Gerzon, moving the forms around quickly. 'Mr. Barrett has his check, thank you… I can sign this… the title report, your copy… you sign here, the receipt for the blood your lawyer took out of my client's arm… And here's the deed, yes, the state transfer form…'
In a minute or so we had completed all the documents. Gerzon neatened his stack of papers, withdrew a date stamp from his briefcase, checked the day, adjusted the hour and minute, and stamped each sheet, bang, bang, bang. 'And… that's it, done.'
Jay coughed lightly, the box of cash by his side. 'Eleven fifty-nine… and midnight, gentlemen.'
'Bye guys.' Barrett stood to leave. 'The deed will be recorded tomorrow downtown.'
Gerzon pulled a chain of keys from his pocket and dropped it on the table. 'All yours,' he said to Jay, not looking at me.
Jay picked up the keys with an odd caution. But then he pulled a single key from his own pocket and gave it to Gerzon. 'This is for the lock on the chain at the end of the dirt road.'
And that was it- the moment, the consummation. Did each man think he had swindled the other? Gerzon shook hands with Jay and, surprisingly, again with me as well, his grip a painful warning. And then his eyes slid away from each of us, and he left.
Allison made her way back over the tiled floor with a bottle and three glasses. She gave Jay a kiss and searched his eyes for gladness. 'It's exciting!' she cried, and I understood that she was only passingly referring to the property deal and the miraculous appearance of a box of money. Jay smiled at her, but when they embraced, her head and breasts lost within his large chest and arms, his eyes looked away, as if through the very walls of the building, and with no discernible excitement or satisfaction, more like sadness, the resolution of someone burdened with a long and complicated journey toward a destination known only to him. I was not supposed to see this on Jay's face, but I did.
'Let's all go out and celebrate.' Jay's mood seemed to lift. 'I know a little place. I've got to find a way to thank you, Bill.'
He was being kind and I waved them off.
'We'll work out some payment tomorrow, okay?'
'Sure,' I said. 'You two go on. It's all terrific. I enjoyed myself a great deal. Hang on to that box. Congratulations, Jay. You and the rest of the crooks own a piece of the island of Manhattan.'
'You want to see it?' he said, his voice energetic now. 'I'll be down there tomorrow morning.' Then he caught up his coat and nodded to the waiter with a flashing smile and looked down into Allison's face. Her head hung back, neck exposed, eyes dreaming. She was ready for him and didn't mind if anyone knew it. They were desperate, I would see, in their own ways, but desperate people have a way of matching frequencies and finding each other before the end comes. For now something magical had happened, and the Havana Room seemed to whirlpool in a density of money and smoke and lamplight. I watched them go, Allison leaning heavily against Jay, the box under his arm, cigar in his pocket. Despite myself, my affection for Allison, I liked him. Sometimes you just like people right away. This, on the face of it, was another reason that things went further. It was the explanation I'd have offered myself or anyone else. But the truth is more complicated; somehow I sensed a steep angle to Jay's trajectory, if not its direction up or down, then an absolute velocity toward an outcome I wanted to witness. This is the same loaded attraction that creates politicians and football coaches and movie directors. Their believers believe. You don't just like the person, you want to find out something about him, something terribly important and true- you want to see if he wins or loses, lives or dies.
Three
Now, I assumed, the evening would taper painlessly into oblivion. I ordered another drink to go with my chocolate cake. The Havana Room was dark and comfortable, and the men moved to and from the bar or toilet slowly, enjoying, it seemed, their own gravity. The talk was measured. You could hear money in the murmur, you could hear problems being unbolted and taken apart. I listened hungrily, for of course I used to do these things, used to like being in the big messy heart of the action, shaving away complication, splicing in the fix, watching for the nod of group assent. In big law firms like my former one, there are basically two kinds of lawyers; the first is the glad-handing, business-grabbing opportunist, who accepts that men and women are fallen, wingless creatures, and is in it for the game and the money and the dense structures of connectivity that build up over a career; the second type, rarer, is the emotionally aloof scholar, more interested in the purity of the law than in the impurity of human beings. These same men (and they are usually men) could easily have been priests or research scientists, and might be disappointed not to be sitting on the U.S. Supreme Court. They are paid to compose legal structures (trusts, corporate ownerships, mergers) that open like tulips in the sun for the right person or entity but remain otherwise hidden, impermeable, indestructible. Both types of lawyers can be dangerous politically, and both have their flaws. The back-slappers and group-grinners tend to drink too much, fuck around on out-of-town trips, attract marginal clients with the wrong kind of legal problems, and die suddenly on the tennis court. The legal priests abhor the messy, repetitive work that is the firm's bread and butter. They can't be counted on to chat amiably at social events or conceal their fringy political opinions. They don't let profits stand in the way of righteousness. They tend to fall out of touch with the younger partners and live forever. I'd been the first type of lawyer of course, and let me admit that when a client came to me with the words 'Bill, I need a little advice,' or the like, I felt happy- grateful to be wanted, eager to be of use. This is, in part, why men enjoy hunching over papers and agendas- it makes them feel useful, or at least not use less; it lets them bounce in the net over the void. I'd enjoyed my little skirmish with Gerzon, the tangle over large sums, the unexpected sprint down overgrown thoughtpaths. I'd tasted a little of the old professional meanness, the venom of cleverness- it had tasted good, too.
In this better mood, I inspected the room, which had started to fill up, despite the late hour. A few men checked their watches, expecting something. But what? In the city of earthly delights, what could actually be new and unusual? And would it start without Allison?
Ha, the Chinese handyman, now stepped into the room, moving with such stooped humility that the men barely glanced at him as he made his way behind the bar. I waited to see if the waiter or bartender paid him any attention. They didn't. Nor did Ha appear to care; his face was a serene mask of wrinkles. Allison had said something about him being ready, and so here he was, in the room, fussing behind the bar, apparently right on schedule.
But I wasn't the only one watching Ha; he'd drawn the interest of a distinguished-looking man at the bar whom I recognized as one of the city's great literary figures of the past era. A youngish entourage accompanied the man, and each fame-licker had arranged himself in a posture he thought most advantageous to receiving the great one's attention. Had Allison invited them? I'd once admired the man; he'd been a brilliant skeptic and an energetic personality around town but widely dissolute in his personal habits, and with each year his original literary accomplishments became harder to remember.
'You sir!' he called loudly to Ha. 'I'm here to see if you are a fraud!'
Ha made no response, not a blink.
'Which I suspect you are!'
The man had drawn the room's recognition, and he enjoyed it, nodding gravely at the others who saluted him from their seats. He was perhaps now most famously the author of his own self-destruction, known for his appearances at the city's watering holes, where, curled over his drink, he was to be seen telling forty-year-old tales to twenty-year-old wits. But he still looked good in a tailored suit, and spent heavily to maintain his teeth.
'It's a complete fabrication,' he announced wetly, 'a parlor trick, a circus act.' He swept his hand threateningly at the room. 'Which one of you dupes are in on it? Which of you are the ringers?'
The men in the booths, not unworldly themselves, heard hostility and saw alchoholism, and after they looked away, he directed his comments back to the smirking youngsters gathered around him, who no doubt delighted in their secret power over him, for he needed them far more than they did him. 'Yes, yes, we will see!' came his voice in response to an unheard question. 'We will witness the delusion of the human appetite!' He pounded his fist on the bar, as if to summon the hounds of inquisition, but in this action he was vigor mummified, he was satiation lost. And, in the deep and hideously thick coughing that resulted, he was also death, lingeringly foretold. But not yet. A fresh drink arrived into his hands and soon he was again waiting brightly, like the others.
