31.
Jake’s big game. I was looking forward to it. Something different. Something new. Something less Delphic than daily life. I reserved a limo, put it on the office tab. Research, I told myself. If I was going to be the house criminal lawyer, I had to get to know the criminal element.
Eighth and thirty-eighth, Jake had said. Not a nice neighborhood. In the civilized parts of the city, your eyes relentlessly were drawn to street level: the lights, the signs, the people. The store windows, with their stuffed rabbits and silk dresses. Here, at 10 p.m., there was none of that. Solid metal shutters put the doorways and the windows far beyond reach. The buildings were uniformly dirty gray. Monoliths. Nothing to see. Your gaze drifted upward. It wasn’t pretty up there. Broken window panes. Dirt. The grime of ages. No doubt the upper parts of buildings were as squalid elsewhere in the city. But here you saw it. You looked up. You noticed.
The limo driver had let me off at the corner. There were no numbers on the buildings. I saw no open doorway on the block. Was this the right block? Was there really such a place? Had Jake led me on, led me into some… setup? I hardly knew the guy, after all. What was it that Hal had said about him not meeting your eyes? Was I too naive? Would meaty guys with hairy palms grab me from behind, take my wallet, my watch, my life? Who’s that dark and dangerous-looking fellow on the corner, anyway?
Foolish thought. Too elaborate a ruse, for such a paltry goal. I looked again at the corner. Nobody there. The hulking brute was gone. Or hadn’t been there at all.
My cell phone rang. I jumped two feet. ‘Private number.’ I ignored it. Damn. I’d almost had a heart attack.
I found the door at last. Dark gray. Flush with the building. Hard to see.
Just push, Jake had said.
I pushed.
Inside, the space was small, old and dank. The walls were papered with ancient flyers. ‘Massage therapy: Call Helga.’ ‘Blues bassist wanted for trio.’ ‘Sofa for sale, slightly soiled.’ Love for Sale, I said to myself. Johnny Hartman. John Coltrane. Good. This is good.
A low chuckle startled me. Apparently I’d been talking out loud. I turned around. There was a guy with a do- rag, hanging out. I hadn’t noticed him. Weird. He was sitting on a kitchen chair, in the corner. What was he doing there? He certainly didn’t look like a watchman. He chuckled again. I hoped it was a friendly laugh.
I nodded to him, pressed the button for the elevator.
The elevator took forever to descend. The do-rag guy was silent. I felt like I should say something. Strike up a conversation. But I couldn’t think of anything to say to a do-rag guy in a tiny fetid lobby at ten at night. Lobby? Much too grand a word. Sinkhole, maybe. Death trap. For the second time, I wondered if I’d come to the right place.
Finally the elevator arrived, with much clanking and wheezing. I stepped in. Room for one. Two in a pinch. Random graffiti. ‘Jumbo D. sucks cock.’ I made a mental note. You never could tell what might turn out to be important.
Fourth floor. Step out. Turn right, left at the end, past the men’s room door, from under which a sharp rank odor seeped. Three more doors. The red one. Laughter, shouts from inside.
I knocked once.
Twice.
Silence.
A voice.
Yeah?
It’s Rick.
Rick?
Jake invited me.
Oh yeah. The voice grew fainter: Jake, your bud’s here.
The sounds of chains and bars. The door opening. A heavy velvet curtain. The smell of mildew. The room lit deeply orange.
I was through the looking glass.
The place was tiny, windowless, rank with reefer smoke. Guitar cases, well-traveled steamer chests. A mammoth equalizer on a stand, a drum kit. A loft bed, rack on rack of CDs. Amps, a beer keg in the corner. A green felt poker table in the middle of it all. And that orange light.
Rehearsal space, it seemed. Rock ‘n’ roll tricked out for poker night.
It felt warm, and like a dream of childhood.
Introductions. Mike, Jonesie, Jake, Riverstreet, the Dane, Andrea. And the other Jake.
Yeah, said Mike, two Jakes. Straight Jake and Drunk Jake.
My Jake was Drunk Jake. He looked at me with bleary eyes.
Rick!
Jake. How’s it going?
Never better, Rick. Take a look.
A mammoth pile of small-denomination bills sat on the table in front of him.
Andrea laughed. A woman’s laugh. I liked that. Nicely out of place. Andrea. Slim, long-faced, all angles. Her arms delicate and muscular, all at once. Leaning forward. Open to inspection. Seductive. Between the sleeveless top she wore and jeans, the bottom of a tattoo. The apertures of a violin, or cello. Man Ray. A living Man Ray photo.
I was in love already.
Hey, man, take a seat, said Drunk Jake.
The seat across from Andrea was free. Mike on my right, my Jake on my left, Straight Jake next to him.
We’re playing hold’em, Drunk Jake said, leaning close to me, whispering with a whiskey breath. See that guy, Jonesie? Famous actor. You recognize him?
Really? Don’t think so. What’s he been in?
Just made his big breakout. Nine Times on Sunday. Seen it?
No.
Fact was, I’d never heard of it.
I took Jake’s word for Jonesie’s budding stardom. For Straight Jake’s one-man show in Berlin, Riverstreet’s stock market killing, and the other morsels he slurred my way.
It was true that everyone at the table seemed to exude a certain self-confidence. An aura. A charisma, if you will.
When Jake told them I was a lawyer, it got the predictable response.
Okay, I said, so I’m a lawyer. So shoot me. No, wait. Sue me.
That got a laugh.
Listen, I said, now that I had an audience, it’s not true, all that stuff they say about lawyers. Or actually, it is true, but it’s only true about a certain type of lawyer. Plaintiffs’ lawyers. Ambulance chasers. Champions of the dispossessed. Bullshit artists. Most lawyers, actually, are more uptight than your great-aunt Gertrude. Won’t take a piss without clearing it with the Urination Committee.
You say? said Mike.
I do. They’re very fearful people. Not risk takers. Don’t ask a question you don’t know the answer to. That’s the cardinal rule of cross-examination. It’s built into the system. Fear. Fear of the unknown.
Shit, I never heard that before, said Jonesie.
Of course not. Why would we publicize it?
He’s got a point, said Andrea.
I usually do. Points are my thing. Getting to the point. Talking points. Pointed remarks. Singularities.
I was warming up.
Andrea took the bait.
Ah. Singularities, she said.
Points with no dimension, I replied.
