Absent Friends

“Why?”

She blinked, and he almost laughed.

“Screw you, Marian. I don't owe you anything.”

“You owe Sally.”

“Sally and I—” But there was nothing about himself and Sally that he was interested in telling Marian, so he stopped.

“The truth might help you.” As though pointing out something he hadn't thought of.

“Help me what? Help me how? Fix things between me and Sally? Is that what you want? To help us patch things up?”

That was a lie she couldn't tell, and to her credit she said nothing.

He signaled for another beer, put his near-empty bottle down so that the ring it made added to the chain of rings he was forging left to right across the tabletop. “I got the money from Jimmy McCaffery,” he suddenly heard himself say. And this time he did laugh.

Her face darkened. “You think that's funny?”

Phil shook his head, still grinning, and lifted the beer again, finishing it in one long pull. He resisted the impulse to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. What was funny was this: even he, even now, if for half a second he glanced away, didn't keep an eye on himself, look what happened: he found he'd wandered halfway down the midway and was buying, from some quack whose booth was all tinkly music and colored lights, the patent medicine idea that the truth could set you free.

He grabbed himself by the shoulder and marched himself back through the sawdust and the horseshit. He'd already said it, so he might as well say it again. “From McCaffery,” he repeated. “But I never knew anything else about it.”

“How is that possible?”

“You want to know how it's possible? Or you want me to say it's not and I'm lying?” She didn't answer, so he just went on and told her the way it had been, how it was possible. “He said he felt like it was his fault.”

“His fault? His fault how?” she asked, and Phil had the feeling she was speaking without breathing.

“Keegan was his friend. He should've been able to do something. I told him that was nuts, the guy was inside, but he wouldn't give it up.”

“That's all he meant?”

“That's all he said.”

She did breathe now, her chest rising, falling. “And the lie? Why lie about the money?”

“McCaffery thought it was the only way—the State story—that Sally would take the money.”

“Where did the money come from?”

Phil grinned. “Well, Marian, that's the big question everyone's asking, isn't it?”

“Tell me!”

“Tell you.” Unbelievable. Hadn't she heard what he'd said? What he'd admitted to? That he'd closed his eyes and taken money, passed it on to a client who became his lover, told himself for eighteen years that it wasn't his business where it came from? Wasn't that bad enough for her? “Marian, I could say that's privileged information and there's no way in hell I'd tell you. But you want the truth? I didn't know then, and I don't know now.”

Whether or not she believed that, she didn't say. After a stony look: “Did you ask Jimmy?”

“I did.” Phil found himself nodding, mockingly.

She waited, and he said nothing, mostly to see how long she'd give it. About twenty seconds, it turned out, and then she couldn't stand it. Tossing each word at him like she was throwing rocks: “What did he say?”

He took a moment. Then: “I asked him where a firefighter was getting that kind of money. He said he was borrowing against his life insurance policy.”

“You believed that?”

“What's the difference?”

“The difference?” She spat that out so shrilly, heads turned. Seven weeks ago this bar had been a downtown hot spot for the achingly hip. Marian, Phil thought, had probably turned up her serious-minded nose at it, though just as probably she'd been the center of gravity, a magnet for the sideways glances of the insecure, every time she'd strode in. Phil, never seeing the point of an eight-dollar microbrew, had come here only twice, both times to meet with an ambitious young ADA whose pretensions made him easy to manipulate. Now the place was an echoing hangar, half full if you were flexible about defining half and full. Before, you couldn't hear yourself talk. Now you could, and so could everyone else.

Marian's voice dropped to a hiss: “You didn't ask Jimmy what he was doing?”

Not bothering to lower his own voice, Phil said, “What he was doing was supporting his dead friend's wife and child.” A few people nearby exchanged glances. Enjoy yourselves, Phil thought.

“Well, the lie certainly worked for you, didn't it, Phil?” Marian sizzled on. “You got to be the brilliant lawyer, comforting the widow.”

“Go to hell, Marian.”

“If it was Jimmy, why didn't he just give her the money directly?”