by Neil Turner
“On a holiday weekend?” I’ll bet Herbert C. Cumming isn’t in the office today. Looking on the bright side, associate counsels bill less than full partners. “Sorry I’m costing you your Sunday.”
“You’re an attorney, Mr. Valenti?” she asks.
“Afraid so.”
I can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “Then you understand what it means to be a lowly associate. This is what we do.”
I chuckle and slide a memo pad in front of me. I’m tempted to ask if the research effort went much beyond obtaining copies of the village filings and reading the paperwork I left with Cumming. Part of the village’s pleading for eviction is based on damage done to the garage last spring when a truck smashed into it. The repair work still isn’t done, but it’s not because Papa’s been dragging his feet. I sent Butterworth Cole a copy of a building permit request filed in May by Papa’s insurance company’s contractor, along with a letter from the contractor to Papa listing monthly follow-up calls made to the village licensing office. We’re still waiting for the permit. “I’m glad you called, Miss Brooks. Any idea when we’ll get a hearing?”
“Hopefully no more than a week to ten days.”
“We haven’t filed an appearance form or answer to the complaint, have we?” It’s been eleven days since the eviction notice was served. We have thirty days to respond.
“Let’s wait to see if we get our injunction,” she suggests. “No point wasting your money if we don’t have to.”
Thinking like that won’t get her into a corner office anytime soon, but I appreciate it. “Thanks. Speaking of my money, I’m hoping to keep costs down on this.”
My comment is met with a lengthy silence she finally breaks by asking, “Why don’t you join me as co-counsel?”
“Pro-bono?”
“Doesn’t get any cheaper than that,” she replies with a chuckle.
“How will your office feel?”
“I don’t think anyone’s paying much attention.”
It’s her ass, I think before I reply, “Deal.” Now I’ve got two jobs and no income—not exactly a sustainable career path. I let her know that I’m sitting for the Illinois Bar exam next week.
“Well then, we’ll talk afterward.”
“Think we’ll get the injunction?”
“Have the tax arrears been paid?” she asks.
“I thought I’d wait to see if we’re getting kicked out of the house first.”
A soft chuckle comes down the phone line. “Given that the village is the party holding up the repairs, I’d say our chances are pretty good.”
“I tend to agree, but courts do surprise us now and again.”
“True, but I like our chances. We’ll argue that your father’s murder charge leaves him unable to defend himself in the foreclosure matter. If the court bites on that, which I think they will, it follows that an injunction is required to stay proceedings until he’s in position to respond to the complaint.”
I find myself nodding as she speaks. “I like it. Anything else?”
“Not at the moment. I assume you’ll want a copy of our filing?”
“Right again.”
“Is there a fax number?”
Beside the answering machine sits a spanking new $129.99 all-in-one printer, copier, and fax, complete with scanning capability… courtesy of my overburdened ABA Visa. “Same phone number,” I reply.
“I’ll send it as soon as we’re off the phone.”
“And then you should go home, Miss Brooks. I appreciate the call and how quickly you’ve gotten this done. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Valenti. I’ll be in touch with the hearing date.”
Pat and Brittany look at me expectantly after I hang up and walk back into the kitchen, so I fill them in on the details of the call.
Pat’s eyes roam around the kitchen. “This is Peter Zaluski’s idea of urban blight, huh? With that mindset, he’s gonna have to pave over most of the village. I mean, what’s the deal here? Any idiot can see this house is in great shape.”
“I guess Zaluski is a special kind of idiot.”
“Speaking of Zaluski, I got the names of a couple of people at Village Hall who might have a story or two to tell about him. According to a pair of writers on the Trib’s Metro staff and a gal I know who writes for the Cedar Heights Voice, he’s a real piece of work.”
“Do you know him?” Brittany asks.
“Not really, but he doesn’t exactly give me the warm fuzzies,” Pat says with a frown. “Mayor Brown is an even bigger jerk.”
Brittany cuts to the chase. “So, Dad, when are we gonna know if they’re kicking us out of the house?”
Chapter Ten
Pat calls at the end of the week to ask if she can stop by after dinner with a little Zaluski news.
“Let’s take a walk,” I suggest when she arrives. “Britts has an assignment due tomorrow and she won’t get it done if she knows you’re in the house.”
“Can I at least say hi?”
I hold the door open and step aside.
Pat walks to the kitchen door. “Hey. How’s it going?”
Brittany rushes over to hug Pat, then glares at the schoolbooks scattered across the table. “Just having a little homework fun.”
“What kind of monster makes a big assignment due on a Friday?”
“Mrs. Griffin.”
Pat shakes her head. “Termites. Hemorrhoids. Mrs. Griffin. Some things we just don’t need.”
“Pat and I are taking a little walk,” I tell Brittany.
“Do you guys hafta go right away?”
“You’ve got homework to finish.”
She scowls and slumps into her chair, managing to make the act of sitting insolent.
I shake my head and frown when we’re outside. “She’s developing quite an attitude.”
Pat shoots me a sideways look. “She’s a good kid dealing with a lot of crap. She told me last week that she’s been struggling—especially since the shooting.”
“Have kids been picking on her about that?” I ask in surprise.
“Shunning her is more like it.” There’s an edge in Pat’s voice when she adds, “She ran into O’Reilly’s son at school. He said she’d be smart to keep her stay in Cedar Heights short. It freaked her out.”
She hasn’t mentioned the run-in with the dead deputy’s son. Why doesn’t my daughter open up to me?
“I asked around and it sounds like he’s one of those kids who’s in and out of trouble as a matter of course,” Pat continues. “Fights, a little vandalism, underage drinking.”
“Typical high school bad boy. Pretty much harmless.”
Pat’s eyes flash. “Don’t blow it off, Tony. Maybe she’s right to be scared.”
“Okay,” I mutter as Papa’s disregard of Frankie’s “boy stuff” pops into my mind in flashing neon letters. Could that have been O’Reilly’s kid threatening us from the bicycle the morning after the shooting? If so, the little bastard better not touch my daughter.
“What’s the deal with your wife anyway?” Pat asks icily. “What kind of woman leaves her kid to fend for herself at a time like this?”
“Michelle can be a little self-absorbed.”
“A little?”
“Well, maybe more than a little.”
She slows and turns to me. “What happened between you two?”
“The Sphinx thing was pretty big news in Atlanta. In short, when it fell apart, Michelle was afraid she’d get splattered.”
“Professionally? Personally?”
“Both.”
“Not every woman ups and leaves her husband and daughter on the off chance her precious career and social standing might hit a little speed bump if she sticks around,” Pat fumes.
“Sphinx was a bone of contention between us long before it collapsed. Michelle wanted me to get out but I stayed until the company imploded. After that, things between us fell apart and she stormed out.”
In fact, when
signs of trouble began to swirl around Sphinx, Daddy Rice had informed me that my continuing employment there was something of an embarrassment. He offered me a job at one of his companies that was “more appropriate” to his daughter’s standing in society. Michelle had urged me to take the position. I refused. There was no way I was going to be in Prescott Rice’s debt. Or under his thumb.
“Maybe there wasn’t much there in the first place,” Pat suggests while we resume walking.
Was there? We’d had years of history together. Careers. Most everything money could buy. Brittany, of course. The sex was spectacular right to the end, yet we never became the best of friends. Michelle always had other people for that.
“Getting back to Britts,” I say. “Once I’m working and get a few dollars together, we’ll be looking for a new place and school. She’ll get another fresh start.”
“I figured you’d stay here.”
After Wildercliff? “Not really our type of neighborhood.” Not Brittany’s, anyway. Me? I kind of like the familiarity of being back in Cedar Heights, especially the good memories. Brittany has neither.
“Since when?” Pat asks. I get the sense I’ve offended her.
“Britts is used to things being a little more upscale. I suppose I am, too. We’re going to poke around the suburbs this weekend. Maybe the prospect of a bigger house will lift her spirits.”
Pat looks mortified by the idea. “The burbs? Really?”
“She’s not happy here,” I reply with a shrug.
“She doesn’t even know the neighborhood. Give it a chance.”
“It’s not what she’s used to.”
“By suburbs, do you mean way the hell and gone on the edge of Iowa or Wisconsin?”
I shrug. Surely, we won’t have to go that far to afford a good-sized house?
She gives me a searching look. “What about you? What do you want? This is your home.”
How do I feel about waking up to rows of corn baking under the prairie sun? Not that my feelings matter a whole helluva lot. Brittany wants out of St. Aloysius. Me? I’m fourth in the household pecking order after her, Deano, and a goldfish. “I don’t want to lose Britts.”
“Lose her?” Pat asks sharply. “She’ll go live with her mother if you can’t keep her in the style she’s accustomed to?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Maybe you’re selling her a little short.”
“What the hell do you know about parenting?” I shoot back.
Her eyes flash. “I’ve seen a lot of good parenting and what you’re describing isn’t how it’s done. Kids can’t be in charge.”
We’re rescued from further argument when we find Mr. Rosetti in his front yard. He’s changed little over the years. His black hair has thinned and grayed only a little. His shoulders have rounded a bit, but his posture otherwise remains erect. He continues to dress well. Tonight it’s a pair of black dress slacks topped by a burgundy cardigan over a white button-down shirt.
“Mr. Rosetti, this is Pat O’Toole,” I announce.
“From the Tribune?” he asks.
“That’s right. Pat’s an old friend from St. Aloysius.”
After they exchange pleasantries, I tell Pat that Mr. Rosetti returned home from Florida last night.
“Different time of year to go,” she says. “My folks and I wait to go until winter sets in.”
Mr. Rosetti studies her with interest. “You vacation with your parents?”
“Every year.”
He nods in approval. “Your family is nearby?”
“I grew up over on Newberry Street. My folks still live there.”
“And you?” he asks.
“I bought a little house up by Humboldt Park.”
Mr. Rosetti smiles. “It’s good to see at least one of our young people living nearby.” The smile falters when he turns to me. “And you, Anthony? Are you home to stay?”
“For the time being, at least. Things are a little confusing.”
His face clouds over. “I heard about Francesco this morning. How terrible.”
“It is,” I agree before turning to the topic I’ve come to discuss. “Papa told me they reassessed your property taxes as well as theirs.”
Mr. Rosetti nods grimly. “Yes, they did.”
“Papa says you gave Mama a hand with that.”
“I brought Maria to my attorney. We filed appeals. We lost.”
“You paid up?” I ask.
“Of course.”
I shake my head in a demonstration of my continuing bewilderment about how the hell this happened. “The village is foreclosing on a tax lien and somehow managed to convince a judge to issue an eviction notice, so I guess Mama and Papa didn’t pay. Is there anything else you can tell me? Maybe Mama told you what she planned to do?”
Rosetti winces and shakes his head. “Maria’s illness was such a shame. The Lord takes the best of us, no?”
My thoughts turn to Mama. With her couple of years of college, she and Mr. Rosetti had been among the better-educated and well-spoken people on Liberty Street. They had always gotten along well but I’ve never completely warmed up to him. I’ve long suspected him of harboring a vague distaste for Papa’s fractured English as well as the rural mannerisms and idiosyncrasies of his native land. In comparison, Mr. Rosetti is urbane and educated, his career as the manager of a community bank further differentiating him from most of his neighbors.
“It’s not the same street with these renters,” he grumbles. “I should have sold out along with the DeLucas and Palumbos and Priolos.”
“When was that?” Pat asks.
“Just after we made the village and its vultures back down on their shopping center plan two years ago,” he replies. “An investment group offered several of us more than our properties were worth. Some took the money—maybe they were the smart ones. The DeLucas now live in Maine, the others are in Florida.” He waves a hand down the street, where a chained Rottweiler rails at the world from what had been the Palumbo’s front yard. “The rest of us are left with this trash.”
We stand at the end of his sidewalk in silence. How ironic that it had been those three couples who, along with the Valentis and Rosettis, had formed the principal resistance to the shopping center development. Maybe the prolonged battle had simply exhausted them and sapped their passion for the neighborhood.
“Come,” Mr. Rosetti says. He leads us to the alley and thrusts an accusing finger at the broken-down fence at the back of the Rottweiler property and hisses, “Look at this!”
The wooden fence has been ripped out and the splintered remains litter the yard. Trash is scattered between clumps of unkempt grass and sinewy weeds. The rusting hulk of an old Chevy pickup on blocks towers above the litter.
His rant continues as he walks back to his door. “The curbs are a disgrace, the potholes aren’t repaired on time and when they do fix them, they just toss a shovel of asphalt in and bang it down—not like they used to do.”
“That’s odd,” Pat says. “They still do things the old way on Newberry.”
“I know,” Rosetti mutters before he bids us good-bye and stomps back into his house.
“I’ll show you what’s left of the pool and park,” I say as we near the end of Mr. Rosetti’s sidewalk. With his complaint fresh in my mind, I notice curbs crumbling in a couple of spots and take a look at the former homes of the Priolos and DeLucas. They haven’t fared any better than the Palumbo property.
“You had a job interview yesterday?” Pat asks as we resume our walk.
“Yup. Forty-five minutes on the expressway and another fifteen lost in a suburban office park. Good times.”
“Ah, suburban living,” she says with a smirk. “How did the interview go?”
“There were some issues. The HR guy was a bit of an asshole.”
“How so?”
“He was concerned about Papa’s trial being a distraction. He was also fixated on what he called my ‘demotion’ at Sphinx
.”
Pat’s eyes cut to me in surprise. “What demotion?”
I explain that I wasn’t the Chief Legal Officer for my entire tenure with Sphinx. “Once we became a Wall Street darling, I was doing as much PR spinning as legal work. We really needed someone with more Wall Street savvy to handle the press. Hank Fraser and I talked it over and decided it would be best to let someone else stroke The Street. He brought in outside counsel for that and a few other matters. We dropped my CLO title but I was still the senior in-house corporate counsel. Things might have ended better if Hank hadn’t taken so much of the legal oversight out of my hands.”
“How close were you to Fraser?”
“He’s a dynamic personality—a very magnetic and inspiring leader. It was easy to fall under his spell.”
“Are you still close?”
I shake my head. “We haven’t spoken since the day I quit.”
“Any regrets?” she asks while her eyes search mine.
This is a topic I’ve avoided. The suspicion that I’d been a witless dupe that enabled my former boss to loot the company is too painful to contemplate. “I probably should have left when the first serious allegations of trouble surfaced.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Loyalty. I’d been there a long time and wasn’t about to bail at the first sign of trouble. Plus, I trusted Hank.” And I stubbornly refused to accept how rotten Sphinx had become until it was impossible to hide from the truth any longer. After all, we were all lining our pockets—or so we thought before our stock options turned to ash.
Pat nods but looks troubled.
“Anyway, enough about Sphinx,” I say. Nor do I want to dwell on my dimming employment prospects.
“Wow, they’ve really let this place go to hell,” Pat murmurs when we arrive at Independence Park. “I remember coming here almost every day in the summer.”
It’s appalling—especially the pool, which has been closed for a few years. The weathered wooden beach house is rotting. The once baby-blue concrete sides of the pool itself are blackened with mold and have several large chunks hacked out of them. Old sheets of newspaper, sales flyers, and other flotsam and jetsam are piled in corners or pasted against the rusting chain-link fence. Beyond the pool enclosure, the goal posts at either end of the playing field totter at odd angles, their yellowed paint peeling in long, ragged gashes.