Absent Friends

“She wouldn't have taken it.”

“From Jimmy? I think she would.”

“He thought not. I agreed.”

“So you made the decision for her?”

“McCaffery did. I just agreed.”

Phil's new beer arrived. Marian sat back in her chair, sipped at the pink concoction, and imprisoned Phil with her eyes as the waitress came and went, taking with her the glass Phil waved away.

“This is all a lie,” she pronounced. “You didn't get that money from Jimmy. That's just a convenient story now that Jimmy's dead.”

“Believe what you want. It doesn't make a difference.”

“Yes, it does!” She leaned forward, shortening the physical distance between them as though she hoped that would bring them closer in understanding. He recognized the gesture. The earnest vulnerability with which she offered it was uniquely Marian; still, it was as carefully strategic as any shrug or raised eyebrow in his own courtroom repertoire. He wondered how many times a day she used it.

He lifted his new beer and searched the room, hoping for a pretty girl, a celebrity, a ray of light from a transporter beam. But though he was not looking at her, Marian just went on. “Phil.” Okay, he thought, I get it, we're really serious now, you're speaking my name. He used hers whenever they talked because he had a feeling it made her cringe; she rarely let his pass her lips. “Phil, right now, New York really needs Jimmy McCaffery.”

In amazement he turned back to face her. He almost spoke. Then he took a long pull of his beer, swallowing his words with it.

“New York needs heroes now, Phil.” A desperate tone clung to her voice like the smell of smoke on clothing. “Jimmy's an important one. He's become a symbol—no one's choice, but it's real. People need to believe in Jimmy. What Randall's implying in the paper, and now what you're saying—can't you see it? You're destroying something bigger than we are.”

“Oh, for God's sake, Marian, put a cork in it. New York needs McCaffery? You need McCaffery. You need him to stay a bright and shining hero or you're fucked, aren't you? You and the Fund. Listen, Randall's jammed me up as bad as you, worse maybe, but the truth is what it is.” He leaned forward, too. What the hell, a move's a move. “Marian, that money came from McCaffery. Every month for eighteen years. And—wait, listen—and you're the only person I've ever told.”

She frowned. Her hands hovered just off the table, fingers curved as though she were holding something breakable. Or strangling something. Finally: “You didn't tell Randall?”

“Why the hell would I?”

“Then why is he saying it?”

“He's not.”

“Between the lines! Anyone can read it!”

“He didn't get it from me.”

As he had a few times over the years, on odd occasions (mostly when they were angriest at each other), Phil surprised himself by noticing she was beautiful. Not “aging well”: That implied making the best of a bad situation. Marian's beauty had grown richer with time, a clear summer morning unfolding into luxuriant, abundant day.

“If you've never told anyone this, why are you telling me now?” She asked that with a triumphant smile, as if it had come to her that if he was telling her a secret, that in itself proved it was a lie.

He was tempted to agree with her: You're right, I'm lying, very clever of you to figure that out, goodbye. Let her read all about it in the paper like everyone else.

Instead he told her what was coming. “What Randall's charging is enough to trigger an investigation. It'll come out then.”

“Who'll say it?”

“I will.”

“After all these years?”

“No one ever asked before. I spent eighteen years looking the other way, but that's not the same as perjury. I know you think I don't know the difference. You think I'm a lying snake—”

“You're a lawyer.”

That was a low blow, unworthy of her. She must be really shaken up, Phil decided. “If they ask me, Marian, I'm going to tell them.”

“Not from Jimmy,” she said. “Not from Jimmy. You're making him the scapegoat because he's dead. That money was from somewhere else. And I'll bet anything there was more than you passed on to Sally. Something for your trouble.”

Her eyes, hard as gems, allowed him no entry. He judged silence to be his most effective weapon, so he used it.

“That's what Randall really wants to know, isn't it?” she asked. “Where that money came from.”

He smiled. Over the years he'd found it multiplied the effect of silence the way caffeine did for aspirin when your head was pounding.

Marian said, “And that's what this smoke screen about Jimmy is for. To distract Randall.”

Quietly, deliberately, Phil said, “Bullshit.”

“I knew Jimmy! I knew them all! I was there in those days, remember?”