once she’d become effectively single and, more to the point, poor.
Lily had gotten thinner and thinner. Her hair had begun to fall out. She’d stopped caring for her appearance entirely. She’d show up in court in a tracksuit and sneakers.
FitzGibbon was determined to make sure Lily didn’t get a dime of his money, and wasn’t shy about spending it to get what he wanted. He had three lawyers working more or less full-time on the divorce. And they weren’t just ordinary lawyers. He’d hired one of the most prestigious, and expensive, outfits in town. You could fit my entire firm in their lobby.
When the trial finally came around, FitzGibbon needed Jules to testify to what an awful mother Lily had been. And she hadn’t been the best, the most attentive parent, Jules admitted. She was self-absorbed. A poetic soul. She relied too heavily on the plentiful hired help. She’d had more than one boyfriend on the side.
But she loved Jules. And he loved her. So when it finally came to trial, he’d refused to testify.
FitzGibbon was not a man who was used to hearing the word ‘no.’ It was that word, too often spoken, that had gotten Lily kicked out of the house in the first place. And here was her son – FitzGibbon’s too, to be sure, but that didn’t seem to be part of the equation – standing up to him. It was almost too much for a man to bear. So out the door went Jules as well. Along with any hopes he might have had of inheriting Daddy’s riches.
But Jules had the trusts.
And he had his mother back.
Though that didn’t last long. Within months of his moving in with her, she was diagnosed with tuberculosis. It was the drug-resistant kind, and it ravaged her. Right before Jules’s eyes. She died two months later.
FitzGibbon did not attend the funeral.
Jules told me all of this in a rush, hardly taking a breath. It was as if he’d been waiting for years. For someone who’d listen.
When he was finished, we sat in silence.
I didn’t know what to say.
I went into the kitchen for another couple of beers.
We drank them slowly.
I’ll do whatever I can for you, Jules, I said. Not just legal stuff. Whatever I can do.
He looked up. He nodded. I got up. Shook his hand. Got out of there.
So there it was. FitzGibbon had omitted a few details from his little biographical speech. Veronica was neither his first wife, nor Jules’s mother.
An objective observer might have thought those facts important.
FitzGibbon probably had his reasons for leaving them out.
Maybe they were innocent.
I doubted it.
But what did any of it have to do with the blunt instrument in the alley?
Something, I felt.
But nothing that I could see.
22.
The best thing about the Wolf’s Lair was its lack of success. Never more than seven or eight people in the joint. Except on Saturday night. I tried to stay away on Saturdays. For some reason, the college crowd showed up. Chatty misfit girls. Surly misfit guys. The socialized ones went to Armando’s, down the street. Armando’s had a DJ. They danced til dawn. The Wolf’s Lair crowd sat, stood or staggered. No dancing there. No doubt they all had two left feet.
I know I did.
Tuesdays, on the other hand, weren’t a problem.
I took my place at the bar.
Hal was in his usual spot, two stools down.
Hey, Hal, I said.
He looked up from the notepad he was scribbling on.
Rick, he said.
I’ve got a question, I said.
Fire away, boss.
What you said about Jake, the other night?
What I said about Jake?
Something about him not looking you in the eye?
Did I say that?
Something like that, you did.
I don’t remember that, man. Sorry.
Oh.
I was a bit bewildered. He’d said it with such sincerity.
I turned back to the book I had brought with me. Sklansky. The Bible of Texas hold’em. I was on my sixth pass through it. My second copy. The first had disintegrated from use. Cigarette burns, spaghetti sauce, bathtub water. This one bristled with colored tape flags. Every second line was highlighted, underlined, highlighted again in a different color. You read, you played, you reread. You played some more. Suddenly, something you’d only digested in the abstract took on a life. You’d played that hand last night – you knew that situation – and here it was, on the page. Maybe not the very same cards, the very same bets. But the situation.
A hand on my shoulder. I turned my head.
Jake!
Yo Rick!
At least you remember my name.
Well, yeah.
He looked puzzled.
You got one leg up on my wife in that department, I explained.
Really?
That innocence. Charming.
He saw the book. The forest of tape flags.
Whatcha reading?
Sklansky.
I held the book up.
You’re kidding.
I am not. You know Sklansky?
Shit. He’s my brother. My right arm. Shit. You play?
I try.
Oh man. I got to get you to my game.
You’ve got a game?
Sure, I’ve got a game. I’ve got a helluva game. Hey, you serious?
Do I look serious?
He looked at the tattered remains of Sklansky.
Yeah. You look serious. Okay, listen, this game is very cool. Actors. Artists. Very successful people. I got to get you there.
Well, sure, I said. What’s the buy-in?
Five hundred. No limit.
I think I can handle that. How do I get in?
I’ve got to work on that.
Hm. Mystery. Impediments. I liked that.
