You can count on me, I said.
26.
I was puzzling over the last corner of the Times crossword, and trying to think of an excuse for missing the monthly partners’ lunch, when the phone rang.
Rick, it’s John.
John?
John Kennedy.
Jack!
Don’t call me Jack. Rick, this is really getting old.
The fun thing about Kennedy was that he really had no sense of humor.
All right, all right, I said. What’s up?
I’ve got something I’ve got to talk to you about.
That would explain the phone call. Talk away.
Not on the phone. Meet me for lunch.
Ouch. Sounds serious.
It is serious. To me.
Okay, Moran’s at one?
One-thirty. I’ve got to check out a few things first.
All right, I said. One-thirty at Moran’s.
Excellent. I had my excuse.
I noodled about til one. There were many important decisions to be made, in many important, high-paying cases. But I wasn’t up to that. My head was fogged up, entangled. I didn’t know which way was up. Which confusing message was worth examining in more detail.
I thought about the trust deed. Who would get the money if Jules didn’t qualify? Would it devolve by operation of law? To FitzGibbon, as the surviving parent? Would he be disqualified himself, having disowned the kid? Damn, law school had been so long ago. I needed some Trusts amp; Estates advice. Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t ask Dorita. Because of the conflict. We were partners in the same firm. My client was her client. I had already compromised her enough by bringing it up at all. Maybe I could pry something out of Kennedy. I doubted it. But it wouldn’t hurt to try.
Moran’s looked the same as it had for eighteen years. The theme was black and green and Irish. The pool table was still small and warped, the dartboard skewed but ever popular. James behind the bar was cheerful, full of a joke you’d heard before but didn’t mind hearing again. The bar itself was still as long, as dark and as packed with heavy-smoking Guinness-slugging regulars as ever.
The only real difference, I noted with chagrin, was in the visage of the distinguished attorney in the mirror. Much more gray, not only of hair but demeanor. And I wasn’t sure the facial symmetry the new haircut provided was worth the extra freight. $225, style by Jacques, blow-dry included. Oh well. Kelly liked it. That was all that mattered. Give it a smile, I told myself. That’s better. You look five years younger. No? Okay, four. Two? Never mind.
When Kennedy arrived, he insisted that we move to a table. To me this was an affront to James, my second- favorite bartender, and I apologized to him.
James was gracious.
You gentlemen have some business, he insisted. Please, take the corner booth.
Kennedy’s bow tie was black with tiny white dots. Very elegant. I refrained from making a bow tie joke. I saw from his face that the usual banter would be unwelcome. I waited. He played with a small pile of cardboard coasters for a while. I sipped my drink.
He finally looked up.
What am I going to do with this new client you so kindly referred to me?
Well now, I said, I don’t know. Make money? Squeeze him for all he’s worth? What, is there something I don’t know?
Make money. Yeah. Thanks. I think I could have figured that much out.
Hence my surprise at the question, I said. What’s with the long face?
Shit, Rick, I go to lunch with old ladies for a living. I’ve never had to deal with a guy like this before. Frankly, he scares the hell out of me.
Cuddly old Eamon FitzGibbon? What’s so scary about him?
I don’t know if I can give you any facts.
Then I can’t help you, my man.
Listen, I can’t talk about privileged stuff. You know that. I mean, it’s even worse than that. You’ve got a conflict. That’s why you sent him to me in the first place.
True, true. But you’ve got to give me something to go on.
Well listen. There’s this. I checked into the guy a bit. I talked to people who’ve dealt with him before. They’ve told me a few things. I mean, the guy’s capable of anything.
Such as?
I don’t want to go overboard here, Rick. But just to take an example. I called up a buddy of mine. He’d been on the other side of a deal with FitzGibbon. He’d reneged on some payments. And my buddy sends his partner over, to try to broker a deal. Seventy cents on the dollar, or something. And FitzGibbon’s being a real hard-ass about it, won’t give an inch. All polite and joking, but not giving up a thing. And my buddy’s partner’s getting up to leave, and FitzGibbon says, ‘By the way,’ and my buddy’s partner says, ‘Yes?’ and FitzGibbon says, ‘Where I come from, the word contract has more than one meaning.’
Ouch.
But that’s not the end of it, Rick. Next week, my buddy’s partner? He’s hit by a car. Right in front of his house. Hit-and-run. He’s a paraplegic now. They never found the driver.
Jesus.
I mean, coincidence, maybe. But.
I hear you. But listen, what’s this got to do with you? God knows what some of your old ladies might have gotten into in their heyday. What was that movie, Arsenic and Old Ladies?
Old Lace.
Yes, Jack, I know. It was a joke.
He managed a wan smile.
Come on, man, buck up. Even if that story’s true, and frankly it sounds apocryphal to me, the guy pissed FitzGibbon off. But you’re on his side. You’re a schmooze. You won’t piss him off. Nothing to worry about.
Kennedy was silent.
I gave him an under-the-eyebrows look.
All right, all right, he said. I guess I ought to lighten up.
Good, I said. Now let’s get down to something more meaningful. Golf on Sunday? You can take me to your club.
It’s the middle of winter, Rick.
Right.
And anyway it’s my sister’s birthday.
Your sister’s birthday? Jack, you’ve got to get your priorities straight.
I know, I know. But my mom will kill me if I don’t go. You know how it is.
Actually, Jack, I don’t. But that’s all right. I can try to imagine it.
Shit, Rick, don’t rub it in. And stop calling me Jack.
On my way back to the office I pondered the implications of this new FitzGibbon story. Did it mean anything? I doubted it.
But maybe.
