for this woman. I
just don’t know what to do to help her.”

“Do
nothing, then. Or do the smart thing: let the appropriate agencies look after
her. I worry, Vic, when you decide to intervene in other people’s lives.

Someone
usually suffers. It’s often you, which is hard enough to watch, but last year
it was me, which was even harder. Are you going to get these children badly
hurt and then bring them to me to patch up?”

In
the orange glow of the sodium lamps I could see the rigid lines in her
expressive face. A year ago some thugs mistook Lotty for me and broke her arm.

Her
anger and my remorse had cut a channel between us that we rebridged only after
months of hard work. Every now and then it gapes open again. I wasn’t up to
beating my breast tonight.

“I’ll
try not to—either hurt them or involve you.” I slammed my car door shut.

Prodigal
Son

I dressed
carefully for my meeting with Darraugh Graham, in black wool with a white silk
shirt and my red Magli pumps. Close to, you can see where the leather has
become frail with age. I tend them anxiously, with polish and waterproofing,
new soles and heel tips: to replace them would take almost a month of rent
money. They bring me luck, my red Magli pumps. Maybe some would get passed to
my homeless woman if I wore them to her hideaway.

On my
way out I pawed through my closet for old blankets and sweaters to take to her.
I’d have some spare time at lunch to drop them off.

It
was only seven-twenty when I clattered down the three flights of stairs, early
enough that I wouldn’t have to run the three blocks from the garage to Graham’s
office. I couldn’t afford to arrive with my shirttails hanging out and hair in
my eyes.

The
two dogs I share with my downstairs neighbor recognized my gait and began an
insistent barking. By the time the old man got to his door I was already out
front. Calling over my shoulder that I’d run the dogs tonight, I jumped into my
car and took off.

Meetings
with Darraugh are usually dry to the point of making my mouth chalky. Efficient
subordinates and disciplined senior staff, brought in as their expertise
dictated, run through reports with the smoothness of a Rolls transmission.

Early-comers
to the boardroom get coffee and rolls. That’s where I hear about children’s
basketball practice or difficulties with the snowblower. At eight o’clock
Darraugh sails in and all idle chat ceases. There have been occasions when I
was sliding into my seat after him, earning a frosty stare and a pointed
invitation to begin speaking while still disposing of my coat and papers. I
don’t do that anymore. I’m almost forty. I can’t afford to get fired.

Today
when Darraugh marched in he had an ill-kempt young man in tow. I blinked. IBM
at the height of its glory never displayed the amount of starch and pinstripe
in Darraugh’s boardroom. Anyone who came to work with a three-day growth,
shoulder-length hair, and a dirty sport jacket hanging over jeans would be
instantly slung into a black hole. I wondered if this was some junior exec gone
wrong whose expulsion from paradise we were all to witness.

Darraugh
did not introduce him, but a couple of men near me greeted the youth with a
cautious, “Hi, Ken, how’s it going?” For the duration of the meeting Darraugh
acted as though Ken were an empty chair. The young man added to the illusion by
hunching over and staring motionless at his belt buckle.

At
the end, after Darraugh had informed us of the group’s consensus and his
secretary had assured us we would have minutes by two, Ken pulled his head out
of his lap and prepared to stand.

“Just
a minute,” Darraugh barked. “MacKenzie, Vic, will you stay behind? I’ll catch
up with you downstairs, Charlie, to go over the Netherlands proposal. And Luke,
we have a three o’clock, don’t we, to discuss the Bloomington plant.”

The
rest of the room meekly filed out. Ken slid back into his chair, his hands deep
in his jeans pockets, and gave the sigh linguists around the world recognize as
contempt for the entire adult race.

Darraugh
put up a hand to straighten his tie knot. “This is MacKenzie Graham.

My
son. Victoria Warshawski.”

“Your
agent,” Ken muttered to his chest.

Darraugh
affected not to hear him. “MacKenzie is home from college. We hope
temporarily.”

“I
can see why,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying.

My
client scowled, but Ken looked up with a sudden glimmer of interest.

“From
Harvard. Where our family has gone for two hundred years.” Darraugh bit off the
words.

“If
I’d broken tradition and gone to Yale it would be the same story,” Ken said.

“Am I
supposed to play twenty questions over this? Would it have made a difference if
he’d gone to Berkeley?”

“Yes,
it would,” Darraugh snapped. “If it had been Yale or Berkeley he wouldn’t be on
probation: he’d be out on his ass earning a living. As it is they’re giving him
a year off. He can go back next January if he keeps himself—”

“Clean
in thought, word, and deed,” his son finished for him. “I was caught hacking.
Everyone does it, but they only punish the people who get caught.”

“How
true. For that and a thousand other felonies. Everyone embezzles, but only Ivan
Boesky got caught.”

Ken
flushed and resumed his study of his belt buckle. “The point is,”

Darraugh
continued, “he’s on probation with the government as well. He broke into
Department of Energy classified files. If it weren’t for the people I know in
Washington he’d be doing five-to-ten in Leavenworth.”

“So
all the money you’ve given Alec Gantner over the years has paid off. One of
your best investments,” Ken muttered.

“I’m
glad you’ve had a happy outcome,” I said as politely as I could manage.

“I
hope you finish your degree. Computer science, is it?”

“Russian
literature. Computers are just my hobby.”

“I’m
not telling you my private business to invite sarcasm, Warshawski. I need your
help. Ken has to do two hundred hours of community service. I’d like you to set
something up.”

My
jaw worked a couple of times. “Don’t you sit on boards? Give money to the
symphony and stuff? You must know dozens of charities who would take him for
you.”

“My
wife handled that kind of thing,” Darraugh said stiffly, as if acknowledging a
weakness. “And they won’t accept the Art Institute as that kind of charity. I’d
pay your usual fee, of course.”

Darraugh
had been a widower for almost a decade. When his wife died he’d buried himself
in work, and eventually that became a habit, something he couldn’t stop doing.

“I
wanted to lecture schoolchildren on how to hack without getting caught, but my
probation officer didn’t think that would fly.” Ken looked at me slyly, as if
his comment were an important test I was bound to fail.

“What
an unimaginative person. The trouble is, Darraugh, I know a number of outfits
that could use someone with computer skills, but a kid this lippy causes so
much aggravation, no one wants his services.”

“This
is really important to me, Vic.” Darraugh put enough emphasis on the words that
he didn’t need to spell out a threat. “I want you two to go downstairs for
coffee, get acquainted. See what you can fix up.”

“Aye,
aye, Captain.” Ken hoisted himself out of his chair. “Do we drink it black? Can
I have two sugars?”

Darraugh
stared at him bleakly, but had enough sense not to try to answer.

“The
probation office is getting impatient. We need to have something in place by
next week.”

I
wanted to echo Ken’s salute, but Darraugh wasn’t my father—he didn’t have to
keep paying my bills. The three of us left the boardroom in silence. Darraugh
turned right, toward his office. Ken and I walked to the elevators, where we
waited like zombies for a car to take us to the basement. One of the new coffee
chains had an outlet there. At least I could get a cappuccino as a small reward
for the task ahead.

“So
let’s get acquainted,” Ken said, sprawling in the corner. “How long have you
known my old man? He’s kept you awful quiet.”

“How
bad do you want to go back to school?” I asked. “I know you don’t need to get a
degree to earn a living—your father won’t let you starve.”

“You
answer my question and I’ll answer yours: that’s how people get acquainted.”

I
drank some coffee. “The only groups I know where you could do legitimate community
service help women and children. Domestic violence, abortion services, homeless
shelters. I’m not going to refer you to a place like that if the first thing
you assume about a professional woman is that she’s your father’s lover.

Your
outlook is simply too old-fashioned to make you able to fit in.”

He
smirked through the first half of my remarks, but the suggestion that he might
be old-fashioned made his head jerk in wounded surprise. He couldn’t possibly
be—he was half my age.

“I
don’t like to be paraded around like a damaged tomato the old man is trying to
get some housewife to buy.”

“I
can understand that. But you committed a crime. Let’s not pretend it didn’t
happen. And you must know damned well that if you’d been poor or black you’d be
in the pen right now. Your punishment is to be a tomato. If you behave well
enough to earn early parole I’ll try to upgrade you—maybe to an avocado or
eggplant.”

He
smiled suddenly, with a genuine humor that made him seem younger, more
vulnerable. In a second he was frowning again, looking at his hands.

“I
don’t know if I want to go back to Harvard. Everyone there knows, see. And I
won’t be able to graduate with my class.”

“Then
don’t go back. There are a thousand other colleges in the country.”

“But
only one has a library wing named for the Graham family. Darraugh could visit
me in jail easier than he could watch me graduate from a state university.”

Indeed,
the heartaches of the rich and famous are different from yours and mine. “I’ll
make a deal with you. You act like a happy camper at whatever place I find for
you, and I’ll persuade your dad not to stop you from transferring to the school
of your choice.”

I
held up my hand to forestall his objection. “I’ll persuade him it’s a good
idea. Plenty of schools would like a chance to add a Graham wing to their
libraries. Deal?”

“Yeah,
I guess.” He finished his coffee. “We’re still not acquainted. But I know you
don’t put sugar in your coffee. You one of those perpetual dieters?”

“Nope.
I don’t like the taste.” I stood up. “Better give me a phone number so I don’t
have to reach you through your father.”

“You’re
supposed to ask me why I use sugar,” he said. “That’s how we get to know each
other. I’m living with Darraugh these days.”

I
smiled. “But I don’t have his home number. So now you know: your papa and I
aren’t intimate. Feel better?”

He
scribbled the number on a napkin and handed it to me. “You could just be
smart.”

I
laughed. “But in your heart of hearts you know I’m not. I’ll be in touch.”

I
stomped up the escalator, feeling the metal vibrate through the thin soles of
my pumps. In the lobby Ken caught up with me. In a parody of chivalry he
grabbed my left hand and planted a kiss in the palm. He dashed through the
revolving doors before I could react.