the business of judging.
You’re in the business of getting paid by me, goddamn it.
His neck bulged with purple veins. I saw my nice new business flying out the door. But there were lines that even I was not ready to cross.
Yes, I said, you are paying the bills. I agree. But frankly, if you insist on this as a take-it-or-leave-it proposition, I’ll have to say no.
He glared at me. His neck throbbed.
It was a stalemate. I’d played it right. He was a tough guy. Tough guys admire toughness.
Listen, I said, here’s what I can do. I have a buddy, a very smart guy. A pillar of the T amp; E bar. He’s got his own firm. I’ll refer you to him. He’ll do a good job for you.
FitzGibbon didn’t look entirely mollified, but he nodded his large red head.
All right, he said. Have him call me. I’ll have him checked out.
17.
I went back to the office. The bomb scare, or whatever it was, was over.
I thought about FitzGibbon’s last remark. I wondered whether he’d had me checked out too. And if he had, what he’d found.
I called up John (Don’t-Call-Me-Jack) Kennedy. He and a buddy had spun off a small Trusts and Estates boutique. Wills. Old ladies. Trusts. Tax shelters. Helping the rich stay rich. John was very good at it. He had the perfect blend of perfectionism and schmooze. And a closet full of designer bow ties.
He was a touch over-sensitive about his name, however. I took a childish glee in exploiting it.
Hey, Jack, I said.
Don’t call me Jack, Dick.
You won’t be so rude to me once you hear what I’m calling about.
I’ll be the judge of that. Really, I mean it.
Okay, okay, shoot. You got some work for me. You’ll never let me forget it.
Right on both counts. But even better than you think. Listen up. We’ve got a big client. Big big. Eamon FitzGibbon. CEO of Consolidated Can. You know him?
I know of him.
Good. Big, fat, red-faced, Irish charm. But most important, rich as Croesus.
That I knew. Even us T amp; E guys read The Wall Street Journal.
Especially you T amp; E guys.
Especially us.
Right after you finish with the Times obits. I know. Anyway. He needs some help. Estate stuff. Maybe some tax stuff. Doesn’t sound like much. But as sure as A leads to P with an ampersand you can make something big out of this.
I don’t doubt it. Sounds good.
Don’t doubt me. I can’t give you any details. Privilege, you know. Do a conflict check. Actually, I can tell you this much: it’s more than privilege. Dark-glasses-and-trench-coat stuff. Keep it quiet, okay? We’ll get together. Compare notes. Later. Just make him happy. We’ll go places, Jack.
Don’t call me Jack.
That’s my boy. Keep him happy, okay?
You said that already. You can count on me.
I know that. That’s why I called you, and not one of my other asshole T amp; E buddies.
I’ll try to ignore the ambiguity in that last.
Excellent.
All right.
All right.
18.
I couldn’t sleep. Again.
I went downstairs to the kitchen, avoiding the living room on the way. I warmed myself a glass of milk on the stove. I always warmed my milk on the stove. The microwave made it taste strange. Like someone had peeled an onion over it.
I would have added some Scotch, but we ran a dry house. Except for Melissa’s statutory AA bottle. The temptation talisman. They’re supposed to keep one in the house. To show that they can live without touching it.
No smoking in the house either. No substances, Dr. Steiglitz insisted. I had to sneak out back. Maybe I should quit, I often thought. It’s bad for you, I’d heard.
I took my warm glass to the bedroom. I lay down. I turned on the TV. CNN. The Albanians were protesting in Macedonia. Fascinating. I watched blankly. I drank the milk slowly.
The milk didn’t do it for me.
I gave in to it. I had no choice. I got up. I smoothed the creases from my suit. I sucked in my gut. I said, okay, that’s you, in the mirror there. That’s you. You’re good-looking, sort of. Accomplished. Compared to most. You have nothing to fear. Get back to the bar.
And so I went. I glanced into the living room. Melissa on the couch, reading. I went out the back door. Around the side of the house. Down the block. Back to the Wolf’s Lair.
I sauntered through the door. It felt like I had never left. I looked around, surveying my territory. I sniffed the air, to see if any strange dogs had left new spoor.
I didn’t see Jake.
I felt a vague and unexpected disappointment.
Thom behind the bar. His welcoming smile.
The usual?
Can’t say no.
Make it a double?
Thom knew my predilections.
Twist my arm, I said.
Thom poured my drink, wiped the counter clean. The Scotch was warm and comforting. I took a magazine from the rack. The Economist. What’s happening in Armenia. The Minister of Justice announces court reform. Good luck.
Two stools down, an older guy. I’d seen him there before. Long gray hair. Ponytail. Kodiaks. Pall Mall non- filter. Thick hands. Thin lips. A worldly air. A working man. A poet. I remembered his name. Hal.
Hey Thom? I asked.
Rick.
You know this Jake guy?
Sure, he said. Been around here quite a bit lately.
Says he’s a carpenter. So I hear.
You know anybody can tell me if his work’s any good?
Not really, Thom said. But I can ask around.
I’d appreciate it, I said.
Hal turned to me.
Hey, man.
Hey, Hal.
