“Hunter Johnson.”
“Sam Acquillo. I’ve got a situation here I thought you might be able to help me with.”
“Before you start, I should tell you I’ve represented Bay Side Holdings on several occasions.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I’m the administrator for an estate of a woman who apparently rented a property from Bay Side.”
“We wouldn’t be involved in estate issues. I could give you another name.”
“Milton Hornsby. I know. I’ve spoken to him.”
“Well, then there’s probably not much I can help you with.”
He spoke the words as if to propel me off the phone.
“I understand, but there’re some aspects to the estate settlement I need to address with the Bay Side principals, and I’m exploring all available means to do so.”
“Again, I think Mr. Hornsby would be the most likely to help you. He’s the company’s chief counsel.”
“As I said, I’ve spoken to Mr. Hornsby.”
“Our practice is strictly real-estate law. Mr. Hornsby retained our firm to assist with a zoning variance.”
“How did that work out?”
It was quiet for a while on the other end of the line. I half thought he was about to hang up on me. I tried something else.
“I wonder if you could give me about fifteen minutes of your time so I can share something with you.”
More quiet. That’s why I hate phones. You can’t see the other guy’s face.
“I’m not sure I understand your question,” he said. “Could you tell me your name again and what this is in reference to?”
I couldn’t see him, but I could hear the yellow pad come out of the drawer and imagined the expensive pen pop out of a marble-based holder in front of him on the desk.
“Sam Acquillo. I’m the court-appointed administrator for the estate of Regina Broadhurst, who lived for over forty years in a home owned by Bay Side Holdings. Something’s arisen that requires a discussion with the principals of Bay Side, and if you give me fifteen minutes you’ll see immediately it’s something your firm will take a keen interest in.”
At this point I could actually hear the pen scratching across the legal pad. “Well, you can send me the information.”
“I think it’s sufficiently sensitive to warrant a face-to-face discussion. How’s tomorrow look for you?”
“You say you’ve taken this up with Mr. Horsnby?”
“As I’ve said, I’ve spoken to him on other matters. This is an issue relating specifically to your firm. If you wish to contact Mr. Hornsby, please do so.”
One of the best ways to stop someone from doing something is to tell them to do it. Though I knew it was a risk. My stomach clenched. I felt way out of practice.
“Hold on a moment.”
Vivaldi again. Someone must have thought it made the firm seem sophisticated. Like you were supposed to believe they always had classical music playing around the office. Why not let the folks calling in enjoy it as well? He came back on the line.
“Mr. Acquillo. I have time in the morning.”
I interrupted him.
“It’ll have to be afternoon.”
“I’m not sure about that, could you hold again?”
Checking with his secretary or his nervous system. I couldn’t tell which.
“That’s fine. How about two?”
“Sounds fine.”
I wanted to tell him he should’ve dated Jackie Swaitkowski, but instead I hung up the phone and looked over at Eddie. What was I going to do with him? Then I wondered if the Grand Prix would overheat in traffic. And if I had any clean khakis, much less a decent shirt. I’d been improvising on the phone. Hadn’t really thought everything through.
“So, man,” I asked Eddie. “Ever been to the Apple?”
I found some clean khakis, an ironed shirt and a fresh thermostat for the Grand Prix, which I installed that morning. Then I showered and shaved and got dressed. I had a tattered plaid tie I’d brought back from an engineering conference in Edinburgh in the early eighties that went okay with the Harris Tweed I wore when I went out to hit tennis balls around for Eddie. The elbows were about to bust through, but I couldn’t help that.
I hadn’t driven any further west than Hampton Bays for over four years. It felt surprisingly strange to contemplate a drive all the way to Manhattan. What was I thinking?
On the way out of town I stopped at a pet supply store in the Village and bought a leash and harness for Eddie. I put it on and practiced walking him around in the parking lot. When I’d sprung him from animal rescue they told me he was about a year and a half old. The vet confirmed this, and said he looked well cared for. So it was possible that he’d worn a leash once before, though I didn’t know that until I tried to put it on him.
He looked a little confused by the harness, but once we started walking around the asphalt he seemed to understand the concept. I can’t say he liked it, but he was willing to put up with it. I didn’t think I had a choice, given where we were going.
Once I had the window open and we were blasting along Sunrise Highway he didn’t seem to care. I’d picked up a large Cinnamon Hazelnut at the gas station, which I hoped would get me through Suffolk County. All the traffic was heading the other way—an endless caravan of tradesmen’s vans and pickups and customized Japanese economy cars filled with Hispanic dayworkers in sweatshirts and baseball caps. And SUVs and newer cars bringing in the professionals and salesclerks who lived up island where you could still afford to buy a house.
Route 27 was now a four-lane highway all the way to the hook-up with the Southern State. The time it saved seemed futuristic. I remember my father driving us back to the Bronx for the weekend, the endless stop and go, the lights and strip development. He’d always remind us that it took four hours when he was a kid.
When there was a lot of traffic he’d often just pull over to the shoulder and pass everybody, occasionally bumping the curb, blasting the horn and yelling at the other drivers like it was all their fault. My mother would sit motionless, my sister and I huddled in silence in the back seat. He seemed to be able to do this without ever being stopped by the police. Just when you thought the tension was about to burst open your skull he’d turn on the radio and start singing along with Paul Anka or the Ronettes. That always put a weird kink in the already psychotic mood inside the car.
I was playing whatever jazz I could get as I moved through successive PBS broadcast territories. Somewhere near the border with Nassau County they petered out and I had to settle for road noise and the
“Obviously not a city dog.”
I took the Cross Island up to the Long Island Expressway, which took me to the Midtown tunnel and subsequently to the thirty-story building near Grand Central Station that housed Litski, Goethles and Johnson. There was a little bunch-up at the tunnel, but the Grand Prix’s cooling system showed remarkable restraint, and once I was in Manhattan, everything worked right to specs. I congratulated myself for doing the shocks and struts earlier that year. Still, you wouldn’t have picked a ’67 Pontiac Grand Prix as the ideal city runabout. I was starting to get a little seasick, but Eddie was distracted by Manhattan’s assault on the senses. I rolled the window down so he could stick his head out.
“Don’t pick any fights. It’s a tough town.”
I sampled a half-dozen parking garages before I found one with a wide enough entry to accommodate the Grand Prixs.
“Ya can’t leave the dog in’na car.”
“I’m not.”
“Twen’y dollas. Leave the keys.”
